The Anti-hero (The Goode Brothers)

The rain drums quietly against the window as I stare at the moon through the drizzle. I can’t sleep. Sage is breathing quietly next to me, cuddled under a heavy blanket, looking peaceful, and all I can think about is every cruel and depraved thing I’ve done to her.

I’m no better than him. And by him, I’m not even sure if I mean Brett or Truett, but it doesn’t matter. Because the three of us are the same.

My entire life, I considered myself a good man, and now I don’t even know what that means. I followed all the rules. I read the gospel. I lived the life my father and God set out for me to live and everyone I truly cared about ended up hurt. My mother. My brother. And her.

If I ruin my father’s life and go to Brett’s apartment now to beat the ever-loving shit out of him, does that make me the hero?

I won’t. And not because I don’t want to, because I really, really do. But I won’t because the honor and integrity that’s ingrained in my bones won’t let me. The same honor and integrity that has stopped me from every single thing I’ve wanted to do.

Perhaps we can never truly be good and protect the ones we love at the same time. Maybe it takes a bad man to truly keep them safe and happy.

I think about that night Truett hit my brother. The night he laid his hands on a scared seventeen-year-old boy and the way I watched from the hallway. I flinched. I tried to move, but I was a gust of wind against a mountain.

And I thought I was the righteous one.

Everything replays in my head, not just the last night with Isaac but the very minute I met Sage. I actually believed she was different than me as if I was sewn from a different cloth. And she was somehow…less deserving. Who the fuck did I think I was?

She deserves the fucking sun. The moon. The stars.

And the thought actually makes me laugh. Out of every righteous, God-fearing person I know, this girl might be the best one I’ve ever met.

I left her with him. I got in my car and I drove away while she cried in the arms of her abuser. Because I did the right fucking thing. She got hurt because of me, and it could have been so much worse.

I’m no fucking hero.

And I never truly was. So why have I been acting like one?

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m out of bed, slipping on my jeans. Anger boils under the surface, growing hotter and hotter with every step I take, and it feels like I’m breathing life into a part of myself that I’ve been suffocating.

I don’t even fully know what I’m doing. I just let my instincts carry me without thinking about it too much.

Once I’m fully dressed, I glance back at Sage sleeping in her bed. I don’t stop to question if I’m doing the appropriate thing. I’ve done that enough in my life. This is the wrong fucking thing, and it’s the first thing that’s ever felt right.

Without another word, I slip out of her apartment.

The roads are quiet as I drive. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, painting the dark asphalt in reflecting light. My fists are tight around the steering wheel, and I let the buzzing heat of anger inside me sizzle and grow until it feels like I’m on fire.

I don’t mentally acknowledge where I’m going, but deep down, I know.

When I reach the club, I park in the same exact spot I was in earlier. And I wait.

There are a handful of cars still parked in the lot, and I have a good view of the back of the club from here. I know a few things about Brett that I can count on for certain. He’s cocky, and he’s stupid. This means I know he’s going to walk out of here without security at some point, and I’ve got nothing but time.

While I wait, I don’t bother talking myself down or rethinking this situation. I let the simmer turn into a full boil. And I don’t have to wait as long as I thought I would. It’s nearly five in the morning when I spot him walking across the back of the lot behind the club with a young woman under his arm.

I jump out of my car and cross the asphalt in a fast-paced walk. He hears my footsteps first, turning toward me just as I find myself within punching distance.

“Hey, asshole,” I mutter before throwing a right hook that lands with a satisfying crunch against his nose.

The girl screams and runs away as Brett falls to the ground, holding his face as blood pours from his nostrils.

“What the fuck?” he bellows, but before he can try to get back to his feet, I grab him by the collar and jerk him upward to land another punch against his cheek.

“You think you’re fucking tough?” I grit out with a sneer as I hit him again. “Did you think you could hurt her? She came home in fucking tears, you piece of shit.”

I punch him again, and this time, he goes limp. My fist aches but not enough. I want to tear it open, crack my knuckles, and break the bones in my hand on his face.

Am I fighting fair? No, but I don’t care. I’m done with fair.

I just keep thinking about how scared she was. I think about her tears and her anger, and it makes every assault of my fist against his face feel so fucking good.

“Wake up, Brett,” I bark before shaking him again. His eye is already swelling shut, but as he slowly peels it open, I hit him again and again and again.

Everything starts to blur around me. Somewhere there’s a girl screaming and sirens in the distance. I can’t hold my hand in a fist anymore, so I drop his limp body on the pavement.

When I stand up, a sick and twisted feeling of satisfaction washes over me. As I stare down at him, hearing his moans and watching him struggle to move, I feel as if I’ve made a wrong thing right. Which is fucking juvenile, I know that, but I’m not doing this to be mature.

I’m still breathless, with a cold sweat running down my spine, when the night turns into a flash of red and blue around me.

When the police shout at me to put my hands in the air, I do it—with a smile.