Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Die.
I stayed with him to make sure he didn’t stop breathing, that he didn’t die from a concussion.
“Go.”
He cups my face, forcing me to look at him. “Tell me you’re not going to take your life.”
Jesus …
It’s jarring. I don’t know why it is. It just is. He’s not saying anything that hasn’t passed through my mind more than once a day, every day, since the accident. Spoken words give life and meaning. They take thoughts and ignite them, sending them into the world to burn. They can fizzle out. Or they can destroy everything.
You can only dance around the truth if it’s unspoken. The elephant can’t stay in the room once it’s been acknowledged. And Colten can’t turn back time and unsay those words.
“Say it,” he says, teeth gritted, emotion choking his words. “Promise me on my life, on Reagan’s life, on your family’s life … promise me you will crawl into bed and fight every last nightmare, wake up in the morning, and continue to fight because you are stronger than this. You are so much fucking stronger than him.”
I blink more tears.
“And if you can’t promise me that…” he kisses every inch of my cheeks “…then I can’t leave you.”
When he looks at me, I search for words. For answers. For promises.
Before I can speak, he stands, opens the door, and heads straight to my closet.
“What are you doing?” I say at the threshold while he shoves clothes into a bag.
“You hesitated. You’ve lectured me on hesitation. The truth lies in those painful breaths of silence. So…” he pulls the towel from my body and proceeds to dress me in sweats and a hoodie “…you’re coming with me. I’ll arrange for my mom to fly in tomorrow, and I’ll ask your parents to drive here first thing in the morning.” He zips my bag and pulls the hood onto my wet head. For a second, he pauses.
Maybe he’s daring me to protest, cross my arms, stomp my feet, beg him to trust me.
I. Have. Nothing.
No job.
No purpose.
No identity.
A hollow body filled with horrible visions.
He doesn’t need to call anyone. He needs to drop me off at the hospital and admit me to the psych ward. If I tell them the truth, every last gruesome bit of it, they will conclude that I am unwell. And maybe Colten needs to have someone tell him that so he can save himself, so he can have permission to walk away and focus on what matters most.
Taking my hand, he leads me toward the front door. “Let’s go, Button. Josie’s feeling a little under the weather, so we’ll get her put into bed, and I’ll read you all the books you want.”
I can’t even look at Reagan, so I keep my chin tucked and let Colten lead us to his car, drive us to his house, and guide me upstairs while sending Reagan into the bathroom to brush her teeth for bed.
Just as he gets me settled under the covers, Reagan pokes her head into the room. “I’m ready.”
“Grab your books and bring them here.”
Christ … he’s afraid to cross the hall to her room and leave me alone.
“These!” She jumps onto the bed, letting her books scatter at the foot of it while crawling toward me. Colten looks in on us from his bathroom while brushing his teeth. “Josie, I’m sorry you’re sick. Maybe you’ll feel better tomorrow.” She kisses my forehead. “Nope. No fever.”
The already suffocating lump in my throat doubles as my eyes burn with more tears. I close them before any escape.
“Okay, Button, let Josie sleep. Get on my side and pick your first story,” Colten mumbles over his toothbrush.
That’s all I remember because I’m so very tired. Everything goes dark behind my eyelids. Quiet. Peaceful. And then …
I hear a voice.
“Little girls. Little girls everywhere. Oh … what’s that? You lost your hair? Well, that’s what you get for being better than your brother. That’s what you get for making him look bad. Just ask sweet little Beth with her strawberry locks … oh … that’s right. She’s dead.”
“NOOOOO! I KILLED HER. I KILLEDHER. IKILLEDHER!” I jackknife to sitting.
“Daddy …” Reagan’s voice. She’s crying. “W-what’s wrong with J-josie?”
“Shh … I’ve got you,” his voice fades, and the door shuts.
Her cries muffle. His footsteps fade. The door to her room clicks shut. And I’m alone with a cold sweat along my brow, a pounding heart, and the realization that I, Winston Jeffries, killed my sister Bethany. I poisoned her. I shaved her head. And I buried her body in a cemetery. Then I cried. I grieved. I did all the things my parents expected me to do while everyone searched for her. They searched for her until my mom took her own life with the same straight blade she used to shave my head. Then my dad drank himself into a coma every evening, waking up in the middle of the night to puke and do things to me that no dad should do to his son. I can smell the mix of putrid stomach contents laced with alcohol.