1917

November 23, 1918

The news hit me like a punch to the gut: Abel had hung himself in prison, using his bedspread as a makeshift noose. For a moment, I felt a strange, hollow sense of relief—a fleeting thought that the chaos he brought into my life was finally over. But that feeling quickly gave way to something heavier. Deep inside, a piece of my heart broke off, splintering into a quiet grief I didn’t want to acknowledge.

I had tried so hard to change him, to steer him toward something better, but every damn time, he refused. He was too stubborn, too proud, always thinking he could outmaneuver the world. Sure, he managed to buy out the courts, spinning his way out of justice time and time again. But he could never buy me, no matter how hard he tried.

Not that he didn’t try—his offers were lavish and enticing, but I would have never accepted them. I wasn’t for sale. Abel knew that, and I think, in some twisted way, that’s why he hated me as much as he did. And now he was gone, taking his demons with him. I should’ve been ecstatic to hear the news, but all I felt was the weight of everything he left behind.

“He was an awful person,” my mother began, her voice sharp and unwavering. “A man who had everything one could ever desire and yet was still miserable. He bought out every living thing on this planet he could get his hands on—including the courts. There wasn’t a single piece of goodness he didn’t p*****t with those grimy fingers of his.”

She paused, her eyes locking on mine with a stern intensity. “Don’t feel sad, Jeremiah. Celebrate the fact that the bastard is dead.” Her words cut through the air like a blade.

It wasn’t the kind of speech I expected, but then again, nothing about Abel’s life—or death—was conventional. The bitterness in her tone was palpable, and while I understood her anger, a strange guilt clung to me. He was gone, and maybe he deserved it, but the hollowness in my chest didn’t feel like something worth celebrating.

“Do his friends know?” I asked, anxiety tightening my chest. The thought of them finding out—how they would react, what they would feel—gnawed at me.

“Not yet,” she replied, steady but cold. “But they will in a few hours, I’m sure.”

Her words hung in the air, and I couldn’t help but wonder how the news would strike them. Would they mourn him? Or would they feel the same fractured relief I did? Abel was complicated—a force in the lives of so many, for better or worse—and now that he was gone, it left behind an unsettling silence.

“Come, Jeremy, we must leave this place at once,” my mother urged suddenly, urgency flaring in her voice. Her eyes darted toward the window, as though the trees themselves were watching us.

There were coyotes in the woods at night. If the wind was right, their yips carried through the air—high, eerie, almost human. The sound always chilled me.

“Why now?” I asked, still tangled in thoughts of Abel.

“Because we don’t want to be out here when it gets dark,” she snapped. “They’re dangerous, Jeremy. Come on.”

I didn’t argue. The thought of those wild, hungry creatures pacing between the trees was enough to get me moving. Fear wasn’t logical, but it didn’t need to be. The woods felt like a greater threat than anything else lurking in my life.

We finally got home after being out the entire day, and the moment we stepped inside, she pressed me about Abel.

“What was the most hurtful thing he ever said to you?” she asked.

I thought for several long seconds before answering. “He mocked my father’s job as a miner. He didn’t understand the hard work… the sacrifices. To him, it was just a joke.”

My mother’s face hardened, but she listened. I wasn’t sure if I was trying to make sense of Abel or if I just needed someone else to feel the weight with me.

“The troops needed the supplies more than anything,” I continued. “And Abel—he couldn’t care less. He always treated it all like a game.”

Her gaze softened, but anger remained simmering beneath the surface.

“Oh,” I added, heat rising in my voice, “and he mocked Dad’s salary of a thousand dollars a year!” The words burst out of me, sharp and raw.

A thousand dollars a year wasn’t much—not to Abel, not to his world. But to my father, it was everything. Sweat. Blood. Long hours beneath the earth. Sacrifices Abel could never understand.

Exhaustion finally overtook me. I crawled into bed, though my thoughts refused to settle. I didn’t know why I prayed—maybe for my own peace, maybe for his—but I couldn’t stop myself.

“Dear Heavenly Father, please watch over him in the next life. He needs guidance—guidance I could not provide on earth. Please give him and his poor family peace and closure.”

My voice cracked.

“I say this humbly in Christ’s name, Amen.”

I lay there in the darkness and hoped—truly hoped—that somehow, my prayer made it to wherever he was.

Hopefully, it did.

If you like, I can continue formatting the next section in the same style and even enhance the emotional impact through strategic emphasis and pacing, so it reads like a polished, introspective chapter.

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