Chapter Text
Levi POV
“We did everything we could, but the cut was too deep. Unfortunately, he lost too much blood.”
No. One of the waking nightmares I’d been having while waiting for the surgery to reach its end had gripped me once again.
Wake up, Levi. Your wife and daughter need you. How can you sleep while your son is fighting for his life in there?
“I am so sorry for your loss, Mr. King.”
I don’t even remember what I did after that sentence, or how much I did.
This wasn’t a dream.
I was holding my wife, who had spiraled into a screaming fit, hysterically trying to throw herself at the doctor. At the same time, I was trying to reach my daughter, who was screaming through heartbreaking sobs that she wanted to see him.
And Landon. He wasn't looking at me; he was locked onto the doctor.
The only thing I felt looking at him was fear. In every sense of the word.
When Astrid had to be forcibly sedated, I collapsed onto the corridor floor where I had been holding her tight. I just sat there as people in scrubs took her from my arms.
Nikolai was slumped where he had fallen, covered in my son’s blood, staring blankly ahead.
People were taking my unconscious wife somewhere, but I couldn't focus.
Landon stood up for the first time, grabbed one of the nurses by the collar, and demanded to see his brother. He asked about a coma or any other possibility.
There was no coma. He-
Brandon.
Bran.
My son.
My boy.
My baby.
It feels like acid is coursing through my veins instead of blood. It’s everywhere; it’s not just a burn. It’s something a billion times more sickening than that.
I thought I knew pain. How arrogant of me. I never imagined it could hurt this much.
Nikolai is still staring into the void in front of him.
I could only watch as security came in and tore Landon away from the nurse’s collar. Our eyes met
Confusion and chaos ruled the air, but the only thing I could pick out was hatred. Landon is looking at me with pure hatred.
The urge to sink seven hundred layers deep into the earth is suffocating me.
What is even happening right now?
Landon stormed past the security guards and ran toward the exit.
No, no. Glyn is already a wreck, and I don’t even know where Astrid is.
“LANDON, GET BACK HERE!”
He’s going to do something to himself. He’s going to do something to someone. Would he? I can't even think.
“LANDON!” I called out, but as I half-rose to my feet, Landon was gone without a word.
My hands went to my hair, pulling at the roots with all my strength. I failed. I’m still failing. I start pacing in circles where I stand.
Brandon, my son.
The doctor said he was gone.
My brain is not ready to process this information. It never will be.
I continue to take aimless, weak steps. My Brandon...
Where is Astrid? I need to lift Glyn from the floor and take her to her mother; I need to find Landon; I need to call Aiden, and my uncle too.
God. Bran.
My legs couldn't carry me any longer, and I collapsed onto my knees. Glyn was leaning against the wall, her face almost purple, sobbing and screaming.
I couldn't look at her. Because I was a weak piece of shit, too weak to face my own handiwork.
When I looked the other way, Nikolai was still there. I couldn't look at him either. I had been in my son’s life for twenty-three years. He had only been there for a few months, yet he had been more help to Bran than I ever was.
That is an undeniable truth.
I failed.
My job was to protect my child. To understand him. I couldn't even manage that.
I tried to breathe on the floor for a while. My head is spinning, ringing. Every instinct I buried deep years ago has merged into a single scream, attacking me.
After an unknown amount of time, I tried to reach Glyn. Even though I didn't want to look at her, I couldn't tear my eyes away.
“Glyn...” I said, approaching my daughter. There was blood on her palms.
I reached for her arms. “Gly—”
“GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!” She jerked her hands away and let out the most horrific scream I’ve ever heard from her.
Pressed against the wall, she tried to kick the floor and crawl away from me.
“GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!”
My heart wasn't just an ember; it was worse. I couldn't carry my body, my breath. No secondary thought came to mind other than frantically trying to pull Glyn and Lan together.
But Brandon was everywhere in my mind.
“Glyn, please, sweetheart—” She lunged at me and began pounding on my chest.
It hurt so much that I couldn't even focus on the bloodstains on her palms from her own nails.
“GET OUT! GET OUT! I TOLD YOU TO GET OUT!”
My vision began to blur, and I felt moisture on my cheeks. “G-Glynd—”
“IT’S BECAUSE OF YOU! HE’S GONE! GONE! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? HOW CAN YOU JUST STAND HERE LIKE THIS?!”
Catching a brief opening, I grabbed both her wrists and pulled her into my lap. She began to kick, letting out blood-curdling screams. Some of the kicks must have landed, but I can't focus.
“LET GO! I SAID LET GO!” More kicks.
In between, she was trying to reach her own head to tear at her hair, but I held her tight. As my daughter continued to lose her mind, I couldn't stop my own tears.
“LET GO. DAMN IT! GOD DAMN YOU!” Her breathing took on a rhythm and sound that wasn't human.
When she couldn't hit me with her elbows, she tried to throw herself onto the floor.
“Glyn, p-please, baby.” But she wasn't hearing me. My hands felt as if they carried a plague, and she was trying to tear herself away from me.
“I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”
I accepted it. Every ounce of it.
I took my daughter’s hatred, Lan’s hatred, and likely more to come, into my very core. Because I deserved it. I wish this would kill me. But I can't die; that’s the problem.
I am alive, and my son is not.
Glyndon’s wild kicks slowed down, but her screams, muffled by sobs, continued. “I hate you. It’s because of you, because of us—how did we not notice? He was unhappy.”
May God damn me, for I didn't notice. Not in time, and not enough.
I pulled her to my chest; she screamed nonsensical things, trying to break free from my arms. Then, suddenly, she slumped to the floor, and I fell with her.
“Dad...”
The breath was knocked out of me.
“Dad...”
I tried to speak, but my voice was gone.
“He was my best friend, Dad. Like my only friend.”
I couldn't hold back my sobs.
“He is a great big brother,” she said. Using the present tense.
I took the hand Glyn had stopped pushing away and began to comb through her disheveled hair.
“Yes, he is,” I said, speaking just like her.
I shouldn't be like this. I should be strong; I should pull my family together. But I had already made a mess of everything I was supposed to do.
She lifted her chin and looked at me. She couldn't bear to hold eye contact for more than a second and buried her head in my lap, wailing. “Dad!” I tried to stroke her hair.
“DAD!” she said again, her body racking with sobs.
She began to cry violently again. “Dad, how am I going to bear this? It hurts so fucking much.”
As she laid her head on my knee, I buried my face in her hair.
This was another question I had lost; my child had come to me for an answer, but I had none.
I had lost my world. I have nothing to say to my daughter who just lost her brother.
I looked back at Nikolai, terrified. He still wasn't reacting.
Should I go and help him up?
As I thought this, a man about my age appeared suddenly at the end of the corridor, moving with urgency.
“Niko!”
Continuing to stroke Glyn’s hair, I looked at Nikolai and the man approaching him. Nikolai slowly turned to the man. His voice was completely normal. “Dad?”
Dad? So Kyle Hunter is standing before me right now.
“I’m here, Niko. How is he? Is the surgery over?”
My vision went dark; for the first time in a long time, I wanted to vomit. I looked at Kyle, then at Nikolai. Nikolai smiled. Like a child, he grabbed his father’s wrist.
“Come on, Dad! I’m going to introduce you to my boyfriend.”
The horror turned into a ringing in my head, so sharp it drew tears from my eyes. Nikolai...
Silence reigned over the corridor for a moment. Kyle’s lips almost curled into a smile, but then he frowned. “Niko? Are you okay?”
Nikolai rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. I’m telling you, come on, I’m going to introduce you to Bran. I’m telling you now, he’s not like that parasitic, psycho twin of his.”
And he continued to tug at his father’s wrist.
Kyle stood there with furrowed brows, looking around until our eyes finally met.
His blue eyes, so like his son’s, were anxious yet cold. I couldn't help but wonder if he would understand me. He is a father, too.
His gaze traveled over me sitting on the floor and my half-conscious, sobbing daughter in my lap. I said nothing; I just looked into his eyes and shook my head.
I am a failed father.
Kyle understood that.
He muttered something like a curse, but I couldn't quite focus. His coldness shattered for a moment, and he looked like he didn't know what to do.
He took a step toward me but suddenly stopped and turned to his son.
“Come on. We’re leaving.”
Nikolai’s eyes widened, and he balled his fists, stomping like a pampered child. “No, Dad! You have to meet my Bran! He’s amazing; I want you to accept him!”
For Fuck’s sake. I want to bash my head against the walls until I pass out.
Kyle grabbed his son firmly by the elbow. “We’ll do it later, Niko, I promise.” Nikolai tried to wrench his arm away. “No! You’re being prejudiced, and I won’t accept it! He’s incredible! And I’m sorry, but whether you like it or not, I’m not leaving him. He’s really not like his twin!”
As his father led him away and Nikolai continued to throw his tantrum, every mention of Brandon’s name felt like a rusty knife plunging into my heart.
My son... and had this man trapped him in his mind?
A second man came to Kyle’s side; together they held Nikolai, who continued to scream for me to call Bran or tell Nikolai to call him.
The foul acid in my blood is bringing me to the point of retching.
-
I could have imagined many different scenarios when entering my own home. I had, throughout my life.
None of them included returning home from my child’s funeral.
Yes, look. I’m saying it.
My son’s funeral.
Landon hadn't come to the funeral. Aiden had said I should leave that matter to him and that Lan was safe. I stopped thinking.
Once the funeral was over, Astrid and I had come straight home. I didn't speak to anyone. I don't need to hear anything.
Nothing I hear will have any meaning.
I didn't even speak to my uncle or Aiden. When Aiden approached me with an "understanding" look —as soft as a fucking psychopath like him can be— I desired to beat him right there and to lose myself in that violence until I died.
Why is Aiden talking? He didn't lose his child. He can't understand; he wasn't the one attending his son’s funeral.
My son’s funeral.
Good for me. I’ve “accepted” that he’s dead. So? What then? Nothing gets easier.
Every day is worse than the one before. More real. The fact that he isn't here and never will be. The reality that I have lost the brightest light of my tangled soul.
I am gripping the glass in my hand so tightly it might shatter. When the image of my son’s breath being cut short flashes in my mind, bile rises in my throat.
My hand spasmed, and I hurled the glass at the wall in front of me, watching it shatter.
I want my own breath to be cut short. I want to die instead of Bran.
Fucking demons keep whispering the truth. Your fault, your fault, you couldn't protect him, your most precious one, he adored you, and you couldn't protect him.
He was the last person who should have gone.
Staring at the wet wall and the broken glass at its base, I rubbed my bandaged hand.
I realized something. The house was very quiet. Landon had said he never wanted to see my face again and hadn't come to the funeral; the only person in contact with him was Aiden.
Glyn couldn't stand staying in the house and had gone to the Carsons'.
I don't know how I agreed to that. I’m angry at myself for sending my clearly shattered daughter away. But she had looked so desperate that I couldn't say no. Aiden had stepped in and given Asher "warnings"n—threats— to "be careful."
Astrid and I had been home for nearly thirty minutes. And the only sound I’d heard was the glass I just shattered against the wall.
My wife had said she couldn't sleep through her continuous crying. I told her to come to me; she had agreed. But she still hadn't come.
Astrid.
I don't really understand how I’m moving, nor can I grasp it. I’m climbing the stairs like a wild animal. I stumble and scramble until I reach our bedroom. I practically hang onto the doorknob.
It’s locked.
“Astrid?!”
I listen intently. I press my ear to the door, searching for a sound —a sob, a whimper, anything— but there is silence.
“ASTRID, OPEN THE DOOR!”
Still no movement.
Without waiting any longer, I broke the door down with my shoulder and entered our large bedroom. The bed was empty. A few muffled sobs were coming from the ensuite bathroom, the door half-ajar.
My heart stopping, I ran to the bathroom.
No. No. No. Don’t do this to me. I know I have no right to ask for anything. But don’t.
When I found my wife silently weeping while blood flowed from her wrists, a switch flipped in my head for the first time since burying Bran.
“ASTRID!”
I knelt beside her quickly and grabbed her wrists. They weren't too deep. Thank God. I looked into my wife’s blue eyes, dulled by something even more foul than grief.
Tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“Astrid! Why did you do this—WHY?” My wife didn't answer.
I grabbed a few towels from the nearest shelf where she kept her makeup and perfumes and pressed them against her wrists.
“Astrid,” I hissed.
She seemed to see me for the first time.
“Levi...”
I kissed her forehead for a long time while pressing the towels to her wrists. “Astrid, look at me.”
“Levi... Exactly like this.”
I held her by the chin so she wouldn't look away. “Exactly like what, Astrid?”
Her lips, wet with fresh tears, curled. “This must be how Bran feels. Right? I mean, while he was cutting himself?”
I froze.
“Astrid...” I said, but I couldn't even hear myself.
My wife continued to cry with a smile. “I’m going crazy wondering how my son felt while he was cutting his wrists in his room, Levi—while we were eating, watching movies, gossiping about people’s nonsense, drinking tea cheerfully with that bitch.”
Thinking of that bitch, that pedophile, and how she darkened my son’s life right under our noses, I reach the point of losing even the last crumbs of my control.
I lifted the towel slightly to check the wounds. Thankfully, the bleeding had stopped, but the scars would remain. I couldn't speak for a moment because I couldn't swallow.
I tried to lift her up. “Come on, my love, not like this.”
What am I supposed to do? Am I going to lose her too? My wife.
Astrid didn't budge from where she sat. “I have to understand what kind of pain he was in. Bran did this for years, Levi. Years. In our home. What were we doing?”
I don't know, I don't know. I DON'T FUCKING KNOW what the fuck I was doing!
“Please,” I said to my wife, begging.
“It’s my fault,” she said, beginning to stare blankly at the wall. Damn it. “No, no, sweetheart. We—I—”
“IT IS MY FAULT!” Astrid suddenly exploded and stood up, wrenching her hands away from me. I couldn't react as she screamed, tearing her throat.
“I BROUGHT THAT WOMAN INTO OUR HOME. I BROUGHT HER TO OUR TABLE! I—I...” Her eyes seemed to dim, and she staggered. She grabbed the edge of the sink to keep from falling. I wanted to hold her, but she raised a hand. “Don’t touch me.”
My bloody palms stayed in the air as I stared at her and the razor on the floor.
“I put that woman right under my son’s nose. He had to smile at that fucking pervert, praise her, prepare food for her, and look her in the eye for HOURS!”
She leaned over the sink as if to retch. I tried to hold her again, but she backed away once more.
“And I wanted him to WORK with her. I forced my baby into that, too.”
I don't know what to say; nothing I say will make it go away. She won't believe me—how can I convince her when I don’t even believe my own words?
Should I say we didn't know? That Bran hid it meticulously? That Grace was a master manipulator?
None of that will bring my Bran back.
We are parents; we should have known, we should have seen, we should have understood. That is our duty.
And we ruined it. I ruined it.
And I am not a strong enough man to pay this price. Not with Bran.
“Astrid, don’t do this again.” Those were the only words I could utter. My mind was racing, filled with whispers. Voices whispering for me to break things, to hit, to insult, to burn it all down.
Their turn will come too.
“Please. Come on,” I said, trying to keep my voice firm.
Astrid shook her head. “What happened, Levi? Are we going to be nauseous just because we saw a pair of slit wrists?” she said disgustedly, lifting the inside of her cut wrists into the air. “My baby walked around with these for years.”
I kept shaking my head, my hands pulling at my hair. When Astrid’s attention wavered for a second, I grabbed the razor from the floor.
“You will not do this again.” I tried to make my voice sound firm, but I can't say I was successful.
Contrary to what I thought, she didn't lung at me, scream, or try to grab the razor. She just continued to cry silently. Seeing her like this was suffocating my charred lungs.
She shrugged. “I will,” she said, sending chills down my spine. She took a few steps and stood right in front of me. “I will. For at least as long as Bran did it. I deserve this, Levi.”
The next few hours were “hard.” Astrid tried to get the razor back from me; when I wouldn't give it to her and moved the others away, she had a nervous breakdown and tore the bathroom apart.
Every time I got her under control, a new crisis erupted. When I finally got her out of the bathroom and sat her on our bed, I tried to give her water, but another crisis broke out, and she shattered the full-length mirror I’d bought her and reached for a sharp shard.
“NO! NO!”
Don’t leave me, please. I can't bear this already. The thing called breath doesn't even exist anymore.
“I’m not going to kill myself, Levi. Torture. I deserve torture.”
Those sentences and my own screams were ringing in my head.
Sitting in a chair outside her room in a private family clinic, the fits my wife had hours ago and the reality of burying my youngest son a few hours before that were screaming at me in succession.
I could do nothing but tell them she was showing suicidal tendencies. I didn't call anyone. I sat there all night and through the morning, thinking.
Later, entering my wife’s room and looking at her body —handcuffed to the bed, covered in IVs and tubes, sedated into sleep— I tried to remember what we had talked about the last time I saw my boy, the day before that, and the day before that.
Accepting that he’s dead doesn't help at all.
Torture. That’s what I deserve.
As night turned to morning, morning to noon, and noon to evening, I fully accepted the torture my fucking mind was putting me through.
I didn't sleep.
I made myself watch it all over and over again, in slow motion, with all the colors and smells...
-
“Papa! Papa!”
A familiar weight appeared on my back, trying to pull me out of the sweetest part of my dream. I grumbled.
The small body didn't stop. “Papa! Come on, show me how to play with that new controller we bought! You promised last night! The one with the X and O marks!”
My head was aching. I’d returned from a long business trip yesterday and wanted to rest.
Bran leaned in and spoke into my ear. “Pleeaaaase. The sun is already high!”
“I’m sleepy,” I said, half my sentence muffled by the pillow. My son didn't care. “But you promised, Papa!” he whined, hitting my back with his small hands.
“Uhh, Bran, baby, please.”
“But Lan is sleeping too, who am I going to play with?”
Uhh. I want to eat him up, but really, just one or two more hours, please.
I shifted to the left and lifted my arm; my little boy fell beside me in his astronaut pajamas. I wrapped my arm over him and started drifting back to sleep.
“Papa! You’re still sleeping,” he whined like a puppy.
My eyes were still closed; I reached over and kissed his forehead. I whispered as loudly as I could, “You sleep too, son. Just a little longer.”
He made a huffing sound. But his feistiness faded.
Landon might have drawn our attention because he was a fire that never went out, but Brandon was a spoiled child too; he just couldn't find the time to be spoiled.
His small hands wandered through my scruffy beard. “But we’re going to play, right? You’re going to teach me.” His voice wasn't whining this time.
Something stirred in my chest, and despite my grumbling, I pulled my little son closer under my arm.
“I promise, baby. Papa just needs a little more energy.”
Just as I was falling asleep: “Papa, don't shave. Your cheeks are nice like this.”
I chuckled involuntarily. “Whatever you want.”
Papa. That’s what he used to call me. But he stopped when his twin teased him. Another thing I hold a grudge against Landon for.
We had slept together until noon after that. Until Astrid came and forced us to drink water and eat.
-
My wife was laughing while trying to film us; the son in my arms was frantically lifting his legs that had slipped from my waist, trying to wrap them around me again.
He was hugging my neck so tightly I didn't think I could ever pry him off.
“I’m not swimming! I don’t want to!”
He screamed the same thing for the tenth time. Astrid and I couldn't stop laughing.
“Bran,” I said, trying to look at my son’s face. “It’s not hard. The water isn't even that cold. I won't let go of you, okay?”
His eyes, wide with fear, turned to me. “Don’t put me in the water! Let’s keep playing in the sand, Daddy!”
I kissed his cheek quickly. “Lan, even Glyn went into the water, Bran. We’ll handle it, okay? It’s simple. I will never let go of you. We’ll stay in the water for about a minute, then we’ll come out.”
His lips formed a straight line. “Don’t you dare put me down, though.”
I laughed at my son and rubbed my nose against his. “I won't let go.”
His tension eased slightly, and I grabbed one of his hands and waved it toward Astrid’s video camera. “Look, your mommy is over there. Wave as we go into the water.”
Astrid blew kisses to Bran while laughing.
The pieces of my soul, my family. I don't know what I would do without them, without my children.
And the light of my family’s life faded. I lost him.
He left because of the shame he felt for the world.