Fallen Stars (Stone Bay Series Book 3)

Chapter 29

I’ve gonefrom one prison to another.

Every breath I take, every word I say, every sip of drink and bite of food I swallow… all of it is scrutinized with pensive looks, phony smiles, and subtle tilts of the head.

If I stay in my room for too many hours of the day, my parents whisper about me wanting isolation or confinement. If I leave my room and spend most of the day sitting on a bench alone in the garden, they question in hushed tones if me wandering alone outside is okay this soon after my abduction.

Every aspect of my life is now dissected into micro-moments. Every action—or lack thereof—starts a mumbled debate between my parents.

“How do you feel?”

I’m asked this no less than a hundred times a day.

“What can I get you?”

On the hour from sunrise to sunset, my mom or one of the house staff chime in with this one.

“Do you need more time with Dr. Hampton?”

This question annoys me the most.

When I got off the boat at the Stone Bay marina, my parents whisked me to the hospital. Within minutes, doctors and nurses crowded around and bombarded me with questions, tubes, and needles. After months of solitary confinement in the dark, limited food and drink, and frequent abuse, I went from skittish to manic in seconds.

Thrashing and screaming, it took several hospital staff members to hold me still and eventually restrain me to the bed. As the last leather strap was secured around my ankle, my mind flashed back to the filthy room I spent the past two months in. I saw the metal cuffs around my wrists and shackles around my ankles. The eyebolt on the floor. I felt every ounce of freedom I’d gained since Oliver opened the door and found me slip away.

Within an hour of my arrival at Stone Bay Memorial, Dr. Gina Hampton entered my room. Speaking in soft tones, she asked my parents to leave the room so she could talk with me in private.

My parents didn’t like that.

I wasn’t eager to be alone with a stranger so soon, but I also didn’t want my parents in the room while the doctor asked me intrusive questions about my abduction.

Every day since my return, I take a seat across from Dr. Hampton, cut myself open verbally, and release some of the demons that haunt me when I close my eyes. For an hour each day, sometimes more than once a day, I relive the darkest moments of my life. Then I do mental exercises to help me move past the terrors I experienced in that grimy, claustrophobic cell. I share how relieved I am to be home but also how frustrated I am with the extreme level of attention.

My parents’ incessant invasion of my space makes my heartbeat erratic and my breaths come in short, quick sips. It makes my hands shake and my vision blur. It makes me restless. Fidgety. Angry.

Their endless inquisition and attendance have become a new prison.

For the first time in my life, my parents are attentive without an agenda that benefits them. They tiptoe around me and choose their words wisely. They dote on me in ways I’ve only seen Oliver’s parents treat him.

From grade school to my early teens, I wanted a fragment of this adoration from my parents but never got it.

Now that I’m the center of everything they think, do, or say, I wish they’d just leave me alone.

Not to worry. Their constant affection and consideration won’t last.

Soon enough, my relationship with my parents—which I’ve discussed with Dr. Hampton as my memories have returned—will go back to what it was before. Broken. Distant. Meaningless.

The only relationship I worry over and care about is the one I have with Oliver.

Two weeks have passed since I took Oliver’s hand and followed him out of hell. Our exchange was so generic and too short. But if I focus hard enough, I still feel his thumb softly stroking my knuckles. I still feel his warmth and the magnetism that has always existed between us.

That small touch has comforted me often since my return. When the darkness creeps in, I close my eyes and imagine Oliver and his hand holding mine.

But I haven’t felt him since that day two weeks ago. Haven’t heard the gentle rasp of his voice. Haven’t stared into his mesmerizing basil-green eyes and forgotten about the world.

A life without Oliver is less than. Inadequate. Insufficient.

I am a fragment of who I should be without him at my side.

The day before yesterday, a new, relentless pain flared to life. Beneath my sternum, something snaked around my heart and squeezed until I couldn’t breathe. It stole my thoughts and invaded my soul.

When I mentioned it to Dr. Hampton, she said when we release trauma, we make ourselves vulnerable. We revive parts of our life from before and bring it near the forefront. Former emotions surface and blend with the present.

“Life before your trauma will return. It may come in slow drips or a flash flood. The experience is different for everyone. Don’t fight what you feel, Levi. Embrace it. Breathe through it. Believe that your version of normal will return with time and patience. Though you won’t be the same Levi, you will heal. You will have future happiness.”

A fool, I am not.

The next several years will be daunting. Harrowing. The biggest challenge I will ever face.

But it will be worse without Oliver.

“Need to see him,” I mutter into my pillow.

A gentle knock sounds on my open door—another thing I’m annoyed by; the lack of privacy—and my body wilts. Without peering over my shoulder, I know it’s Mom. Were it my father, the rap of his knuckles would’ve rattled the wood. My name would’ve immediately followed in his authoritative baritone.

Although my father has been… compassionate since my return, it’d take a hell of a lot more to change Jefferson Thornhill-West. Had it been my mom that was taken, he would have set the world on fire to get her back. He would have complied with any demands.

Mom rounds the end of my bed. “How are you, darling?”

Ugh.

Sick and fucking tired of being asked how I am,is what I want to tell her.

Instead, I bite my tongue, take a deep breath like Dr. Hampton instructed me to do in these moments, then give my mom a gentle smile I don’t feel whatsoever.

“Fine.”

Taking a seat near my feet, she rests a hand on my leg.

I flinch.

Her mouth turns down at the corners as she puts her hand in her lap. “Sorry.”

I say nothing.

It isn’t her fault that touching happens on my terms now. Physical contact must be of my volition.

“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.” She wrings her hands. “It’d be nice if we could all sit together.”

Since returning home, I’ve only left my room for appointments and to sit in the garden sporadically. Dr. Hampton said it was better for my recovery if I was in a familiar place instead of a sterile environment. So last week’s therapy sessions and physician follow-ups, the doctors visited the West estate.

During my seventh session with Dr. Hampton—she came to the house two to three times a day, depending on my headspace—I told her the house felt like another prison. I never left my room—not for meals, not to speak with anyone, not to roam the estate. Every time I did, my parents or brother or one of the house staff fawned over me like a wounded creature. They always asked the same monotonous questions. They treated me with unwelcome fragility.

I may have gone through the worst fucking experience of my life, but I am not some brittle, helpless lamb. I don’t need or want people to treat me as though I’ll break at any moment. And I sure as fuck don’t want their pity or uncertainty.

Hell might not have shattered me, but my family may soon.

An inkling of relief coursed through my veins when Dr. Hampton switched all my future appointments to her office. Like all things in my life right now, there’s a downside. Until she gives the all clear, I’m not allowed to drive. Something about possible triggers and flashbacks while I’m behind the wheel.

Whatever.

At least our sessions give me purpose. Something to look forward to. For a few hours each day, I get to leave the house and exist outside the lifeless walls of the West estate.

The biggest, most pathetic highlight of my day.

My days wouldn’t be so treacherous if I had entertainment. Some form of stimulation. Something other than the bare walls and bland colors in my old bedroom. I have nothing. No pictures or books. No television, video games or computer. No phone, dangerous objects, or access to anyone outside the house. Not without asking my parents.

Prisoner.

I am slowly suffocating in this place.

I need to get out.

Blinking out of my reverie, I glance up at my mother. Hope glints in her eyes as she waits for me to answer.

The last place I want to be is at the dinner table with my family as they blather on about insignificant things. But if I want out of this house anytime soon, I need to show signs of improvement.

“I’ll come down in a moment,” I say after far too long. As the words leave my lips, a knot forms in my belly.

Her lips instantly curve into the brightest smile as the corners of her eyes tip up. She rises from the bed and clamps her hands tighter. “Wonderful.” She takes a step away from the bed, then pauses. “I love you, darling.”

“Love you too.”

As quickly as she entered my room, she disappears.

Swinging my legs off the bed, I sit up and plant my feet on the floor. Eyes unfocused as I stare out the window, I take several deep breaths to stave off the expanding pang beneath my diaphragm. It helps, but not much.

I curl my toes in the carpet, ground myself, push up to stand, and pad across the room, ignoring the mirror next to the closet as I pass. I don’t need a mirror to know I look like shit. Staring down my gaunt frame is evidence enough. Stumbling my first few steps every time I get up to walk is testimony of my feebleness.

I hate how weak I am.

Hand on the rail, I descend the stairs slowly. Several minutes pass as I ease my way down thirty-something steps, but I keep a cool head.

As my bones, muscles and organs recover from malnutrition, starvation and dehydration, my physical activity has been limited. What little mobility I do get in, the stairs are the most gruesome. Painful as it is to traverse from one floor of the house to another, I need the strength training. I need to restore my body to what it was before my life got flipped upside down. And I need to do it in my own time.

On my first day home, my parents offered to bring in a physical therapist. I declined. Wonderful as it would be to recover quicker, the last thing I wanted was one more person to fret over my delicate state—my mother’s words, not mine. I’m capable of walking and lifting but need to do it at my own pace.

“There you are, darling,” my mother says as I enter the formal dining room. “Come”—she rises from her seat, darts to my chair and pulls it out—“sit. It’s so nice to have the family together for dinner again.”

I open my mouth to ask where Parker is but snap it shut when he enters the room as I sit.

Sharply dressed in a navy-blue suit, Parker is the younger carbon copy of our father. Entering his junior year of college in a few days, he lives, eats and breathes political science, as does his girlfriend of three years, Brittany. Parker is the epitome of everything my father wanted for my future.

At least one of his children makes him happy.

A few steps behind Parker, Brittany crosses the dining room to my mother and kisses both her cheeks. The joy that radiates off my parents is stifling.

Conversation sparks around the table. Parker and Brittany share their excitement for fall term. Father talks about the boost in tourism with the festival today. Mom shares upcoming events at the performing arts center.

I stare at my salad and try to tune them out.

Two weeks. I’ve been home for two fucking weeks. After vanishing for two goddamn months, being assaulted and violated and deprived of everything essential, I hugged my mom and put my life in her hands.

It’s only been two goddamn weeks and she’s talking about some fucking musical. They’re all carrying on frivolous conversations as if the most heinous situation in my life didn’t fucking happen. They’re chatting in light tones with smiles on their faces as if the darkest fucking cloud in existence didn’t engulf me and threaten to never let me leave.

Do they give a damn about me? Do they care about the pandemonium swirling in my head? Do they care that I think about my own death no less than a dozen times a day?

“How do you feel?”

“What can I get you?”

“Do you need more time with Dr. Hampton?”

Is that what they pay the long line of doctors for? Thousands of dollars to strangers who futz over me and get me back to my “old self.” Meanwhile, the rest of the West family resumes a worry-free life.

Pain stabs my palms as my fingers curl into tight fists in my lap. Heat crawls up my neck and spreads across my cheeks. My heart hammers in my chest as the rapid whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of my pulse clogs my ears.

I’m so fucking angry I could scream.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Momentarily confused at the new voice, I loosen my fists.

Heels clap on the marble as I lift my gaze and follow the swish of blue fabric. My eyes reach her face as she pulls out the chair to my left. A bright, cheerful smile lights her expression.

“Hi,” Abigail says with too much enthusiasm.

My nails dig deeper into my palms as I grind my molars. Fire licks my veins. Madness grabs hold of my rib cage and rattles the walls of my chest viciously.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Levi,” Father snaps.

“Jefferson,” Mom retorts.

“I… uh…” Every ounce of light vanishes from Abigail’s eyes. “Your parents thought?—”

“Thought what?” I cut her off, my eyes darting to my mother then my father. “Maybe we can mold Levi into someone he’s not because he’s fucked in the head,” I say in a mocking tone as I wave my hands. “Maybe he’ll forget who he was, and we can manipulate him into what we want.”

“Levi…” Devastation blankets my name as Mom reaches for my hand.

Shoving back in my chair, it topples to the floor as I stand. “No!” One wobbly step followed by another, I back away from the table and shake my head as my eyes go from one person to the next. “I’m not a goddamn puppet.” I slap a hand to my chest and fist the fabric. Close my eyes, take a deep breath, then open them on the exhale. “Don’t use my abduction as a tool to turn me into someone I’m not.”

“Son, we aren’t?—”

“Yes”—I aim all my anger at my father and his deadpan expression—“you are.” I drag my fingers through my hair and savagely tug the strands. “Why the fuck is she here?” I thrust a hand toward Abigail. “She isn’t family. She doesn’t belong at this table.”

Mom scoots her chair back and slowly stands. “We just thought it’d be nice to have someone familiar at dinner.”

Fury ripples through my body and I visibly shake as I take another step away from the table. “Then invite my fucking boyfriend,” I grit out.

“The way you let him go…” Mom shakes her head. “We weren’t sure…”

I can’t be here anymore. Imprisoned and having people forced upon me, it’s almost worse than that dark, dingy cell.

Without a second thought, I spin on my heel, stagger on the first few steps, then regain my footing as I dash for the front door. Footsteps echo in the foyer as my name floats through the air on repeat. I ignore them, push harder, whip the door open, and step outside.

I suck in a sharp breath as the brisk September air hits my skin. Streaks of pink and orange paint the sky as the sun dips below the horizon. My eyes dart from one car to the next in front of the main house and I mentally stumble over what to do now.

My feet trudge forward of their own accord. Down the steps, past the line of cars, along the drive, I put one foot in front of the other. I pick up speed and put as much distance as possible between me and the house.

I veer left, abandon the driveway, and traverse the manicured lawn. Goose bumps dance over my skin as I spot the pool house several yards away. Cicadas chirp as I reach the forestry surrounding the West property and enter the woods. Sticks and foliage crunch beneath my bare feet as I weave through the trees. Crisp, piney air fills my lungs and energizes my soul as I move on faster feet.

Streetlights peek through the trees. The hum of passing cars hits my ears as I approach the property fence. Following the eight-foot chain link, I stare through the trees on the opposite side and look for a landmark. When the soft glow of Poke the Yolk’s sign comes into view, I scale the fence.

Unsure where to go, I wander along Chalcedony and stare inside businesses as I pass. Many on this stretch of the road are closed now, but some stores and restaurants are brightly lit with patrons coming and going.

It’s calm. Desolate. Quiet.

Too quiet.

When I reach Garnet, I go right and cut over to Granite. People mill about the sidewalk. Cars occupy most of the parking spaces along the street. The cacophony of countless conversations mingles with a hint of music.

Earlier this week, Dr. Hampton said crowds and loud noise were something I needed to ease into. That they may frighten or disorient me. Trigger bad memories.

But as I stand in the middle of dozens of residents and visitors, all I feel in this moment is free. As people pass me on the sidewalk and pay me no attention, all I am is normal. Just Levi.

I pause, close my eyes, and inhale deeply. Let the hustle of everyday life blanket me head to toe. Let it restore one of a thousand facets of my life.

God, I’ve missed this.

Being average and inconsequential.

On my next breath, I zero in on the faint sound of music. Angle my head and figure out where it’s coming from.

Eyes popping open, I trek down the sidewalk with unfamiliar speed and determination. My pulse whooshes in my ears and the muscles in my legs are on fire as I dart through the crowd. The thump, thump, thump of a bass drum reverberates in the air as I near Sloppy’s BBQ.

I know that bassline.

The music rattles the storefronts as the crowd grows. Hot cider, cocoa or various local brews are sipped. Burgers, barbecue, pizza, a variety of Asian street foods, and countless sweet treats are devoured. People sing and dance and enjoy the start of fall with a smile on their faces.

I cross to the other side of the street and zigzag between bodies toward the music.

The song ends and I freeze. Cheers erupt and drown out whatever’s being said to the crowd. Then, generic music floats through the air.

No.

I shove through the crowd. A few people throw curses in my direction, but I ignore them. I keep moving forward.

Minutes feel like hours. The drum doesn’t thunder again.

My breaths come in jagged bursts. The muscles of my legs are ready to give out. Invisible fingers wrap around my heart and curl into a fist, squeezing, shredding, pulverizing.

I smack into a hard chest and bounce back.

“Sorry.” I shake my head and step to the side.

“Levi?”

I freeze at the sound of my name and lift my gaze. When my eyes lock onto my favorite shade of green, the ground wobbles beneath my feet.

Oliver.