Anything for You Ch. 08

"Sam!" Dad's tone was sharper now. "That's enough!"

"You're damned right, that's enough!" I fired at him, finding a new focus for my anger, so long suppressed, I'd had no idea how potent it was. "I've had enough, that's for sure. How could you let her put us through this, Dad? As if it wasn't bad enough that Paul died in the first place, we have to relive it all, year after fucking year."

"You don't think we should try to keep his memory alive?" my mother hissed. "You think we should just forget?"

"Forget?" I gave another gasp of mirthless laughter and waved around at the rows of photographs. "As if any of us could. Look at this place! All the pictures. It's a bloody shrine—a shrine to your precious Paul. Your perfect Paul."

"He wasn't perfect, Sam. No one's saying—"

"You're saying I shouldn't have photos now?" Mum screamed, her turn to ignore my father. "You don't know what it's like, Sam, to lose a son. You have no idea!"

"I know what it's like to lose a brother!" I shot back, so hot now, I felt dizzy. "I know what it's like to feel like it's all my fault. I know what it feels like to have everyone blame me. Know how it feels to know that people think he might still be alive if it wasn't for me. I know how that feels, okay?" Tears scalded my cheeks. "But you don't know what it's like to know your own mother wishes you'd died instead, do you? Because I know. Just admit it, Mum. You wish I'd died, not Paul."

I'd heard people talk about 'a ringing silence' but until that moment, I'd never actually experienced one. Air thick with tension, fuelled with enough static electricity it should've made everyone's hair stand on end, yet the quiet so absolute I could only hear my own heartbeat. A silence that lengthened into deafening proportions as I stared at my mother and she stared back, her expression stony.

And then I was in flight, in the hallway and snatching up Roxy's umbrella before my father could call my name, yanking the door open and racing out into the rain. I didn't look back when he called again, didn't stop to put up the umbrella. Instead, I bowed my head and charged blindly up the street, gasping for breath by the time I finally reached the corner of Wharf Road and the High Street, my lungs burning, my face raw from the relentless onslaught of rain and tears. Staggering to a halt, I fumbled in my pocket for a tissue and swiped at my cheeks with cold-numbed fingers.

So now you know, a little voice in my mind taunted.

I closed my eyes, bracing myself against a fresh wave of self-pity.

Isn't it about time you stopped crying?

A bubble of bitter amusement welled up in my chest. Hearing voices? Dear God, to top it all, now I was going mad.

Well, isn't it?

I opened my eyes, drawing one deep breath and then another, aware of my gradually slowing pulse. It was a good point, I conceded, even if I wasn't sure who the hell was making it. Because hadn't I cried enough over the years? Fat lot of good it had done me, too. It couldn't change the past, could it? And I couldn't keep taking responsibility for the way my mother felt. I couldn't change the past. That wasn't within my power. So yes, wasn't it time I simply moved on?

A fresh start in Italy awaited me. I could reinvent myself if I wanted to. Stop being Sam and become Samantha. Marco only ever called me Samantha, didn't he? I could leave miserable Sam behind. Sad Sam, her broken family, her disastrous love life—they could all stay put in Stow Newton, while Samantha moved on to bigger and brighter things.

I dabbed at my eyes again as this seed of hope took root, multiple possibilities beginning to unfurl like tiny tendrils.

But first things first, I thought, sniffing hard before breaking into a stride again, I needed to get back to the shop. Ask Alice very nicely if she wouldn't mind keeping an eye on my house, seeing how I hadn't quite managed to give my front door key to my mother. Help serve customers—if any more braved the weather today, that was—and get through the rest of the day. Maybe even help Roxy put up the decorations? Hell, that'd be a first. A wan smile tugged the corners of my mouth upwards at the thought of her reaction. Me—enthusiastic about Christmas? Well, why not? Samantha could be enthusiastic, couldn't she? And then? Then I'd go home and finish packing.

Finish packing for a brand new life...

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