Chapter 66
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CARTER
Ifucked everything up. The look on her face said everything she’d never say. She’ll never forgive me, and why should she? I did this. To both of us.
Pacing back and forth in my room has me feeling like I’m suddenly claustrophobic. My head is a fucking mess.
Flashes of my father come into my mind.
The beatings.
The first aid so he could start again.
Dripping dirty water that was my sole drinking source.
Anger. Hatred. Disgust.
Then the bluest eyes make him fade away, but it’s not a relief. I look at her pain, and feel it, because I deserve it.
Killian walks into my room and stands staring at me, evaluating my mental state.
“What?” I snap.
He closes the door behind him and walks over to my bed, sitting on the edge.
“You’re hard on yourself, brother. I know you care about this woman, but it’s impossible for her to change the past, the same way it’s not possible for you to change hers.”
Grabbing my bottle of whiskey from the top of my dresser, I open it and take a long pull.
“I wasn’t trying to change history, Killian. I was trying to find a way to live with it. Do you have any fucking idea what it’s like for me?”
He shakes his head and swallows hard.
“I don’t know what it was like for you all those years ago, and I don’t know what it’s like now, Carter. You know why? Because you won’t fucking talk about it.”
He chuckles, but it’s not a sincere laugh, it’s drenched in bitterness.
“You were taken. For two fucking years we wondered, every goddamn day, if we’d ever see you again.
I’m not comparing our pain to yours, but we were little kids.
Nobody ever asked if we were okay. Mom was so consumed with guilt, I don’t think she ever even considered what Knox and I were going through. ”
He’s quiet for several long minutes before continuing.
“You didn’t speak for six years. All you did was scream and cry, telling us you were in pain, but there were no words.
Nothing to tell us how to help you through it.
Then six years later, you open your mouth to speak, but only the most random fucking words.
Still not telling us what you needed. Do you remember what you said to me when I asked if you still thought about what he did to you? ”
I take another drink, and swallow, welcoming the burn in my throat before responding to Killian.
“A car is stolen every forty-two seconds. fifty-six percent are recovered because people are stupid. If you are going to steal a car, the smart thing would be to dismantle it and sell the parts. No serial numbers means it's much harder to track.”
He looks at me, much like he did the day I said those words to him, his eyes full of confusion.
“I rehearsed that every night for a month before I said those words to you. It was terrifying to speak out loud.”
Even when I started talking again, I couldn’t have normal conversations. I spoke in facts, mostly information everyone thought was useless.
“All of you thought that, with time, my aversion to touch would be like talking was. When I was ready, it’d happen. It hasn’t. Why can’t I get past this?”
I ask myself constantly why I didn’t die, when I know I should have. Three years old—a fucking toddler. I was barely potty-trained and endured two years of literal hell. The fact that I did, but still cannot function normally, makes me fucking crazy.
I know my brothers want to help me, both of them, but they can’t. I’m not avoiding talking about it to be an asshole. Talking means reliving, and I cannot fucking handle it.
“Why can’t I get past it?”