Chapter 11
And holy water that tastes like screams...
Kieran
The food on Kieran’s plate looked wrong.
Not spoiled or unappetizing—just wrong. Grilled chicken breast, steamed vegetables, brown rice, covered in a faint dusting of whatever the fuck nutritional yeast was. Everything was measured and portioned and healthy in a way that made his stomach turn despite not having eaten since breakfast.
He pushed the plate away with his bandaged fingers
“I d-don’t want this. I’m sick of eating this k-kind of food.”
Vale looked up from his own identical plate. “You need to eat, sweetheart. Your body’s been through a lot.”
“I know, but—” Kieran gestured helplessly at the food. “Can’t I just have s-something normal? Like p-pizza or ramen or—anything that d-doesn’t taste like a hospital cafeteria?”
“This is what your body needs right now.” Vale’s voice stayed gentle, reasonable. “Lean protein for healing, complex carbohydrates for sustained energy, vegetables for vitamins and minerals.”
“I don’t c-care what my body n-needs—”
“Yes, you do.” Vale set down his fork, giving Kieran his full attention. “You just don’t realize it yet. You’ve been eating whatever you wanted for so long—cheap, processed food that tastes good but provides nothing—that you’ve forgotten what proper nutrition feels like.”
Kieran’s jaw clenched. “I know what I w-want to eat—”
“No, you know what your cravings tell you to eat. There’s a difference.“ Vale leaned forward slightly. “Your body is craving salt and fat and sugar because that’s what it’s been trained to want. But what it actually needs is fuel that will help you heal and help manage your epilepsy.”
The last words hit different. Kieran’s breath caught.
“What?”
“Your epilepsy.” Vale’s voice stayed soft, almost concerned.
“Poor nutrition is a trigger for some people. Not as significant as stress or sleep deprivation, but it contributes. If we can stabilize your blood sugar, reduce inflammation, and provide consistent nutrition, it might help reduce your seizure frequency.”
Kieran stared at his plate, something uncomfortable shifting in his chest.
He’d never thought about food that way. He always just ate whatever was cheap and available, whatever he could afford from food trucks or corner stores.
“I...” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know that.”
“I know you didn’t.” Vale’s hand reached across the table and covered Kieran’s bandaged one. “But I do. That’s why I’m trying to take care of you, even when you hate me for it. Even when it feels like control instead of care.”
Is that what this is? Care?
Kieran stared at the food and tried to access his anger about it, to see it as another form of control, another way Vale was stripping his autonomy.
What if he’s right? What if I do want to have fewer seizures? What if healthy food actually helps?
“Just eat it,” Vale insisted. “If you genuinely don’t want to eat it—if it makes you feel worse instead of better—we’ll talk about alternatives.”
Kieran picked up his fork with trembling fingers. Cut a piece of chicken. Put it in his mouth.
It tasted fine. Clean. Simple.
Not what he’d wanted. But maybe—
Maybe I don’t know what I want anymore.
He ate the rest of the meal in silence while Vale watched with something that looked disturbingly close to pride.
Kieran watched the clock above the sink tick toward two o’clock and felt ice crawl down his spine.
His fingers had mostly healed. The swelling had gone down, the inflammation fading to dull pink instead of angry red. He could hold a pen without pain now and could probably hold his guitar if Vale made him.
Which meant the reprieve was over.
He’d spent three days writing in the notebook—furious, confused lyrics that tried to make sense of torture followed by tenderness, cruelty wrapped in care. Vale read some of it this morning, praising his honesty, and told him the pain was producing extraordinary work.
Then he set the notebook aside and said, “Your hands have healed enough. We’ll resume lessons this afternoon.”
Now it was 1:58 and Kieran couldn’t breathe properly. He couldn’t stop staring at the clock like watching it would slow time, like desperate observation would prevent two o’clock from arriving.
1:59.
His hands gripped the counter, his knuckles white. His whole body felt like a string pulled too tight, about to snap.
2:00.
He heard Vale’s footsteps in the hallway. He heard him pause in the kitchen doorway, waiting.
Kieran didn’t turn around. Just leaned harder against the counter and pressed his forehead to the cool stone, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Please.” The word came out so quiet it was barely audible. “Please d-don’t make me go d-down there today.”
“Sweetheart—”
“I’m t-tired.” His voice cracked. “My f-fingers are still—they’re still healing, they hurt, I just—” A sob caught in his throat. “Please. N-not today.”
Soft footsteps approached. He could feel Vale’s presence too close behind him, body heat bleeding through the space between them.
“Look at me.”
Kieran shook his head, his forehead still pressed to the counter.
“Kieran. Look at me.”
He turned slowly, reluctantly, and found Vale right there, only a few inches of space between them, with that gentle expression that made everything feel worse for some reason.
Vale’s thumb brushed away tears Kieran hadn’t realized were falling. “You do want to go to the basement.”
“I d-don’t—”
“You do.” Vale’s other hand curved around the back of his neck.
“Because that’s where you’re becoming a better musician.
That’s where the confusion becomes clarity.
That’s where you learn to transform suffering into meaning.
” His thumb stroked Kieran’s cheek. “You don’t want to stay up here feeling lost and scared.
You want to go down there and let me guide you through it. ”
“No—” But Kieran’s breath was coming too fast, chest tightening, vision starting to spark at the edges. “No, I d-don’t want—”
The panic attack hit like a freight train. His whole body shook, gasps coming rapid and shallow, lungs refusing to pull in enough air despite how desperately he tried.
Vale’s hand moved from the back of his neck to the front and tightened.
Not gently. Not carefully. He just squeezed.
The pressure cut off his air supply completely. Kieran’s hands flew up instinctively to claw at Vale’s wrist, but he was already dizzy, already oxygen-deprived, and Vale’s grip was iron.
“Breathe slower,” Vale said calmly, like he wasn’t actively strangling him. “You’re hyperventilating. This will help.”
Kieran couldn’t breathe at all. His vision tunneled, body screaming for air, panic spiking higher—
Vale released the pressure and Kieran gasped in one desperate inhale, then he squeezed down again.
“Slower.”
Another controlled release. Another single breath. Vale’s hand controlled his oxygen intake like a valve, forcing his breathing to slow because he simply couldn’t get enough air into his body to hyperventilate.
After what felt like hours but was probably seconds, the panic started to recede. Not because Kieran felt better—because his body had run out of oxygen to fuel the panic.
Vale released the pressure on his throat, but kept his hand there, rubbing little circles with his thumb along Kieran’s Adam’s apple. “Better?”
Kieran couldn’t answer.
“See?” Vale’s voice stayed soft. “Sometimes we need help even when we don’t want it. Sometimes someone has to make us slow down, make us breathe, make us do what’s actually good for us even when we’re fighting it.”
He took Kieran’s hand—the one that had clawed uselessly at his wrist moments ago—and guided him toward the basement door.
Kieran walked. He didn’t fight or argue. He just cried quietly while Vale led him down the stairs, his body too exhausted from oxygen deprivation and panic to resist.
At the bottom, Vale helped him into the chair.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s much better. This is what you wanted all along. You just needed help accepting it.”
And as the darkness swallowed him whole and he prepared to flee his body, some horrible part of Kieran wondered if Vale was right.
1:53 PM.
Kieran stared at the clock above the kitchen sink and felt dread build like pressure behind his eyes.
Seven minutes until Vale appeared in the doorway.
Seven minutes until that calm, gentle voice said “It’s time, sweetheart” and Kieran’s feet carried him to the basement whether he wanted them to or not.
He’d stopped trying to find his anger. It was gone—buried so deep under exhaustion and confusion that he couldn’t reach it anymore.
But the fear was still there. Sharp and immediate and getting worse every day.
1:54.
His hands trembled against the counter. His breath came shallow and quick.
I need to get out. I need to find a way out. There has to be a way out.
The thought felt desperate, futile. But it was all he had left.
1:55.
He heard footsteps in the hallway. Vale’s steady gait approaching the kitchen.
Panic exploded through Kieran’s nervous system like a bomb going off. His vision sharpened with adrenaline, his heart tried to break through his ribs, every muscle coiled with desperate energy.
No. Not today. Not anymore. I can’t—
His hand shot out, grabbed the rolling pin from the counter beside him. The back door was ten feet away. Glass panel in the center. If he could just break it, just get outside, just run… It didn’t matter where. Dying out in a cornfield was better than staying here.
Vale’s footsteps got closer.
Now. Do it now.
Kieran sprinted for the door and brought the rolling pin down with every ounce of desperate strength against the glass.
It bounced off the glass like it had hit concrete. No crack. No spiderweb fracture. Not even a scratch.
“What—?” Kieran stared at the unmarked glass, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He raised it again and struck harder.
Bounce.
Again. Harder.
Bounce.
“No—” His voice cracked into a sob. “No, no, no—”