Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
I tasted.
I healed.
I was somehow reborn for just a few seconds, like her touch let the light in, destroying some of the darkness I’d kept so close for so many reasons.
Nobody ever said healing was easy.
It was painful.
Hard.
I welcomed the grief more than the healing because it somehow still kept her alive; even though I knew it was wrong, my heart screamed that it was right, that if we just kept remembering, getting angry, fighting, that her spirit would remain.
But she was gone, wasn’t she?
Gone.
I lowered my head and wished she could see me now.
How far I’d fallen and failed.
And how much I’d needed someone to take my hand and tell me it was going to be okay, one day, not now, maybe not for a while.
Annie was that person.
The one person I didn’t want help from but needed it the most from.
Life never played fair, did it?
And death, death just laughed in our face.
“Stay,” I whispered to Annie like she could hear me, and then I made my way slowly up the stairs to wash the tears and dirt off of me. The last thing I needed was to scare the girl, even more, a few days before Christmas.
For the first time in, I couldn’t even count how long, my smile was still sad but hopeful as it led me up the stairs and into the shower.
Memories of her in there with me weren’t as painful or full of guilt as before.
Everyone grieves differently. Maybe I did mine wrong, maybe there is no right way other than to just feel the pain and let it out, but I was different that morning. Like I’d somehow been healed without even knowing how really broken I was.
I took my time, washing the grime off my body, the tears, the anger, the dirt. I wanted to be clean.
And it occurred to me.
I cared.
I finally cared.
It wasn’t about keeping up pretenses; it was about actually wanting to feel like myself again as I washed and washed, then finally shut off the water and grabbed a towel running it down the length of my body and pausing on my right leg. Frowning, I paused, the scar wasn’t deep, and even though my memories were fuzzy, I knew that this one always carried more weight than the rest of my scars—because even though I didn’t remember much, I remembered that it had been caused by my own hand. Somehow Claire had been there. She’d stopped me. I’d wanted to follow her so desperately, and then her hand touched mine, she begged me to stay, or at least that’s what it felt like. With a shudder, I shoved the weak memories away and focused on the present. On getting dry. On going back downstairs.
I brushed my teeth, smiled in the mirror, and felt almost like an alien in my own body as I shook the remaining water from my hair, and ran my hands through its thickness.
Muscles flexed, and I realized I was skinnier.
How did that happen?
How?
I still had more muscle over most guys, but I wasn’t me.
Fuck.
I hung my head and then wrapped the towel around my waist and went into my room, searching for a pair of jeans and a shirt.
I grabbed an older worn pair that had seen better days and a white long-sleeve shirt, then grabbed a gray beanie and threw on my brown combat boots. I added my Rolex, wallet and realized my phone was downstairs with a sleeping Annie.
Trying to be as quiet as possible, I made my way down the creaky stairs only to see that the couch was empty.
Had I taken that long?
Frowning, I jogged down the stairs. “Annie?”
A sick feeling built in my stomach as I searched the kitchen, living room, spare room downstairs, laundry. “Where the hell is she?”
I quickly called her, holding the phone to my ear only to have it go to voice mail.
And all of a sudden, I was there again.
Getting news of Claire’s death.
Watching Breaker, my best friend take his car over the side of the bridge this last year.
Helpless to stop the people I loved from dying.
I wanted to go back.
Back into that place that was safe.
Where my grief told me it was okay to burn the world when I was hurting.
But then I saw the blanket I’d put on her.
She was fine.
Right?
Because the universe wasn’t that cruel.
Right?
Right?
Trying not to panic, I grabbed my keys and jogged across the yard into the main house. Maybe she was eating breakfast?
The kitchen was bare except for my dad, who was reading the newspaper like he was actually fucking normal.
“Son.” He didn’t look up.
I wanted to strangle him. Instead kept my face impassive. “Yo.”
He slowly lowered the paper giving me an amused look with his bright blue eyes. “Did you just… ’yo’ me?”
“Yes.” I inwardly cringed. “No… Hey, have you seen Annie?”