Snaking my keys off the kitchen table, I head to the front door and throw it open.
Ten minutes later, in a pair of sleeping shorts, a thin cami, and no shoes covering my feet, I navigate my way through the cemetery. The sun is rising just above the horizon, providing me the light I need to find my destination.
I find his headstone in a matter of minutes, the freshly dug soil darkened as it lines his grave. I glance down at the bottle still clenched in my hand, grinding my teeth before I unscrew the top and tip it upward, the smell alone causing my mouth to clamp and my face to pinch tightly. As soon as it hits my throat, my body rejects it, vomiting it onto the ground. It leeches into the unearthed soil, as though trying to find its way to the body underneath where it belongs.
“There you go, you sick motherfucker!” I scream at the ground. “You like that?”
I raise the bottle again and try to force the liquid down my throat, attempting to punish myself for what I’ve become. This pitiful creature who allows the fear of a dead man to rule her life. But again, it’s immediately spewed and seeps into the ground. I shake my head and relent, pouring some more onto the grave while focusing my attention instead on the corpse within it.
“I fucking hate you,” I cry through clenched teeth. My tortured throat closes, but I force my voice through its constriction. “Why?” A cry breaks free. “Why me, Uncle Alan? What did I do to deserve what you did to me? I was such a happy little girl. A strong and fierce child, who knew nothing about the horrors that existed in the world. I was innocent and naïve. I was brave. I was . . . happy . . .”
The word steals my breath.
I was happy. I loved my parents. I loved life. The world was mine to be had. I could have been anything I wanted to be. Anything I wanted to do, I knew I could have done it.
“But you stole my happiness.” Another sob. “You stole it and I want it back!”
I drop the bottle and fall to the ground, exhausted. “I’m so tired of hating myself for what you did to me. I’m so tired of feeling empty inside. I’m so tired of being ashamed. I’m so tired. So tired, Uncle Alan. Why can’t you just leave me alone? Please . . .”
I rise to my knees and fold my hands, crying, pleading. “Please just leave me alone. I paid the price for your sins. I lived with the consequences of your actions. I kept your secrets. I was a good girl.”
I press my trembling lips to my knitted fingers, tears overflowing as I mutter, “Please, please, please . . . just leave me alone and let me have my happiness.”
I don’t know what I expect to happen. I don’t know if I expect the tremendous weight of the burden carried to be lifted in this pleading moment, or if I expect the clouds to miraculously part and allow a ray of sun to shine down, filling my empty soul with peace and comfort, or if I expect happiness to suddenly rain down upon me, soothing the open wounds exposed by this conversation. But none of that happens.
There is no ray of sunshine. I’ll forever be in darkness.
There is no peace and comfort. I’ll forever be empty.
There is no happiness. I’ll forever know sadness.
In the end, there is just silence.
Just as I was silent for him, his silence seals my fate among the shadows.
Reaching to the side, I grip the bottle and throw it as hard as I can against the granite headstone. The bottle explodes upon impact, the amber liquid coating the surface as it trails to where it belongs. With him. Fucking with him.
“I hope you rot in hell.”
I wipe my swollen eyes and rise to my feet, frigid and deadened from the cold dew lining the grass. The sensation rises and spreads through my body.
I feel absolutely nothing as I turn and walk away.
Just empty.
Always empty.
I DON’T BOTHER GOING back to my parents’ house after that.
I continue right on past, driving for a long while before finally arriving at my apartment. I’m chilled to the bone as I trudge to the front door. My shorts are still damp from sitting on the ground and my toes still reddened as they continue to thaw.
The apartment is as I left it: a blanket haphazardly thrown over the back of the couch and my cereal bowl still on the kitchen counter. Both of which tell me Spencer has not been home since my departure, or if she has, she didn’t stay long.
I trek sluggishly across the living room, nudging my bedroom door open with the tips of my fingers. As it swings open, my eyes land on a pair of navy-blue irises staring right back at me.
I don’t even experience a jolt of surprise seeing Grady sitting on my bed, waiting patiently with his elbows on his knees, hands interlaced and dangling toward the floor. Not a shed of remorse passes through my heart at the sight of his tightened expression, brows furrowed and channels of worry etched into his forehead.
I feel absolutely nothing.
I’m just . . . empty. Void of emotion. Deflated and exhausted.
“Where have you been?” Grady’s tone is clipped, his voice firm.
I disengage from his confronting stare and enter the room fully with no answer. I head to the dresser, pulling out a pair of yoga pants, a pullover, and a pair of socks. The sight of his sister’s borrowed clothes catches my eye, washed and folded for their safekeeping. I grab them and set them on top of the wooden surface, my fingers gently brushing along the fabrics in apology for ever wearing them.
My back remains to Grady and when I refuse to meet the scrutiny of his stare or answer his question, he clears his throat, demanding to be heard. I turn, my gaze rising from the floor to narrow on his face, but still say nothing. His demeanor changes with my continued silence. His features harden and the anger in his voice surpasses his attempt to restrain it. “Family emergency, was it?”
When I shrug my answer, his fury spikes. “Emergency enough you couldn’t be bothered to answer my calls, or to provide something as simple as common fucking courtesy by letting me know you were okay?”
I hold his stare, finally relenting when I respond, “I was at my parents’ house.”
His eyes rake over me, then he inquires, “No bag?”
“It was a quick visit.” My tone is hollow.
“Two days is not a quick visit, Cassie. Your bag?” he repeats, his patience steadily declining.
“Left everything.” My shoulders lift again. “Just needed to come home.”
Grady angles his head, brows lifted. “Want to talk about it?”
“No. I don’t. I want you to leave because I’m too fucking exhausted to discuss anything right now.”
His head bobs up and down and his mouth curves toward the floor, considering my answer before he goes dangerously still, his eyes piercing right through me. He holds my stare as he rises off my bed and with deliberate, calculated steps, makes his way to where I stand. “You were never there with me, were ya, Cass?”
Absolutely no humor is in his expression when he laughs and shakes his head. “You lied. Plain and simple.”
It’s my turn to laugh. My returning stare tightens on the condescending grin still present on his face.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Well, you lied too.”
Grady’s smile disappears as his neck jerks backward. “What? I never lied to you.”
I swallow the rapidly escalating emotion. “You promised to never let me fall, Grady.”
My hand forms into a fist and I pound it once against my chest. “Well, I’m fucking falling. I’m falling so fast, so out of control, I don’t even know which way is right side up anymore.”
I lean into him and whisper, my anger finally provoked and rising to the surface. “I tried to be there with you, Grady, but the place where you reside is unattainable for someone like me. I foolishly tried to reach you though. I climbed and climbed and climbed, only to become too high, too unsteady, when I allowed myself to believe what you saw in me. I lost my balance because I trusted you. I believed you, I reached for you, and you let me fall.”
His eyes grow wild, blazing back at
me as he slams his open palm against my dresser. “Because you’re giving me no choice! No other option! You’ve completely shut me out and now, you’re so fucking holed up in that head of yours, there’s no way I can reach you. You’re too far gone.”
His heavy breaths are all I hear as he tries to gather his composure. He breaks his stare, forcing it to the carpet and inhales deeply. Once his breathing has returned to normal, he looks back at me, the pain in his expression . . .”I love you, Cass. I do. But I can’t love you enough for the both of us. I don’t understand why you feel as though being there with me is so impossible for you. For the life of me, I will never be able to comprehend how or why you devalue yourself so much.”
I try to look away, but he lifts his hand to my face, gently pinching my chin and forcing my attention to remain solely on him. “And it kills me to have to say this, but you’re right. You’re forcing me to break that promise, because now I have to let you keep falling, sweetheart. It’s the only way for you to learn how to right yourself.”
His throat works a deep swallow. “But so help me, I do intend on keeping another very important promise I made. I will guide you to safety. Help you land. Because, Cass, you may be falling, but remember, it’s the landing that counts. And when you land, I need you to land strong. Safe. This is me ensuring that promise is kept.”
With his other hand, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a business card. He flashes it in front of my face, and I jerk my chin out of his hold before taking it from him.
I read the inscription and scoff. “A fucking shrink?”
“A friend,” he counters. Then he adds, “You won’t let me in, you don’t want to talk to me, fine. But when you reach that point, when you’ve had enough, you call her. She will help you land safe when you’re tired of the free fall. And more importantly, she will help you get you where you need to be. Whether or not that’s with me doesn’t matter now.”
His words pierce the numbness, and just when I thought I couldn’t hurt any more, my heart is sliced wide open. I choke back the tears and clench his sister’s clothes in my hand, forcing them into his chest. Venom erupts from within me, the taste so bitter, it turns my stomach as soon it’s spit from my mouth.
“I’m broken, Grady. I tried to explain this to you. There’s no reason, I just am. So if you’re looking for a cause, or some sort of vindication to right the wrongs that occur in this life, look somewhere else. I’m not your sister, I’m not your purpose, and I sure as hell don’t need your help.”
Tears fill my eyes and my chin quivers. His expression is impassive. He simply shakes his head, disappointment tinged in his low register when he finally speaks. “That one just might have been a lethal strike, sweetheart.”
Up until now, Grady hasn’t ever raised his voice in anger toward me. In fact, quite the opposite. He has been exceedingly patient with me.
That one just might have been a lethal strike.
Can’t blame him though. I don’t have the energy to care right now anyway.
With his sister’s garments cradled against his chest, he turns away from me and leaves my room, closing the door quietly behind him. Tears find their release, seeping out the corners of my eyes. My arms wrap around my mid-section, searching for some source of warmth. To try to find some sort of comfort as I watch the only man I’ve ever truly loved walk right out of my life.
I breathe in a deep breath, trying to convince myself that it’s for the best.
I’m poison.
I have nothing to offer him, not anymore.
Not that I ever did, really.
He simply deserves, whereas I do not.
I keep repeating the words, encouraging them to solidify in effort to stop the bleeding of my shattered heart. But no matter how many times I say them, it doesn’t work.
The pain is still very much present when I crawl into bed an hour later. I pull my comforter over my head, and only then do I release my desolation. Tears drench the sheets and my muffled wails are securely released into the pillows. I scream until I have no voice left. I cry until there are no tears remaining. And only then, worn to the point of complete exhaustion, do I find sleep.
When I wake and am staring at my blinds, I wish the sun could encompass me and give me some sort of warmth. It’s so cold here.
You don’t deserve warmth, Cassie.
You’re trapped here forever, with us.
Get used to the cold, little girl.
You’re not going anywhere.
Eventually I roll over. My overnight bag and purse are directly in front of me, safe and secure. Did Grady extract them from my parents’ house? Why would he bother?
Why would he bother? Because he is kind. He is so many things. Deliciously cooked breakfasts. Thoughtful. Warm arms wrapped around me when I felt sad or had an awful client. Kind. Sharing his memories of his sister with me. Funny. Taking me to my favorite ice cream shop just because. Generous. Teaching me self-defense tirelessly. Selfless.
Why would he bother? Because he is Grady Bennett. And now he’s gone.
My mouth pinches in thought as I eye the bag with wariness.
Perched on top are two things.
One is a note written in Grady’s unmistakeable scrawl, that reads only two words: Land strong.
The other item is a little more vague. It’s a green, plastic paratrooper with a string looped through the holes in the shoulders, binding him to a white vinyl parachute as it hangs open from his back.
Another wave of agony pours through me at this kind gesture, especially after having spoken to him the way I did, but I don’t cry. I’m officially wrung dry.
I slide out of bed and onto the floor in front of the figurine. Crossing my legs in front of me, I pinch it between my fingers, instantly recalling the feel from when I was a little girl. I had a ton of these guys.
“I shall name you Roger, roger?”
I snicker, feeling a bit absurd quoting Airplane movie lines and joking at a time when everything around me has gone to absolute shit.
Chalking it up to delirium, I give it a whirl and fling Roger high into the air. I watch as he glides slowly downward, eventually landing himself within the safety of my lap. I do it again, and again, and again.
Each toss is different, some much harsher than the others. I do this for what seems like hours because all of a sudden, I’m obsessed with forcing poor Roger into a crash landing.
But no matter how hard I throw him, no matter the angle or the velocity, the bastard will not crash. He catches air every single time, hovering down gently and landing on my floor unscathed.
It would take me months to be in the right frame of mind to accept what Grady was telling me with Roger.
But once I finally understood, I would never forget it.
IT’S BEEN SIX WEEKS since Grady walked out of my apartment. Six weeks of Roger sitting on my bedside table, judging me with his plastic, beady little eyes. Six weeks since I began my fall, and six weeks that I’ve continued to plummet into absolute nothingness.
I tried to escape it, in the beginning. I spent the first three weeks getting obliterated with old friends, trying to numb the constant ache in my chest, but the gaping hole refused to be sealed with the familiar aid of alcohol. I tried to pretend, to smile when Spencer would pop into the apartment, sharing news about Dalton’s recovery, excitedly chattering about how rapidly he was healing, overjoyed and smiling from ear to ear when he finally took his first step. I tried to move on, as though I wasn’t completely enveloped in darkness, but each step forward was nothing more than me blindly trying to find my way back to where I used to be.
But even the low place where I used to stand is unreachable for me now. It’s too far above me, the ground on which I took those steps no longer. There is only the blackened blur of where it used to remain as I continue falling with no new ground in sight.
I thought I was broken before, but I had no idea what broken really was.
I do now.
Fo
r the past three weeks, I’ve done nothing but go to work, come home, cover my head with my comforter, and sleep for hours on end. I’ve distanced myself from Spencer, often explaining to her that I don’t feel well when she pokes her head in my room. I refuse to talk when she stubbornly sits on my bed, and I cannot even seem to gather the strength necessary to provide a fake laugh when she pulls the covers off me and does something Spencer-like, slapping my ass or trying to stick her finger in my ear and/or nose.
I’m just too tired to do anything anymore.
My bones ache and my skin hurts as the reality of being truly alone and shattered sets in, pulverizing me from the inside out. It’s so draining being here, endlessly drifting through the coldness of oblivion.
My thoughts wander, and memories of my early youth somehow manage to seep into my mind. Arm in arm with Spencer as we visited the zoo with Mrs. Locke, laughing so hard we cried when that stupid bird pooped in my hair. Giggling while playing tag in my front yard, with Spencer calling me out every time I cheated by changing the location of the base.
Everything was so simple then. Before Uncle Alan.
“I was . . . happy . . .”
The words I spoke at Uncle Alan’s graveside circle my mind as I lie in bed.
Happy.
God, I was happy.
Grady’s soothing tone enters my mind, and with it, a jolt of surprise. It seeps through me, a salve of relief from the constant ache.
“Are you going to let your fears reign over you, allow them to keep you from really living? Or are you going to dig deep, face them head-on, and fight for yourself to have a better life? A happier one? The one you deserve.”
I do want to be happy again.
I want to feel warmth.
I want to smile.
I want to laugh.
I want to love.
He speaks again, stronger this time. “The choice is yours.”
It’s not that simple, I argue internally.
“The choice is yours.”
Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) Page 20
