Secrets Left Neglected

Chapter 38

Tadhg

A few nights later, I sit up in my cot and a cold sweat breaks out across my forehead.

It's the nightmare again. The same one I've had all week. I keep reliving that day the father shot his son and wife. Only in my dream it's not the man doing the shooting. It's me. And it's not the woman and child I'm shooting, but Caoilainn and Caireann. Just as I pull the trigger, Duncan rushes to my side, horrified, to ask what I've done. When I turn to look at him, I crumble into his arms, crying, "Dad, help me!" And then I wake up, my heart pounding recklessly against my chest wall.

Lying in my cot I try to still my rapid breathing. "It was just a dream," I tell myself. "It wasn't real."

I bend over and reach under my cot to grab Duncan's letters, as well as some paper and a pen I have stashed in my bag nearby, and a small flashlight from my boots.

Since I've been receiving them, I've never responded to a single one of Duncan's letters.

I wipe some sweat from my brow and rub it on my skivvies. "Corban, pssst, Corban," I whisper to him, pushing against his shoulder. He's sleeping in the cot next to mine.

He was in a dead sleep and he's barely awake when he mumbles, "What?" to me.

"You got a book I can lean on?" I ask him. He looks over at me like I'm nuts; I woke him up for a book, seriously?

"A book?" he says, dead-panned.

"Yeah," I reply. "Give me a book and go back to sleep."

Mumbling curses at me under his breath, Corban reaches around his space. Finding what he was looking for, Corban tosses me a book. It lands with a heavy thud on my stomach. "Oof," I let out. "Thanks, man."

I can't make out his response but that's ok. It's probably not worth repeating anyway.

When I'm finally comfortable, my paper leaned up against something hard, I begin.

Dear Duncan,

I received your letters.

I forgive you.

Love,

Your son,

Tadhg

I stop writing. It's not much, but it's a start as well as all I have at the moment.

Even in its briefness, though, I feel lighter; like a small weight has been lifted from my shoulders. There's more there, but a little bit of it, just a tiny part, is no longer sitting on me. I look at the stack of letters next to me. There're so many of themand I know more will follow. I've learned a lot in reading Duncan's diary entries. They span for years. He must've been keeping them all this time.

If he can do that the least I can do is start to reply back with some thoughts of my own. I'll begin with this letter and go from there.