Chapter 3 Levi
Levi
Sitting in front of my laptop, I stare at the title I just typed on the first page.
The Edge of Rationality.
My agent is expecting this book in a year, and I can’t think of a single plot. It took me a week to come up with the damn title.
Since my book The Elimination Project was made into a movie, which received critical acclaim, I’ve been stuck.
Writer’s block is a real bitch.
At first, I was riding the high of signing a film deal, then I was beside myself with happiness when I heard Easton Rowe, the best action star, would be the leading actor.
After that, everything became too much. All the attention.
The reporters. The fucking messages on my Instagram account from the worthless woman who calls herself my mother.
I keep blocking every account she opens, but she doesn’t seem to get the message that I don’t want to talk to her.
Unable to deal with the fame that came from having a bestselling book turn into an award-winning movie, I’ve been hiding from the world, refusing to leave my house here in Grand Rapids.
Thank God for DoorDash.
As I keep staring at the flashing cursor, my thoughts turn to my mother again. All the neglect and pain I suffered because of her and the bastard she married when I was five shudders through me for the millionth time.
My abusive past has shaped my life. I tried the marriage thing, but it didn’t even last a year.
I never loved my ex-wife. Honestly, I think I’m incapable of loving another person.
She wanted affection, and it’s something I struggle with.
When she asked for a divorce, I didn’t put up a fight.
I signed the papers and walked away, feeling relieved to put an end to trying to act as if I’m a normal person.
Besides talking to my agent and interacting with some of my readers and fellow authors on social media, I avoid people as much as possible. I’m filled with repulsion from the simplest touch and get annoyed by the slightest thing.
In short, I’m as fucked up as they come.
I push my chair backward and climb to my feet. Patting against my leg, I indicate for Lick, my border collie, to follow me.
I found her as a puppy when she darted into the middle of the road in front of my car. It took me a week to get her comfortable with me, and then she licked the shit out of me and every damn surface she could find. I felt the name was fitting.
Walking into the kitchen, I open the fridge and grab a bottle of water before I open the back door so Lick can take a toilet break.
I sit down on the top step and watch as she sniffs random patches of grass before finally finding the perfect spot to pee.
Because I don’t like to talk, I taught Lick our own form of sign language, which she responds to very well. I once verbally instructed her to follow me, but she ignored me and remained lying down until I indicated for her to come. Only then did she get up to carry out the order.
Lick comes over to me, and when her left ear keeps twitching, I give her scratches. She leans into my hand, letting out little moans of pleasure.
It’s weird. I have no problem touching animals, but when it comes to people, it makes me want to crawl out of my skin. I always have to take a scorching hot shower and scrub my skin raw to get rid of the sickening disgust.
Looking into Lick’s pretty blue eyes, warmth spreads through my chest. The vet says she’s one-quarter Australian shepherd, and that’s where she got her blue eyes from.
“Hi, Levi,” I hear one of my neighbors call. I only spare the woman a quick look.
I’ve never bothered to remember her name, and as she starts to walk in my direction, I get up and go inside. I shut the back door and lock it, then head to my office.
I don’t care if people think I’m an asshole. It takes way too much energy to pretend to be social.
When I sit down on my chair, it creaks. Lick lies down on the couch I’ve placed beside my desk and rests her head on her pillow. Sometimes she’s more human than I am.
Looking at the screen again, I let out a sigh.
What the hell am I going to write?
Forcing myself to focus, I begin to play around with ideas, but nothing sticks. Two hours later, I give up and open my internet browser. I read through the latest news until a specific article grabs my attention.
The three men who’ve been arrested for the brutal murder of the mayor of Verona, WI, have been identified as Trent Crawford, Wesley Porter, and Dustin Baker.
Holy fuck.
Shock shudders through me as I stare at the names before I read the rest of the article. As I learn about the deaths of the mayor, his wife, and their daughter, an unsettling emotion takes root in my chest. Something akin to guilt.
It says one person survived the brutal attack, and then my eyes lock on a photo of the survivor. Her name is Kelcie Woodruff, and she’s only twenty-four. I take in the beautiful face and the happiness shining from her eyes.
Never again will she look happy like she does in the photo. Not after suffering through such a brutal attack and losing her family.
I begin searching for every bit of news I can find regarding the murders and Kelcie, and by the time the room starts growing dark around me as the sun sets, I feel sick to my stomach.
Wiping my palm over my face, I close my eyes while I try to process what I’ve just learned.
Lick gets up from her bed and comes to rest her head on my thigh. I place my hand on her soft fur, and letting out a sigh, I climb to my feet so I can feed her.
While I go through the motions of warming up her dinner, which consists of chicken liver, veggies, and rice, I blankly stare at the timer on the microwave.
The guilt I’ve been feeling since I read the initial article keeps growing.
It’s none of your business. You left that life behind when you ran away.
The microwave beeps, and I remove the container so I can stir the food and make sure it’s not too hot. I mix it in with some dry dog food before setting Lick’s bowl down so she can eat.
I should make myself something to eat as well, but I have zero appetite.
I keep seeing Kelcie Woodruff’s happy face in my mind’s eye, and as I watch Lick devour her dinner, I feel more and more guilty about what happened to her family.
It’s tragic, but it has nothing to do with you.