He shakes his head and swallows hard.
“I don’t know what it was like for you all those years ago, and I don’t know what it’s like now, Carter. You know why? Because you won’t fucking talk about it.”
He chuckles, but it’s not a sincere laugh, it’s drenched in bitterness.
“You were taken. For two fucking years we wondered, every goddamn day, if we’d ever see you again. I’m not comparing our pain to yours, but we were little kids. Nobody ever asked if we were okay. Mom was so consumed with guilt, I don’t think she ever even considered what Knox and I were going through.”
He’s quiet for several long minutes before continuing.
“You didn’t speak for six years. All you did was scream and cry, telling us you were in pain, but there were no words. Nothing to tell us how to help you through it. Then six years later, you open your mouth to speak, but only the most random fucking words. Still not telling us what you needed. Do you remember what you said to me when I asked if you still thought about what he did to you?”
I take another drink, and swallow, welcoming the burn in my throat before responding to Killian.
“A car is stolen every forty-two seconds. fifty-six percent are recovered because people are stupid. If you are going to steal a car, the smart thing would be to dismantle it and sell the parts. No serial numbers means it's much harder to track.”
He looks at me, much like he did the day I said those words to him, his eyes full of confusion.
“I rehearsed that every night for a month before I said those words to you. It was terrifying to speak out loud.”
Even when I started talking again, I couldn’t have normal conversations. I spoke in facts, mostly information everyone thought was useless.
“All of you thought that, with time, my aversion to touch would be like talking was. When I was ready, it’d happen. It hasn’t. Why can’t I get past this?”
I ask myself constantly why I didn’t die, when I know I should have. Three years old—a fucking toddler. I was barely potty-trained and endured two years of literal hell. The fact that I did, but still cannot function normally, makes me fucking crazy.
I know my brothers want to help me, both of them, but they can’t. I’m not avoiding talking about it to be an asshole. Talking means reliving, and I cannot fucking handle it.
“Why can’t I get past it?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
KILLIAN
Watching my brother break is fucking hard. I don’t have an answer to his question. I wish I did.
“I don’t know.”
Knox comes into the room, glancing at me and then Carter, assessing the mood in the room.
“Are you okay?” He asks, and that simple question causes Carter to unravel further.
“No. I’m not fucking okay.”
Knox closes the door behind him, but doesn’t move closer. We have both learned when Carter is like this he needs more space. If we crowd him, he will shut down and bolt.
Carter places his hands on the dresser, hanging his head down, looking absolutely defeated.
“It’s been twenty-one goddamn years. Two fucking decades. And I’m still a mess. The pain doesn’t stop. It won’t ever stop.”
Carter falls to his knees with a loud sob.
“Why won’t it fucking stop?”
He rubs his hands through his hair, grabbing the strands, and pulling hard. This is something he did after he got out of the hospital. He isn’t healing, but regressing.
I say what I know he won’t want to hear, but it needs to be said.
“This girl is not good for you, Carter. She’s got your emotions raw, and it’s just not a good thing for you. She’s only going to set you back.”
