You make me feel things I didn’t know were real.
How can that be possible?
I thought I was never going to be whole again,
That I’d remain a broken shell,
Cracked in places that could never be fixed.
Now, everything I believed is withering,
Fading into something I can’t explain.
Please, please, don’t let me down.
Give me hope
And let me fade away.
“Ayden, are you all right?” Lila interrupts my thoughts.
I rip myself from my daze, realizing I’m the only one left at the table.
“Yeah. Sorry. I guess I just zoned off.” The legs of the chair scrape against the tile floor as I scoot back from the table.
“Okay.” She picks up an empty bowl and carries it to the sink. “Would you mind helping me do the dishes? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
I start stacking the dirty plates on the table. “What’s up?”
“Well, I talked to Detective Rannali about letting you read the letter your sister wrote, like you asked.” She opens the dishwasher and places a few plates inside. “Unfortunately, they can’t let you read the letter yet, because it’s important evidence as of now.”
Even though I was expecting that answer, it’s still frustrating.
“Okay, thanks for trying.” My shoulders sink as reality crushes me down into the ground.
Down. Down. Down.
Into the dirt,
Burying me alive, right along with the hurt.
Suffocating, smothering, where is the air?
Hidden with the pain in a sea of despair.
Down. Down. Down,
Into the dirt.
Pull me from the despair, help me survive.
Please, someone help me.
Don’t let me die.
Lift me from the darkness and into the light—
Out of the dirt, out of the pain, away from the hurt.
She abruptly folds her arms around me. “I know life’s been hard on you, and while I really don’t ever want to walk in on you like that again, I’m glad you’re with Lyric. You deserve the best, Ayden, and I know Lyric makes you happy, which is why I’m not going to punish you over what I walked in on tonight.” She clears her throat. “Just promise me you two will be careful.”
This is quickly turning into the most mortifying conversation I’ve ever had.
“Okay, but . . . never mind.”
She moves back to look at me. “No, go ahead and say it. I need to know that you feel comfortable enough with me.”
“It really isn’t that big of a deal.” I wave it off. “Forget I said anything.”
“Is it about Lyric or . . . sex?”
“What? No. It’s definitely not that.” I make myself look her in the eye. “It’s about Sadie and the case. I just want to know more about what’s going on.”
She stiffens. “Look, Ayden, I know you’re worried about her, but the police are doing everything they can to find her. They even tracked down that woman you ran into in that godawful neighborhood and brought her in for questioning.”
“What’d they find out?”
“Nothing much.” She grabs another plate out of the sink and sticks it in the dishwasher. “The woman said she saw you go into the house, and she thought she’d warn you to stay away from it, considering what happened there. They already knew what went on there, though, so her statement didn’t help with the case.”
I gather a few dirty cups out of the sink and hand them to her. “But I want to know exactly what happened in that house. No one’s flat out told me the details.”
She remains quiet while she stacks the cups on the dishwasher rack. “The police believe Sadie was taken from that house by the group of people who took you guys when you were younger, and the foster parents she was living with at the time of the kidnapping were drug addicts and didn’t notice she was missing for over a week, so it instantly put a hitch in the case.”
A week? She was gone and entire week, and no one knew?
My heart is splitting in two
And bleeding out
Because she never knew
Just how good life could be.
I grip on to the edge of the counter to keep from falling down. “Didn’t they notice all the paint and stuff on the walls?”
“They might have, but . . .” She sighs heavily. “When people are on drugs, they can get too caught up in their addiction.”
“My mother was an addict,” I utter quietly with my head lowered. “She was like that sometimes, so I get it. But still, it pisses me off.”
“I know it does, sweetie.” When I glance up, her heart looks like it’s breaking for me. “What can I do to make you feel better?”
“The only way I think I’ll ever feel better again is when they find her.” Forcing myself to suck it up, I stand up straight. “There’s some stuff on the Internet about the locations of some of the places the Soulless Mileas hang out at, and I think you should mention them to the detective the next time you talk to him.”
Her brows knit. “I didn’t know you were looking up that sort of stuff on the Internet.”
“No one really tells me anything, so I thought I’d find out some stuff for myself.” I hand her a dish soap tablet from the box beside the sink, and she drops it inside the dishwasher.
“We tell you what we feel is a healthy amount.” She closes the dishwasher door and pushes start. “Does your therapist know you’ve been doing this?”
“No. The only person I’ve told is Lyric and now you. I didn’t think it was that important.”
“I think you should tell him so you two can talk about the stuff you’ve read. It can’t be easy . . . reading about that . . .” The way she says it makes me wonder if she has been reading stuff, too. She grabs a dishtowel and begins wiping down the counters. “Maybe I’ll mention it to him myself since I have to go in for a visit, anyway.”
A pucker forms between my brows. “Why are you going in for a visit?”
She winds around the kitchen island, cleaning up spilled sauce on the tile. “To discuss your amnesia therapy.” She stops scrubbing and looks up at me. “Your father and I just feel like maybe you should stop doing it since there hasn’t been a lot of progress, and it seems to be increasing your stress.”
“It’s not increasing my stress.” The last thing I ever want to do is stop with the therapy, and if Lila gets involved, there’s a slim chance I’ll ever be allowed to do it again. “And I can’t do that to my sister—stop trying like that.”
“You’ve been sleepwalking more ever since you started the treatment. You sleep less. And now I find out you’re looking up stuff on the Internet. It’s not healthy.”
“Nothing about any of this will ever be healthy, but I might be able to be less stressed if the police find her.” I contemplate my next words carefully. “Which is why I think you should reconsider letting me try that experimental therapy.”
She swiftly shakes her head. “We’ve already talked about it and decided it was too risky.”
I grit my teeth, biting back my anger. I don’t agree with her, but at the same time, I feel guilty for even thinking about going against them. The Gregorys were kind enough to take me in when they knew I had so many problems, and I owe them for that. The last thing I need to do is yell at her.
“I’m going to go up to my room and work on my homework.” I swing around her and stride for the stairway.
“Ayden, please don’t be angry with me,” she calls out. “We’re doing this because . . . because we love you.”
I smash my lips together so forcefully my jaw aches. Despite the fact that I once had a mother and father, I’ve never actually had anyone say they love me like that. I don’t even know how to respond, so I don’t say anything, hurrying up the stairs and locking myself in my room.
Lock yourself up.
When are you ever going to learn?
The only way to be free
Is to give in.
The only way to be free
Is to surrender.
ABOUT AN HOUR INTO WRITING my English essay, I decide I need a break and get on my computer. I open up the webpage I’ve looked at every night for the last couple of weeks that contains an article about the Soulless Mileas and their rituals and beliefs. On the top of the page are photos of houses, backyards, the shore—the pictures I mentioned to Lila.
I shut my eyes and try to summon locked up memories.
The house on the hill
Bleeds through the ground,
Saturates the dirt,
And drips from the trees.
The red river flows down the grass
And to the ocean.
Waves crash against the sand,
Erasing the blood
And carrying it away.
But a faint trail still remains.
The house on the hill
Waits to be found,
Waits to tell its secrets
Of shackles and nails,
Stories of torture and pain.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
“What is that, Ayden?” my sister whispers through the darkness.
The only thing I can see is the bright pink ribbon in her hair.
I open my mouth to tell her, but my voice gets lost in the sound of the dripping.
“Ayden, can you hear me?” she whispers. “I think . . . I think it’s blood. Oh, Ayden, I think it’s my blood.”
My eyes snap open as my body trembles from the memory—my sister’s plea for help. I glance at the computer screen and examine the photos closely.
“Where are you, Sadie?” I whisper, my eyes locking on a photo of a house settled on a shallow hill.
I try to picture the people inside it, but my memory shuts down. The strange thing that doesn’t make sense to me is that the house we were trapped in was the one in my neighborhood and not on a hill. That’s where I remember being dropped off by my mother, and that’s where we were picked up, yet sometimes, I see us in other places and wonder if we were moved around somehow.
Overwhelmed with emotion, I leave the computer desk and seek comfort in my guitar. After I get situated on my bed, I pluck the strings with my fingertips and sing aloud, something I only do behind closed doors.
“Burning, burning, burning,
My body is in flames.
The fire igniting,
Burning me with rage.
I want the fire out,
Beg the clouds to drench me in rain.
Yet, when I look up,
The sky is fucking tame, no rain in sight.
So the fire keeps on burning,
Blazing, blazing, blazing,
Until it kills me eternally.”
I frown at my words. With everything going on, I need to pick myself up, not drag myself further down into depression.
What I need is Lyric.
Glancing out my widow, I look over at her house. Her bedroom light is off, which means she’s probably downstairs with her parents. I’m curious what her punishment is, but too nervous to text her and ask. Worried she’ll tell me her parents won’t let her see me again.
Sighing, I reach for my journal and turn to a page I’ve been scribbling in for the last week or so. I place my guitar on my lap again, line my fingers with the strings, and open my mouth.
“Lyric, Lyric, Lyric,
Her name pours through my veins.
Her laughter, her smile,
It’s enough to drive me insane.
The way she looks at me,
It doesn’t make sense
Why she would want me.
I don’t understand.
She’s so beautiful, so wild, so full of light.
Every time we touch,
Everything feels right.
Every time we kiss,
My head spins out of control.
I try to hold on, but I eventually fall.
Falling, falling, falling,
I’m falling into her.
Falling so blindingly, so helpless, so willingly.
Please, God, please, let me keep falling.”
I stop strumming the strings as my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I set the guitar aside and check the incoming message.
The second I see her name, I smile.
Lyric: So, I just had a super awkward safe sex talk that lasted over an hour. What about you? Did you get punished?
I rest against the headboard and type a response.
Me: Ethan kind of the did the same thing with me, only his lasted about fifteen seconds. That’s the only punishment you got? Your dad seemed pissed off.
Lyric: He was freaking out, but honestly, it was kind of funny. I think he’s having issues with me growing up or something. My mom was pretty chillax, though. Which I was kind of surprised about. I mean, she’s usually the one doing all the scolding and punishing, but she seemed more worried that we’re being careful.
Me: You told them that wasn’t an issue, right?”
Lyric: Whoops. I knew I was forgetting something.
Me: Please tell me you’re kidding! Your dad’s never going to let me see you again if he thinks that.
Lyric: You should know that I’m kidding. I like my jokes, but I’m not a liar. And FYI, my dad wasn’t upset because he thought I was sleeping with you. He was upset about the concept of his daughter having sex. They both seemed super relieved that it was you I was caught with and put a lot of the blame on me. I think they think I’m a bad influence on you, which might be kind of true. They like you, dude, even if you did get caught feeling their daughter up.
Me: Still, we should probably be a little bit more careful from now on.
Lyric: I’m good with being careful, just as long as there’s going to be a from now on. You seemed freaked out, Shy Boy, and that stuff you said about my parents being disappointed that I was with you . . . It makes me sad that you see yourself like that, that you can’t see how good you are.
Me: I’m sorry I freaked out. What can I do to make it up to you?
Lyric: Hmm . . . Let me think. How about admitting that you’re good enough for me?
Me: I’m being serious. I want to make it up to you.
Lyric: And I’m being serious. I want you to say it.
When I don’t respond right away, another text buzzes through.
Lyric: I’m being serious. Say it or else.
I can’t help myself.
Me: Or else what?
Lyric: Ah, I think I’m being challenged.
A pause then another message comes through.
Lyric: If you don’t tell me that you’re good enough for me, I won’t kiss you for a week.
I chuckle.
Me: Fine. I’m good enough for you. There, are you happy?
Lyric: I’m really happy, actually. Not only did I get you to say it, but now I know how much you love my kisses.
Me: You should have known that already.
Lyric: Maybe I did, but it’s nice to know for sure. I have to go. My mom is making me watch a show with them. God knows what it’s about. Probably a tutorial on how to accurately put a condom on or something.
I shake my head, grinning. Leave it to Lyric to get me to smile even when I’ve had the most depressing night.
When we say goodbye, I put my phone away and spend the next hour working on my homework. By the time I fall asleep, I think I’m feeling better until I sink into a nightmare of the woman with hair that matches her blood red fingernails.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
“Close your eyes and prepare yourself, Ayden.” Fingernails slide across my hands, up my arms, and down my chest, making my gut twist with disgust. “I’m going to break you apart and make you bleed.”
IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT, WHICH MEANS concert time for my band, Alyric Bliss. Well, concert might be a stretch. Basically, we have a gig at Infini
te Bliss, my father’s club, opening for another band. We play five songs total, and my dad is making us sing our own stuff in order to prep us for when we record.
“You look nervous.” Sage, the drummer of our band, remarks. With his blue hair, multiple piercings and tattoos, and edgy clothing, Sage looks the part. “I thought you’d be over your stage fright by now.”
“I am over it.” When I peer out at the packed room, my body contradicts my words as a thousand butterflies on crack start to flutter inside my stomach.
“You pointing it out isn’t helping, so stop being a dick,” Nolan, our bassist, tells Sage while twisting the knobs of the bass he’s holding. Nolan is a little less grunge and more boy band-ish: spikey blond hair and blue eyes with these crazy full lips that don’t seem like they should belong to a guy. But he plays a sick guitar solo, so he’s cool in my book.
Sage tosses a drumstick in the air then catches it like a baseball. “I’m not being a dick. I’m just stating the obvious—that she looks nervous for it being our seventh performance.” I scowl at Sage, and he raises his inked hands in front of him. “Sorry, I’ll stop saying it.”
“Thank you.” I peer back at the floor, and my stomach drops again.
Even though I won’t admit it aloud, Sage is right. It seems like I should be over my stage fright by now, yet before every performance, I feel as jittery as I do when I drink too much coffee.
“And where the hell is Ayden?” Sage says from behind me. “He should have been here by now.”
“He’ll be here,” I assure him. Still feeling a little concerned myself, I decide to text him.
Me: We’re on in like 40. You’re on your way, right?
When he doesn’t reply right away, I start to get all twitchy. With the Soulless Mileas out there constantly tormenting him, it’s hard to remain calm whenever he goes MIA.
After five minutes drag by, I squeeze through the mob of intoxicated people to get to the bathroom and check my appearance. I’m not really a makeup girl, but I reapply the kohl liner around my bright green eyes and dab on some lip gloss. Then I comb my fingers through my long, blonde hair, smooth my hands over my black shirt and plaid skirt, and tighten the laces on my red boots. The last thing I ever want to happen is tripping over my shoelaces.
After I’m done, I push out the door and head back to the stage. As I’m passing the bar, I notice a woman staring at me. She’s very model-esque: long legs, flowing blonde hair, and bright blue eyes.
Unraveling You Series: The Complete Set Page 36
