“Through thick and thin, health and sickness …” Did she understand what she agreed to when she said: “I do?” If she didn’t, it was my fault for not being more transparent. Then again, I thought I could hide the reality of what lives inside of me, from Melody and Parker. I had locked it away for so long, I convinced myself that part of me was gone forever .
A murderer. A killer.
I’ve let her down—the woman I love, the stepmother to my adopted daughter, and I’ve let Parker down too because I am a monster. Some kind of perfect monster.
I told myself it wouldn’t happen, and that I wasn’t like the others going through endless battles of unhinged thoughts and feelings. I was sure I had more control.
But here we are. Facing the truth, one I’ve chosen to turn a blind eye to.
My knees are bouncing, and my fingers are tapping against my thighs. I am trying my best to sit still in this family-style restaurant. Parker is staring at me like I’ve gone mad, and Melody—her eyebrows furrow as she reaches across the table, nudging the salt and pepper to the side. “Give me your hands,” she says.
I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I say, feeling a twitch in my left eye.
“Brett, what is going on?”
I notice Parker’s gaze falls to her lap. She knows. She’s only seen it a few times, but she knows. I hate that she knows.
We’ve been together, Melody and me, for two years—married for six months. We’re still in our honeymoon phase.
I’m not looking at Melody. I’m staring over her shoulder as she continues to reach for my shaking hands hidden beneath the table.
Melody retracts her reach and pulls her phone out of her purse, handing it to Parker. “Here, sweetie, why don’t you find a game to play while I talk to Dad for a minute.”
Parker doesn’t say anything. She takes Melody’s phone and thumbs in her password to find Candy Crush, her favorite game.
Melody stands up and sits next to me on my side of the booth, locking me in the middle between her and Parker.
She grabs my hands and notices they are covered in sweat.
“What’s wrong, baby?” she asks through a whisper.
“Can you go back to your seat?” I ask, trying to remain calm.
Melody seems to recoil at my words like I hurt her. “Why?”
“Please.”
She stands up from the booth and returns to her seat. “You’re scaring me,” she says, leaning over the table, trying to keep her words soft, so no one else hears.
I want to tell her, but I would never want to subject her to the horrors in my mind at the moment.
Melody notices I’m not looking at her and turns around to see what or who I’m staring at, but she wouldn’t know because I don’t talk about the things that scare me. She scans the area and returns her focus to my face. “Should we leave?” she asks. “We can get our food to go and eat at home.”
“No, you wanted to go out tonight,” I remind her. I realize I sound as if I’m blaming the unknown situation on her, but she just seems more confused rather than hurt by what I didn’t mean to say.
“Look at me,” Melody says, her words more forceful than before. “Brett Pearson.”
I close my eyes.
I see him.
He’s two feet away, standing above my tired body, and it’s dark.
I can’t make out much of his figure, but I see the red and white shemagh scarf with only the whites of his eyes staring down at me.
He’s carrying a tactical knife in one hand and has an AK-47 draped over his shoulder. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I recognize him as one of our translators.
But he wants to fight. He wants to kill.
