I clear a path, then whisk it out of the cabinet, feeling my parents’ disapproving eyes follow me as I make my exit. Now equipped with my weapon of choice, I fling open my door and enter my room, fear controlled.
My bag hits the floor and I grip the bottle with both hands, unsealing the it and popping the rounded cork free from its neck. Lifting it to my mouth, I take a long draw and attempt to avoid the urge to throw it back up.
I force the contents into my stomach and close my eyes, allowing the soothing burn to work its way into my system. With the bottle still gripped tightly in my hand, I toss the cork into the trashcan on my way to closing my door as I seal myself inside my own tomb.
Landing on my bed, I reach for the remote and turn on my TV for distraction. I don’t really pay attention to what’s on, but the noise is nice. It lulls me with each draw I take from the bottle. On my third drink, my phone rings and I decline Grady’s call. Then take a shot.
Another half hour, it rings again. Decline and shot.
Again after another hour. Decline and shot.
I can no longer feel my face when it rings again. I giggle and hiccup, very much enthralled with my new game, then down another one.
It rings again, and I laugh. And I keep laughing.
I laugh.
And laugh.
And laugh.
I laugh until tears stream down my face. But they’re no longer tears from the onslaught of drunken laughter, they’re tears coming from within my anguished soul. It weeps uncontrollably, sobbing so violently, its wails tear wildly through my mind. Crying out for the little girl held hostage, demanding her freedom. Screaming helplessly, frantically, as it searches for a way to release her from the restraints that bind her here. Raging against the chains when he approaches, his dampened skin brushing along hers as he tightens her shackles, refusing to let her go. Yowling in defeat as he walks away, leaving her alone in this darkened room that is my mind.
I’m alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Hours later, just as I lay my head on my pillow while my world continues to spin with my fall, my phone rings again.
Grady.
I feel absolutely nothing as I reach for it.
I simply turn it off.
“YOU’RE DRUNK.” MY MOTHER leans against the wall of my bathroom, crossing her arms over her chest, her eyes scrutinizing my every move in the mirror. As always, she’s impeccably dressed. A black pencil skirt hits her knees and the matching blazer is buttoned at her waist, laced with the collar of a dark grey button-up as it peeks out from the top.
“And you’re perceptive,” I fire back, sarcasm weaved masterfully through my tone.
I woke up inebriated, and I sure as hell plan on staying that way through this ordeal. I press one of my palms flat on the counter, using it for balance while trying to line my eyes with the other hand. Once through, I step away, assessing my appearance.
Not bad. All things considered, I guess.
My long brown hair is wound into a tight bun at the base of my neck, because there is no way I trust myself with a curling iron right now. The whites of my eyes are no longer white, but reddened by the expanse of the vessels lining them, and with the exception of the alcohol-infused blood lining the tops of my cheeks, my skin is pallid and grossly pale. My hands tremble as I smooth the front of my red dress—tight and short—against the upper part of my thighs. Five-inch, straight-up hooker heels complete the look.
My mother shifts her stance, bringing my attention back to her. She holds my gaze, then breaks away to rake over my dress. “What you’re wearing is completely inappropriate, Cassie.”
I laugh, my words slurred. “Appropriateness is a matter of opinion, Mother. And I happen to find this dress extremely appropriate to attend Uncle Alan’s funeral. I mean,” more self-induced laughter, “no one knew him like I did, and trust me when I say, I know without a doubt, he would have loved this dress.”
My eyes bore into hers, and I watch as she swallows deeply, her voice affected as she states, “We leave in thirty.”
“My own designated drivers. Everyone should be so lucky.”
I throw her a condescending smile, which she rebounds with a familiar glare, then finally turns to leave.
Leaning down, I grab the near-empty bottle of Patron I stashed in the cabinet below and take a swig. Its warmth pricks my throat, and I revel in the feeling before placing it safely behind the doors.
As soon as I hit the living room, tension and unspoken irritation radiates from both my parents. Lucky for me, I don’t feel either as I breeze through to the kitchen.
Just as I’m finishing a reheated slice of pizza, my father announces, “It’s time. Let’s go.”
We pile into their car, my mother rambling incessantly about something I couldn’t care less about and my father replying with his typical courteous nods and gestures. I tune them out as usual, focusing on the blur of terrain as it passes by on the way to the church.
As soon as we arrive and park, anxiety rears its ugly head through my drunken haze. From behind the safety of the window, my eyes stubbornly lock on to the front door of the church. I vaguely recognize some family members, a herd of black as I watch them enter. My teeth find my bottom lip, nibbling nervously, and I force myself to take in a breath before reaching for the handle.
My parents don’t even bother to wait for me. Without a word, they link arms and stride into the church, leaving me alone to face the devil himself. I shouldn’t be surprised really. But yet, somewhere, I’m sure a part of me hurts with the ease of their dismissal.
For years, I longed for them to know. To care. To listen.
To fucking pay attention.
Instead, they dismissed.
Ignored.
Turned away.
As I pull the handle to the door, it registers from the quick flashing lights that my dad didn’t neglect to lock his car though.
Neglect me? Yes.
His car? No.
Fucking typical.
My steadiness teeters on the heels of my shoes as I exit, the trembling of my legs not really helping with my balance. A long breath passes in and out of my lungs, and I close my eyes, my lips quivering as I arch my neck toward the sky. Warm tears leak into the sides of my hair, and I continue my deep breathing, trying to garner the courage necessary to take the first step. After another couple of breaths, my burning eyes open, and I lift my hands to clear the moisture from my temples before lowering my stare. Shakily, I force my legs to obey, finally taking the first of many difficult strides until finally reaching the front of the church.
The wooden doors are closed and I extend my arms, pressing my palms against their grain and leaning forward. All my weight shifts onto their sturdiness, and my trembling muscles breathe a sigh of relief with the reprieve. After a couple minutes alone, escalating voices from behind alert me to another influx of people. Saddened, I lean away from the temporary quiet provided by the wood and hook my fingers around the metal handle of the door. I pull it open.
It takes a couple seconds for my eyes to adjust. As I begin to make my way down the center aisle, harsh whispers filter in and out of my ears, my choice of apparel most likely the main topic of discussion. I don’t bother to meet their eyes. My stare remains bound to the black casket on display at the front of the sanctuary. Fear spikes my blood, sending a wave of anxiety through my body as I continue the long trek. My parents are seated in the second pew, and with my eyes remaining on the casket, I continue my strides until I land myself right next to them. They shift over, making room for me to sit. Reluctantly.
As soon as my ass hits the pew, I open the stylish clutch brought not for its appearance, but for its concealment. The silver flask is cold against the pads of my fingers as they take hold and extract the container, bringing it into the view of my parents.
“Cassie!” my mother snarls.
My shoulders lift into an indifferent shrug, then I unscrew the t
op and tilt it upward, the clear liquid hitting my throat as I swallow. Just as I lower the flask, my eyes land on the minister, taking his place behind the pulpit as people begin to find their seats. His warning stare lands on me and he offers a slight shake of his head.
An audible snort passes through my nose, and I lift the flask for an even longer draw before finally screwing the top back on and sliding it back into my clutch. Once it has disappeared, the minister clears his throat and begins the service.
The tequila works its magic, numbing me further as his voice carries through the sanctuary, endlessly droning on and on and on about Alan Cooper and all of his endearing qualities. Unable to hide my disgust, I offer my own commentary as he speaks, earning me several annoyed glares from the people surrounding me, including my parents.
“Alan Cooper was a man of great character.”
“Riiiiight.”
“He will always be remembered.”
“No matter how hard we try to forget.”
“Always a wanderer, Alan has finally found his place with the Lord.”
“Or Satan. But hey, at least he finally found his place.”
By the time the service is over, my flask is empty and I’m wiping tears of repressed laughter from my eyes. I’m so beyond caring what anyone thinks at this point.
Fuck them.
And fuck him.
Our entire row stands, and I’m last in line as we shuffle our way into the aisle for Uncle Alan’s final viewing. All humor is lost when I finally step out from behind the safety of the pew. I stand painfully patient, watching the line of people in front of me slowly decreasing in length. My entire body begins to shake uncontrollably as my distance to him grows closer with each person concluding their goodbye.
When only my mother remains, her body the only barrier between the casket and me, my heart is thudding so hard, it threatens to rip apart my ribcage with each beat. I clench my hands into fists, my nails digging into my skin, as I try to control their trembling. My throat swells when my mother disappears, and my steps are wobbly with my slow approach to the side of the casket.
I focus on the shiny black surface, promising myself I won’t look. But my traitorous eyes have a mind of their own. They disobey my orders, breaking from the slick surface and sliding over the top. I try to draw them away, but they’re on a mission and force their way to his prone body, dressed in a black suit, his hands resting at his sides.
Clammy hands.
My mouth pinches with disgust as I fight the urge to wipe their touch from my skin. I swallow back the bile rising in my throat with the vivid recollection. My throat burns, and I tell myself that the burning is what brings tears to my eyes as they continue onward. Once they land on his face, the horror of my memories assault me, relentless as they strike my mind over and over again.
His dark hair flopping over his eyes as he leans over me.
His eyes half-lidded, heavy with desire.
His mouth parted, releasing erratic, heavy breaths.
A cold torrent of absolute terror floods me. Fear my mind somehow managed to temporarily disallow roars to life and seizes my body. I gasp out loud, unable to control my reaction. Both trembling hands fly upward to cover my mouth. The clutch looped safely around my wrist bounces off my chest as I stare, my eyes glued to his face. Tears run in a continuous stream down my cheeks, their suppression impossible. My feet are cemented to the floor as I stare, completely comatose with the insistent memories looping over and over, bringing fresh waves of anguish with each repetition.
My stifled sobs as I tried to remain quiet.
His cold, clammy hands all over me. Touching me.
The sated smile when he was through.
And the isolation that swallowed me every single time he left my room.
I have no idea how long I remain. It’s not until the person behind me clears their throat that my trance is broken and I’m finally able to tear my eyes away from Uncle Alan. Driving them to the carpeted floor beneath my feet, I step away and dazedly make my way back to the pew.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot contain my tears.
Cold emptiness fills me while blackness hollows my mind.
To others it may look as though I’m merely mourning the loss of a loved one.
And maybe that’s the case.
Because as my mind goes blank, worn to the point of complete exhaustion as it shuts down, I find myself so lost, I wouldn’t even begin to know where to look to find myself.
Not that I will be looking.
I’m no longer afraid to be trapped here.
Because here—in the darkness—I don’t have to pretend.
There is no pain, no fear.
There is only comfort.
So here I plan to stay, as long as it will house me.
Even if it’s for all eternity.
I SOMEHOW MANAGE TO stay awake through the influx of family that gathers at our house after we lay Uncle Alan to rest. I ignore the openly aghast stares and accusatory glares, as though I should be of sound mind and body to help my father through this difficult time.
Right.
So I continue my binge, content in my numbness, thankful for the blur of vaguely familiar faces. My father’s liquor cabinet is pretty decimated by dinnertime, the only traces of alcohol remaining a bottle of Scotch and a liter of vodka, which I totally would have downed as well, could I stomach either.
The thing about being completely wasted for hours on end is that sleep is inevitable. I fight it as long as I can but it eventually overpowers me.
I trudge to my room with weighty legs and even heavier lids, my cumbersome body uncooperative as I attempt to guide myself to bed. As soon as I hit the side, exhaustion claims me. My strength wanes, my body succumbs, and my eyes seal shut before my head even hits the pillow.
What’s also inevitable is the fact that I have no control over my dreams. I can successfully numb the pain and tame the fear while awake, but in sleep, it’s open season for my nightmares.
One after another they find me: the image of Uncle Alan’s face, the feel of his trembling hands on my body, the sound of my stifled sobs as they echo around my darkened room. My eyes remain sealed shut, locking me inside my terror-filled dreams with no available escape. For hours, his menacing whispers invade my mind. Only when the feel of his touch along my skin becomes painfully distinctive am I able to break free. As it travels along my inner thigh, I cry out, startling myself awake.
And as I enter my realm of consciousness, I am no longer a twenty-three-year-old woman, but a terrified eight-year-old little girl. My hands are curled into my sheets, fisting them tightly as they tremble uncontrollably, and the familiar scent of fresh urine assaults my nostrils.
“God,” I sob into the air. “Why? Why me?”
My throat is constricted with such agony; I can barely breathe. Sorrow and shame blanket me as I continue trying to catch my breath between cries. I begin to quake underneath the sheets cooling rapidly against my skin. I throw off my comforter and another sob wracks my entire body when the stench wafts through the air.
Quietly, I set my feet on the ground then scurry to the dresser, my fingers working frantically as they search for dry clothing. I pull out a pair of recently unpacked shorts and a shirt, peel the drenched dress from my body, and tug on its replacements before turning and yanking the sheets off my bed.
Gathering them against my chest, tears leak from my eyes as I exit my room, crossing the now soundless house as quietly and quickly as I can. In the dark, my fingers find the knob to the door leading to the basement, and I inhale my courage before opening it and stepping onto the first step.
One.
Two.
Three.
I count each one silently to fill my mind, and once at the bottom, I race to the washer and throw the sheets in with a cup of detergent. Lowering the lid, I turn, repeating the counting sequence with each upward step, then make a mad dash to the bathroom. Stripping the shorts and shirt from
my body, I step out of them and place a clean towel on the side of the bathtub’s cold porcelain before taking a seat. I lean, turning the water and running my fingers underneath the stream until it’s warm.
As soon as it hits the right level, I turn it off and step in, sliding my legs just under the surface of the water. Reaching for the bar of soap, I scrub furiously. My nails scrape the skin of my stomach, my chest, my arms, my thighs—everywhere the disgust of his touch remains—shame-filled tears running along my cheeks the entire time.
I hate this.
I hate him.
I hate this.
Hate.
Hate.
Hate.
The water cools quickly and goosebumps line my reddened skin when I finally stand. Grabbing the towel, I wrap it carefully around my sensitive body before opening the door. Making my escape into the hallway, the balls of my feet are quiet as I pad back to my room.
The window catches my eye and I tiptoe over, seeking the solace of Spencer’s light across the street. Only then does my mind snap back to the present.
Darkness.
No light.
Of course she’s not there.
I’m alone.
In the darkness.
She’s on her new path now.
Content and happy.
In the light.
And I’m alone.
Achingly alone.
In the darkness.
I shake my head, exhausted and defeated.
The dulling sensation of alcohol in my blood has long since been absorbed during my sleep. With no barrier to protect me, pain and humiliation have been allowed free rein, of which they take full advantage with their continuous slaps to my face.
I’m twenty-three years old and I just fucking pissed my own bed.
Mortification squeezes my chest as I dress myself. I glance over my shoulder in the direction of the living room, anger rising as it overshadows embarrassment.
Fuck.
You.
No longer caring to hide being awake, I stomp my bare feet out of my bedroom and follow the trail to my father’s cabinet. Flinging the door open, I grab the bottle of Scotch, fisting it so tightly I’m surprised the glass doesn’t fracture in my hand.
Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) Page 19
