The Eve of A Broken Family

Raymond clutched his nose as blood streamed down, fury in his eyes.

"You fucking hit me?"

"Shut the fuck up!" I spat, raising my fist again.

But before I could strike, Yedda grabbed my arm, holding me back with all her strength.

She shook her head, her face filled with weariness.

"Boyce, I used to think you were a responsible man. Now, seeing you consumed by jealousy—it's disgusting.

"Can't you two take this outside?"

The receptionist, a young woman, had a pained expression as clients began filtering into the room.

I didn't want to be around them any longer and needed to clear my head.

I stepped out, ignoring Raymond's parting threat.

"Boyce, this isn't over."

Leaning against the wall outside, I lit a cigarette.

I knew exactly why he targeted me—because he genuinely liked Yedda.

But Adelaide had seen through him, recognizing his petty and spiteful nature, and had refused to accept him.

So, he settled into the role of the "best friend," biding his time.

He never imagined that Yedda and I would fall in love and eventually get married.

Unable to let it go, he saw me as a thorn in his side, always encouraging Yedda to argue with me or stirring up trouble so he could swoop in and play the hero.

I crushed the cigarette underfoot and was about to call the photographer when the screech of brakes echoed behind me.

I turned to see several men dismounting from motorcycles, each wielding a club.

I recognized them—Raymond's lowlife friends.

Their faces were full of malice.

"You didn't even run after hitting my buddy? Standing here like you're waiting to die?"

I reached for my phone to call the police, but they knocked it out of my hand and dragged me into a nearby alley.

As they hauled me into the shadows, I saw Raymond and Yedda strolling toward us, side by side.

Yedda looked conflicted, but the disappointment was written all over her face.

"Boyce, my mom treated you like her own son. If you didn't want to take care of her, fine. But to blame me? And then to hit Raymond?

"You've really let me down."

The men held me firmly as Raymond stepped forward and punched me in the face.

"That's for what you owe Adelaide," he snarled.

The world spun, and I felt the warmth of blood trickling from my nose.

Thud.

Another punch landed squarely on my jaw.

"And this one's for me."

Raymond pulled back to strike again, but Yedda stopped him. "That's enough. If you hit him any harder, we might end up in real trouble."

Perhaps noticing a passerby approaching, Raymond reluctantly dropped his fists.

I slumped to the ground, blood streaming down my face, laughing hysterically.

One of the thugs holding me down muttered, "Raymond, you've knocked something loose in his head."

They spat on me in disgust before hurrying off.

Maybe I really was losing it.

No one understood how much pain—real, physical pain—could bring a strange, almost perverse relief to someone as numb as I was.

A part of me even craved it.

Why hadn't Raymond just finished me off?

Then I could be with Adelaide again.

I couldn't imagine how lonely she must have been, how much she must have yearned to hold on, to get that one last family photo.

And yet, was it really so hard to make that wish come true?

Just then, my phone rang where it lay on the ground.

It was the photographer we had booked.

Before I could reach it, Yedda snatched it up.

"Yes, we're on our way," she said sweetly.

Then, looking at me, disheveled and beaten, her expression turned to one of contempt.

"Boyce, looking at you now, there's no way we can take that family photo.

"I don't want you ruining my mom's last wish."

I kept my gaze down, not even wanting to look at her.

Perhaps trying to provoke me further, she looped her arm through Raymond's, her voice turning soft and tender.

"We'll take the family photo—the three of us."