When it comes to a heated stop and my head connects with the wheel in front of me, all I see is darkness.
Only, I’m still conscious.
I bring my fingers to my forehead and rub across a familiar sting, feeling the same warmth I felt when I was fifteen.
Blood.
Reaching out with my now crimson-coated, quivering fingers, I latch onto my phone, thumbing the screen and bringing the shaking device to my ear as everything buzzes around me.
“Hello,”hisvoice comes down the line.
I swallow hard, then I whisper, “I need you.”
My feet dig into the leather passenger seat, my arms wrapped tightly around my trembling limbs, my chin placed at my knees. I yank the sleeves of my hoodie over my knuckles and curl in on myself.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks.
My breath stutters on an inhale, tears brimming my eyes. I recline my head and squeeze them closed, feeling my demons scratch aggressively behind my corneas. Unwanted sinister cuts are made for my trauma to crawl through and rear its ugly fucking head.
I exhale a little too loudly, hearing my blood whooshing in my ears. The burn in my stomach is intense, the thought of voicing my unfettered terror only making it worse.
Reaching out to turn the volume up on the stereo, he quickly intercepts my movement, covering the dial with his palm. My eyes shoot open, my head twisting in his direction, and when he doesn’t back down, I fall into my seat with a scoff.
“You’re ten years too fucking late, Keats,” I mumble, shaking my head and hiking the sleeves of my hoodie back over my fingers.
Keaton’s throat dips.He knows exactly what I’m talking about.This was the very question he should have asked me when we lost our parents, the very one he didn’t have the balls to voice.
He drops his tattooed hand to my knee and squeezes it roughly. I try everything not to whimper, biting my tongue to harbor the pain when it slices through my marrow.
Keaton shakes his head. It looks like he’s trying to ward off the guilt.Good.
“I’ve been a fucking shit brother, I know that, okay. I never should have let you carry their death on your own.” He pauses, sucking on his bottom lip aggressively. “Please, just talk to me, Blainey.”
I scoff again, this time the sound harsher when I turn my hard eyes on him. “You think?” My head shakes involuntarily, my voice drawing louder. “I was fucking fifteen, Keats. I needed you.”
He is already nodding when his hand moves to the wheel, his knuckles blanching around the black leather. He swallows hard, and I hear the pop. “I deserved that.”
I bring my cheek to my aching knees and stare out the foggy window at my side, feeling my heartbeat in the nerves at my teeth. “Yeah, you did.”
Keaton’s fingers rub into the bone at my shoulder, trying to soothe me, and I keep my head to my knees, turned away from him, a tear rolling down my cheek.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Blainey.”
A guttural sigh escapes me, and then I shiver when a cloak of goosebumps lay their heavy weight across my skin.
I forgave him years ago.
But I won’t tell him that.
Keaton doesn’t know half the shit I’ve been through. The pure guilt I’ve harbored for driving our flesh and blood to their death. The deep gash I cradled in our father’s throat when Ibegged him to wake the fuck up. The warm hand of our mother’s that I had to let go of when I was dragged out of our sinking car. The way I watched her swallow her last breath, raise her chin, and fight the dance of water that took her with no regret,no mercy.
And now, the internal and external scars of three men who had mutilated me, fucking destroyed me.
I will never be the same again.
Blaine Everson died when she was fifteen.
And Cherry met her in Hell seven days ago.
