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Authors: Kathleen Fuller
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out. He sighed and headed toward his hives, one of the few things in his life that brought him peace.
Sol made his way along a dark, almost empty road. He wasnât quite sure how heâd strayed in this direction after leaving his house, and he didnât care. He brought the whiskey bottle to his lips and took a long drink, letting the amber liquid burn his throat. He had a couple of bottles stashed away in the top loft of the barn, where his father would never find them. A few more deep gulps from the bottle and he wouldnât have to think. Or feel. He would be numb, if only for a little while.
He tipped up the bottle and took another long pull. His father knew he drank spirits, but for some reason he looked the other way when it came to Solâs drinking habits. As long as he didnât do anything to publicly embarrass his old man, nothing was off limits. But it hadnât always been that way. There was a time when his father had held a tight rein on Sol, measuring what seemed to be his every waking breath and comparing it to some unattainable standard of what a real âmanâ was. When Sol fell short his father took action . . . and Sol had permanent scars to remind him of his failure.
He blew out a breath, his brain already fuzzy and his legs starting to wobble as he was transported to the past. He had just turned twelve, and his fatherâs discipline had changed. Even now, years later and through a whiskey-induced haze, Sol could remember the first time his father had told him to punish his brother, under the guise of turning his sons into men. Aden had been eight and had been late bringing the four cows they owned back into the barn. That deserved correction, and his father instructed Sol not to touch Adenâs face or any other part of his body that would show a bruise.
Sol hadnât wanted to do it. But he chose self-preservation over his little brother, and it wasnât long before taking out his frustration on Aden became routine. Eventually his brother had stopped crying. Heâd stopped trying to dodge the blows. He started looking Sol straight in the eye and taking whatever Sol gave him.
And every day, Sol had to live with that.
When heâd twisted Adenâs arm behind his back the day the Schrocks died to get him to leave the store, it had been nearly two years since heâd touched his brother. But Sol had seen the pain and shock on Sadieâs and Abigailâs faces, and he couldnât handle it. He had to get out of there. But Aden wouldnât listen to words. So, like his father had said dozens of times over the years, sometimes physical force was required.
He took the last drink from the bottle and let out a bitter chuckle. What would the community say about their bishop if they knew the way he treated his sons? His father would justify it, of course. He always did to their mother, though Sol doubted she truly knew the extent of Daed âs disciplinary methods. Never sparing the rod wasnât a proverb in the Troyer house; it was the law. No one ever questioned Emmanuel Troyerânot as a bishop, and definitely not as a father.
He threw down the bottle. It smashed into dozens of sparkling shards that littered the street. He meandered farther, his drunken steps zigzagging from the asphalt to the soft ground at the shoulder of the road, then back again.
A few minutes later he tripped over his own feet and landed facedown on the street. His cheek stung as he levered himself up to an unsteady standing position. He needed to find a place to lie down, to sleep off the whiskey so he could get up in the morning and go to work. Lately heâd been drinking too much and had missed work a couple of days over the past two months. Heâd also shown up to work hung over. At the rate he was going, he knew he would lose his job.
But at that moment, Sol didnât care. He walked into an empty field, collapsed to the ground, and passed out.
CHAPTER 4
S
Sol made his way along a dark, almost empty road. He wasnât quite sure how heâd strayed in this direction after leaving his house, and he didnât care. He brought the whiskey bottle to his lips and took a long drink, letting the amber liquid burn his throat. He had a couple of bottles stashed away in the top loft of the barn, where his father would never find them. A few more deep gulps from the bottle and he wouldnât have to think. Or feel. He would be numb, if only for a little while.
He tipped up the bottle and took another long pull. His father knew he drank spirits, but for some reason he looked the other way when it came to Solâs drinking habits. As long as he didnât do anything to publicly embarrass his old man, nothing was off limits. But it hadnât always been that way. There was a time when his father had held a tight rein on Sol, measuring what seemed to be his every waking breath and comparing it to some unattainable standard of what a real âmanâ was. When Sol fell short his father took action . . . and Sol had permanent scars to remind him of his failure.
He blew out a breath, his brain already fuzzy and his legs starting to wobble as he was transported to the past. He had just turned twelve, and his fatherâs discipline had changed. Even now, years later and through a whiskey-induced haze, Sol could remember the first time his father had told him to punish his brother, under the guise of turning his sons into men. Aden had been eight and had been late bringing the four cows they owned back into the barn. That deserved correction, and his father instructed Sol not to touch Adenâs face or any other part of his body that would show a bruise.
Sol hadnât wanted to do it. But he chose self-preservation over his little brother, and it wasnât long before taking out his frustration on Aden became routine. Eventually his brother had stopped crying. Heâd stopped trying to dodge the blows. He started looking Sol straight in the eye and taking whatever Sol gave him.
And every day, Sol had to live with that.
When heâd twisted Adenâs arm behind his back the day the Schrocks died to get him to leave the store, it had been nearly two years since heâd touched his brother. But Sol had seen the pain and shock on Sadieâs and Abigailâs faces, and he couldnât handle it. He had to get out of there. But Aden wouldnât listen to words. So, like his father had said dozens of times over the years, sometimes physical force was required.
He took the last drink from the bottle and let out a bitter chuckle. What would the community say about their bishop if they knew the way he treated his sons? His father would justify it, of course. He always did to their mother, though Sol doubted she truly knew the extent of Daed âs disciplinary methods. Never sparing the rod wasnât a proverb in the Troyer house; it was the law. No one ever questioned Emmanuel Troyerânot as a bishop, and definitely not as a father.
He threw down the bottle. It smashed into dozens of sparkling shards that littered the street. He meandered farther, his drunken steps zigzagging from the asphalt to the soft ground at the shoulder of the road, then back again.
A few minutes later he tripped over his own feet and landed facedown on the street. His cheek stung as he levered himself up to an unsteady standing position. He needed to find a place to lie down, to sleep off the whiskey so he could get up in the morning and go to work. Lately heâd been drinking too much and had missed work a couple of days over the past two months. Heâd also shown up to work hung over. At the rate he was going, he knew he would lose his job.
But at that moment, Sol didnât care. He walked into an empty field, collapsed to the ground, and passed out.
CHAPTER 4
S
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