Chapter 7 - Unspoken Wounds
The banquet hall smelled of stale lemon polish and expensive, reheated roast beef. The chandeliers above the long oak table cast long, trembling shadows across the faces of the Anderson family, illuminating the cracks in their porcelain composure. It was a forced reconciliation dinner, a sterile attempt to glue together the shards of a marriage and a family that had been shattered ten years ago.
Jack sat at the head of the table, his military posture rigid, his hand white-knuckled around his water glass. Beside him, Evelyn sat upright, her posture impeccable, though her eyes darted nervously between her husband and her son. Derek sat to her right, picking at a potato with a fork, his jaw tight. Megan sat opposite Jack, her face a mask of polite detachment, her gaze fixed on the centerpiece of crystal roses.
"Pass the salt, Derek," Jack said, his voice a low rumble that didn't quite reach the room.
Derek didn't move. Instead, he dropped the fork onto his plate with a sharp clatter that silenced the ambient noise of the restaurant. He looked at his mother, a sneer curling his lip.
"I didn't pass it, Mom. Because I don't have to do anything you say anymore," Derek muttered.
Evelyn flinched, her hand going to her throat. "Derek, please. Not tonight."
"Then let's talk about why I had to threaten you with exposure to get that rifle," Derek said, his voice rising, his eyes locking onto Jack. "You know, Dad, blackmail isn't exactly the family business. But I guess it runs in the blood. You blackmailed Mom, and I’m just following the script."
The air in the room seemed to thicken, heavy with the scent of blood. Jack’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing into slits of fury. He opened his mouth to scream, but Derek wasn't finished. He turned his venomous gaze to Megan.
"And you," Derek spat, pointing a trembling finger at her. "You think you can just walk back in here and act like you're the victim? Mom told me what happened. She told me you knew about the affair. Did you know, Megan? Or were you just too busy being the perfect daughter to notice Mom was sleeping with the pool boy?"
Megan’s fork clattered against her plate. The polite detachment shattered. She looked from her brother to her mother, her face draining of color. "What?"
"I'm just saying," Derek laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "The family that prays together stays together, right? Unless you're busy screwing the help."
The table erupted. Evelyn sobbed, covering her face with her hands. Jack stood up so abruptly his chair scraped backward against the floor, the sound like a gunshot. He loomed over Derek, his shadow swallowing the boy whole.
"You have no idea what you’re talking about," Jack growled, his voice shaking with a rage that was terrifying in its intensity. "You are a spoiled, ungrateful—"
"You're a hypocrite, Dad!" Derek yelled back, standing up to meet him. "You hate me because I'm not you! You hate Mom because she's not perfect!"
Jack slapped him. The sound cracked through the restaurant, and the entire room went dead silent. Evelyn screamed, "Jack, stop!"
Jack didn't stop. He grabbed Derek by the collar, his face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated loathing. "I wish you’d never been born," Jack hissed, the words spilling out like venom. "You are the mistake that ruined everything."
Megan stood up, knocking her chair over. She stared at her father, the man who was supposed to be her anchor, who was supposed to protect her. "That’s what you think?" she whispered. "That’s what you really think?"
She turned and ran. She didn't wait for them. She didn't look back. She pushed through the double doors, the cool night air rushing in to replace the stale warmth of the restaurant.
Jack released Derek, who stumbled back, rubbing his red cheek. He turned to Evelyn, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. "We are done," Jack said, his voice hollow. "We are done."
He turned and stormed out of the restaurant, leaving Evelyn weeping at the table, and Derek staring at his father’s retreating back, a twisted smile finally forming on his face.
***
The shooting range was a cavern of silence, save for the hum of the ventilation fans. It was midnight, and the facility was closed. The smell of gun oil and ozone hung heavy in the air.
Megan stood at the firing line, her silhouette framed by the harsh white lights of the range. She didn't have a gun in her hands, but she stood as if she were holding one. She was staring down the long, empty stretch of targets.
Jack burst through the side door, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He had driven like a madman, ignoring stop signs, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He saw her back, rigid and unyielding. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to grab her shoulders and beg her to stay, to explain that the rage was a mask, that he had been a monster for a decade.
He took a step forward, his boots squeaking on the concrete.
Megan turned. She didn't look angry anymore. She looked tired. Defeated. The facade of the strong survivor had cracked, revealing the terrified little girl beneath.
"You told him," Megan said. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "You told him you wish he was never born."
Jack stopped. He opened his mouth, but the words died in his throat. He looked at the floor, ashamed. "I was angry, Megan. I was out of control."
"You killed him," Megan said softly. "Just like you killed me."
Jack’s head snapped up. The silence of the range felt like a physical weight crushing his chest. He took a step toward her, reaching out a hand, trembling.
"Megan, listen to me," Jack pleaded, his voice cracking. "I need to tell you. I need you to know."
Megan took a step back, her eyes wide with a sudden, terrifying clarity. "No, Jack. Don't."
"You have to know," Jack insisted, stepping closer, ignoring the safety barriers. "About that day. About the boat. I never told you. I never told Evelyn. I blocked it out. I told myself you were gone. I told myself I was free."
He was standing right in front of her now, his face inches from hers. The lights reflected in his eyes, swimming with tears.
"But I remember," Jack whispered, the confession tearing his soul apart. "I remember the wind. I remember the scream. And I remember the words. I looked at you, Megan, and I screamed at you, just like I did to Derek. I told you to get in the boat, and you looked at me with that terrified face, and I said it. I said, 'I wish you’d never been born. I wish you had never existed.'"
Megan’s breath hitched. The wind outside the range howled, shaking the metal shutters.
Jack dropped his hands to his sides, his head bowing in shame. "I didn't mean it. I never meant it. I loved you more than anything. But the guilt... the guilt ate me alive until I made myself believe the lie. I drove you away. I killed you."
He looked up at her, his eyes pleading for absolution, for a sign that the monster in front of him was still her father.
Megan stared at him. The silence stretched, agonizingly long, stretching into an eternity. Then, a single tear tracked a path through the dust on her cheek. She opened her mouth to speak, but a low, mechanical whir echoed from the dark corner of the range.
The automated target retriever began to slide out from behind the blast shield, stopping directly in front of Jack, blocking his view of Megan. The red target appeared, illuminated by the lights.
Megan’s face went pale. She looked at the target, then slowly back at Jack. The twist in her expression wasn't relief—it was a cold, hard realization. She took a step back, her hand trembling as it drifted toward her pocket.
Jack didn't see it. He was still looking at her, waiting.
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From the darkness behind the blast shield, a shadow detached itself. It wasn't a machine. It was a man in a ski mask, raising a silenced pistol, the barrel trained squarely on Jack’s heart.
Megan’s eyes went wide with terror, her hand flying from her pocket to grip the barrel of a pistol she had pulled from her belt. "Jack, don't move!" she screamed, but it was too late.
