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In the end, it was his fault that Evan was dead.
And wasn’t that funny?
His life seemed to be split in half. Before. After.
Before.
Seven years of friendship. Seven years of split lips from fathers, lips that would touch, mouths that would scream and form three words.
Before.
The paper they were sent, the picture of their best friend printed in monochrome, the way the world titled and collapsed around them, as they held each other and broke.
Before.
A battle. Green and red lights flashing like Christmas. Reg had always liked Christmas. He had smiled.
He had ducked.
He
had
tur
ne
d
and
watched
Evan
fall.
After.
Now was after. On the floor, in his own body finally, spilling his secrets to the old man and that fourteen-year-old boy who had started and ended everything. The hopelessness. Rose his last thought.
After.
But even before that there was an after. Years in prison. His father had put him there. He’d seen his mother beg, he’d begged. He wasted away. Rose.
After.
And the very first after? That was watching Evan’s eyes glaze over. Looking into those electric blue eyes and thinking my fault. My fault. The slaughter that followed. The scream he forced down as Evan was pushed into an unmarked grave atop twenty others.
Barty didn’t remember much of that night. But he remembered that.
A flash of green light came hurtling towards him. He ducked just in time. Turned to grin at Evan. “Close one, eh, Rosie?”
Evan didn’t respond. Dead men can’t speak, after all. His eyes screamed, your fault. He was right. Evan had always been right.
“No. No no no no no. Evan.” The rose fell. Barty began to scream.
“Evan!” He fell to his knees. “Rosie, wake up, I swear to god, I can’t have your ghost too, please.” Hot tears spilling down his cheeks. He cradled Evan’s body in his arms. He looked up at the sky.
“Don’t take him from me!” he screamed, as if the stars could do anything. “Reg, if you’re really up there, don’t take him. I can’t lose nothing of you. Regulus!” He was choking on his sobs. “You promised me we’d be okay! You swore we’d all make it out of this and you lied! You’re a fucking liar, Regulus! He didn’t deserve it!”
“Barty?” He knew that voice.
“Cas?”
She took in the body in his arms. “Evan. No. Oh no, no, no, no…”
Barty laughed. “Like you care. Like you ever cared. You chose them, Cas. You chose them over us.”
She stared at him. “Barty, you know I never-”
“Avada Kedavara.”
She dropped like a stone.
You shouldn’t have done that.
Barty started. “Rose?” He looked down at the body in his arms, but Evan didn’t stir.
I’m not real, Bee. I’m in your head. You killed Dorcas. You shouldn’t have done that.
“She deserved it,” Barty spat, “she chose them, she did, Evan, you know she deserved it.”
She was your friend.
Barty let go of the body, getting unsteadily to his feet. He gazed down into Dorcas’ face. Her expression etched in grief and guilt. “I killed her, Ev,” he said.
Yes, you did.
“She didn’t deserve it, did she?”
No.
“And neither did you, you didn’t deserve it.”
That’s right.
“It’s my fault. It’s my fault you’re dead.”
So what are you going to do about it?
He stiffened. His fists clenched.
Barty never got the taste of blood out of his mouth, the dried remains out from under his fingernails, the stench from his body. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw that night. Green light. Blue eyes. Dorcas’ silver nose ring.
Red. So much red.
The mouth clamped over his was black. It sucked the hope out of him ; not that there was much left. In a way, it was a relief. This emptiness.
No one would remember him. Anyone who might’ve was dead.
No one left to leave dead roses on a killer’s grave.