Hey, I guess it’s fitting then. He didn’t have to deal with me after fifteen. I should act as childish as possible now to get back at him.
“My son, comrades,” Dad sucks his teeth, shaking his head and puffing a drag from his cigarette. “I will not give up until we talk about this.”
“Whatever,” I grumble, scowling at the guy with the cuffs and shackles. “Let’s get this over with.”
The last thing I see is my father attempting to conveyconsiderationfor my well-being that’s too little, too damn late, before a bag is shoved over my head.
Now…
The fact that there’s an active war zone just outside isn’t bothering me anywhere near as much as it should.
I used to get shot at all the time when I was robbing banks. Bullets flying was almost a guarantee. The most complicated part for me was trying not to let the fear and adrenaline make my dick hard untilafterI escaped with my bags of cash.
At the moment, I’m much more consumed by the knowledge that my father is somewhere on this island right now. And I just don’t want to deal with him showing up here again, bothering me with hisJohnny-come-latelyparental concern.
Not only that, but I’m having these bizarre as fuck feelings of deja freaking vu all of a sudden. It started when that kid, Angel, showed up. Something about him feels sofamiliar, but I just can’t put my finger on it. Luthor thinks it’s because he was lurking around the prison for weeks, so we most likely ran into him at some point.
But the thing is… those feelings aren’t even exclusive to Angel anymore.
It’s this island, I swear. Being back here is dredging up so much of the shit I dealt with when I was locked up. That nonstop haze of unmedicated psychosis in my head, like my mind was infested with twisted cartoon characters, colorful shapes and question marks.
Back home, I make it a habit not to think about what really went down here, because I feel like it would just drive me crazy, and I’m already tryingsohard not to be that as it is. But now that I’m on this island again—the fucked-up setting of my most realistic hallucinations to date—I don’t think I can ignore it any longer.
My memories are like spirits. Spectral creatures buried within the soil of this tortured place, just begging to be summoned by my twisted mind.
They’re desperate to be released; brought to the surface so they can be acknowledged, and maybe finally laid to rest.
Let’s not sugarcoat this. I have absolutely no idea what really happened when I was a prisoner in Alabaster Penitentiary. So much of what Iexperiencedwasn’t real.
Butsomeof it had to be…right?At least partially real…?
I knowThe Officerwasn’t my real Kemper. Because myrealKemper—Kellan—left after my first day. We only had one physical encounter before Mexico, and that was the day he shaved my head.
But am I to believe thatallof those interactions I could’veswornwere real in the moment were actually happening withno one?How is that possible??
It doesn’t seem like it is. It seemshighly unlikely, in fact.
But if that’s the case, then I have to acknowledge the truth that I can feel banging on the walls of my mind…
Someone else was Callum Kemper.
Maybe more than just one… someone.
I’m not sure I’m prepared to deal with that, though. And I’m positive Kellan won’t be excited about it. Unfortunately, it’s haunting my mind more with every moment that passes trapped in here.
It’sinsistent… Like the way my mother used to scream at me from inside her bedroom, even though the part of my brain that tries to power through the psychosis knew damn well she was dead.
The only real difference is that back then I wasn’t on medication. It used to just consume me until I couldn’t ignore it for one more…
“Shit,” I mutter, flinching at a pop of gunfire.
Patting my pockets frantically, I feel myself starting to really lose it…
“Kel?” I dart over to my fiancé, who’s busy trying to help win this fucking war, and doesn’t have time to deal with his crazy partner’s crazy problems. “Do you have my meds?”
“What?” He grunts, clearly not listening as he stuffs boxes of 7.62 into the storage crate.
“Do you havemy meds??” I ask again, tone swept up in pure panic. “I can’t find them…”
