The Protege by Cole Denton

Hollis

Twenty-four-years-old | November

Patrick and I leaned against the back wall of the elevator while it took us to our floor. I was so exhausted, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Not with everything going on. I still couldn’t believe this had gone on for years.

“I’ll call Morgan when we get inside and let him know we made it home,” Patrick said when we stepped out of the elevator. I nodded.

We trudged down the hallway, and I stood back to let Patrick unlock and open the door. As soon as we were inside, I pulled Patrick into my arms.

“Thank you for getting to Chase. He means so much to me,” I said as I pressed my face against his neck.

“He means a lot to me too.”

“I know he does. Thank you, Patrick.” I kissed the side of his neck and then backed out of the embrace. I sighed and headed down the hall toward my room.

“Hey, can I get you anything?” Patrick asked. I felt so out of sorts and responded kind of sharply at him. But I was angry over everything, and it started spilling over.

“How about that fucking asshole who raped and molested my brother and that girl?”

“Hollis—”

“That’s all I want. So if you can’t bring me that prick, don’t offer to get me anything.”

“Hollis, you haven’t eaten. Can I get you something light to eat?”

“No. Thanks, though.”

I walked into my bedroom and then into my bathroom. I felt another ache in my chest for how I’d just treated Patrick. I hadn’t meant to. He’d had a terrible day too. I’m sorry, Patrick. After I turned on the shower, I took off my clothes and then stepped into the large shower. I leaned forward, placed my fists on the shower wall, and looked down at the tile while the water ran down my back. All I could picture was the blood on the floor of the shower, on his bathroom counter… And that fucking knife.

Where had I lost my bond with Chase?

When had he stopped feeling like he could come to me?

When had we stopped talking?

As I went through the motions of washing myself, I couldn’t help but hear the words from my ex-girlfriend about me being selfish. According to her, everything revolved around me. Apparently, that sounded close to reality right now. I specifically remembered her saying that it was nothing short of a miracle that Morgan and Chase were doing okay. I huffed out a laugh and then shut the water off. She’d been right, though. Chase wasn’t okay. And I was so absorbed in my career and climbing the ranks at TCF that I never saw the warning signs.

I dried off and ran the towel over my wet hair before flinging it over the towel bar. Naked, I walked into my room, put some boxer briefs on, and then flopped into the bed. I stared at the ceiling and clasped my hands behind my head.

Had Mom and Dad not noticed anything out of sorts with Chase?

Had the school or teachers?

What about the damn security? Had he seemed fine when he got into the car with them?

I looked for somewhere to place blame.

How had this happened?

How had my little brother fallen through the fucking cracks?

Time ticked by, and just like I predicted, I wasn’t able to sleep. My mind was racing, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I tried to think about how I could fix this, but there was no way to fix it. No amount of money or added staff could fix what had been done. My brother would not only carry this with him, but so would the other girl and that baby. I couldn’t begin to think of the mess that my parents were going to have to weed through with all of this.

I felt so helpless.

I was such a dick.

I couldn’t fix anything regarding Chase, but I could fix and apologize to Patrick for my behavior. I got out of bed and walked out into the great room. The kitchen and great room lights had been dimmed, and Patrick was nowhere in sight. I went to his room and peeked inside the partially opened door. His nightstand light was on, so I knocked lightly on the door and then went in.

Patrick was shirtless and sitting up in bed. On his lap he had his blue notebook open, and a pen was nestled between his thumb and index finger. Resting between his lips was a vanilla wafer cookie and sitting on the bed beside him was the box. My dad would always sit in the evening and share vanilla wafer cookies with Patrick. The cookies would settle his stomach when it was upset and after the kind of day we’d had, I understood why he was nibbling on them.

His eyes were on mine as I walked toward him. He picked up the box of cookies and held it out for me to take one. I took the box from his hand and set them on his nightstand. I leaned down and bit off part of the cookie that was between his lips. Patrick began to chew the rest of the cookie as I nudged him to scoot over.

He moved the notebook off his lap and set it on the bed next to him. I slouched down, turned onto my side, and rested the side of my face between his chest and abdomen. I could hear him drop the pen onto the nightstand seconds before his arm wrapped around my back. He was warm and so comforting. I reached across his lap and carefully picked up his tattered journal.

“What were you writing? Can I see?” I asked him.

For as long as I’d known Patrick, his written words were often more insightful than his spoken words. He’d grown up under terrible circumstances, and he practically had to be quiet. Things were that way until he came to live with us. Patrick had shared his journal with me many times, and when I’d get to read it, I’d see everything he felt and thought.

Patrick tilted the journal up so I could read it.

I hate that someone hurt them.

I hate that someone did something to make them have to face something so ugly.

Something so gruesome.

Something so heartbreaking.

Something so difficult to understand from where they’re sitting.

Something that will keep them up at night worrying about or replaying over and over.

I’m thankful that he called me.

I’m thankful that none of them saw him so close to giving up.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. My throat felt tight, like it was closing up on me. I felt an ache deep in my throat and swore that each time I swallowed, I felt the ache in my chest. Tears were gathering in my eyes, and a pounding headache had formed.

“How do you know so much about this shit?” I asked as I closed my eyes, hoping to keep the tears from falling. When Patrick tugged me a little closer against him, I had a feeling that he’d felt the tears on his bare skin that had escaped my eyes.

“Because. I felt it all so many times before you and your family rescued me.”

I’d known about the various types of abuse Patrick endured and how they affected him. I understood a lot of it based on conversations I’d had with my parents, grandpa, and Patrick himself. Patrick had sixteen excruciating years of it. Chase had about four. And it was almost stomach turning to think of my little brother being forced into that position. Or anyone for that matter. But Chase. Fuck, not Chase.

“I should have known something bad was going on with him,” I finally said out loud.

“Hollis—”

“I should have known something was causing him to not care much about school or to quit soccer.”

“Hollis—”

“He was always so funny. Quirky. Loveable. Trusting. And some sick fuck took all of it from him! Chase probably hates me. For years he didn’t even trust me to come to me.”

“Hollis, stop it. He loves you so much. When he called me, he begged me not to tell you. He didn’t want any of this to affect you and everything you worked for.”

“I don’t fucking care about anything I worked for. Fuck TCF. Look at what it cost Chase.”

“You being who you are didn’t do this to Chase.”

“If I hadn’t been so—”

“I swear to God, Hollis, if you dare say ‘selfish’ I might have to knock some sense into you.” Patrick put his hand on the back of my neck and squeezed hard enough to grab my attention. “You get that woman’s jealous and self-serving words out of your head.”

I remained quiet and opened my eyes when Patrick tapped my lips with another vanilla wafer cookie. I opened my mouth and let him feed it to me.

“I’m sorry I was kind of a dick to you tonight when we got home.”

“Don’t be. I know how shitty of a day it’s been.”

“Still. I’m sorry.”

“Things could have been worse,” Patrick said.

I shook my head against his abdomen.

“I don’t know how they could have been any worse,” I mumbled. As quickly as it tumbled out of my mouth, I knew exactly how it could have been devastatingly worse. Patrick might not have made it to Chase in time, or Chase may have gone through with it, without any second thoughts.