Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
Sam
M y parents are dead, Merry Christmas to me.
I'm a shadow prowling the streets, my black beanie pulled low on my head, concealing as much of my face as possible. Reporters won't leave me alone since the police called me to identify the bodies. Everyone knows, and now they want to know what happened, how I feel. What's going through my mind.
In my gloves, my hands squeeze into fists and shove deeper into the pockets of my coat, my shoulders instinctively hunching away from the rapid-fire questions still echoing in my ears. They try to fucking shove their microphones into my mouth, wanting the words out of my throat, any words. They want me to cry, spill my guts on camera.
But they don't suspect I killed them.
I don't know where my feet are taking me, and I don't care, as long as they take me away. Away from the noise of the city, from the parasites who want to feed on me, away from it all.
I just keep walking.
The further I get, the more my mind starts to unravel, loosen up. Getting the police call, seeing them dead—cold, with their mouths finally fucking shut for once—it turned me into steel. But now, in the frigid night, with no one's eyes on me, I'm starting to get an idea of what's going on inside me.
I wanted this. I wanted it to happen, that's the thought that keeps stabbing a finger at me. Of course I did. When I planted the booze in the hotel room I got them—good shit, something that could pass as a nice gift from a dutiful son—I had hoped they wouldn't be able to control themselves. Thoughts of them drinking themselves to death was all that filled my head.
Until Bree came over.
That's why I made her leave. I didn't want her to see the darkness in my eyes, the lust for death. I stayed up until I got the call, but I didn't know what it would do to me to get the news.
They're gone, really gone this time.
And they aren't coming back.
Saturday night, they just walked out of the elevator like they hadn't abandoned me as a kid. Breezed back into my life, demanded deference, as if they had ever done anything to deserve it.
And me? What did I do?
I was that scared kid again, trying not to set off a bomb, walking on eggshells, dreading their easily provoked rage. I was scrutinizing my own penthouse, not because they hated what I did with the place, but because I needed to know what might be thrown at my head without warning because I didn't answer fast enough, didn't have the right tone.
Didn't fucking have booze.
The violence didn't come. I have money now, that's its own kind of shield. But I felt it simmering just below the surface. They were still like dogs, yapping at each other, teeth and claws bared. But the whole night, they didn't turn on me, not really. Just gave me passive aggressive bullshit about me not sending them money in prison.
Their heads have been up their asses for all these years. They didn't stop to think that maybe I had no fucking idea where they were. I hoped they were dead.
And now they are.
The greatest difference I feel now is the lack of fear. I no longer feel hounded by the threat of them coming back into my life. That's come and gone.
It's liberating.
I take a deep breath and let it out. It fogs in front of my face.
It's like a thorn that was pricking my ribs all this time has fallen away. I knew it was there but became numb to it. But now that it's gone, breathing is easier. I can take a deep breath, as deep as I can. And it doesn't hurt, I'm not afraid it will hurt me anymore.
When I was a kid living somewhere with no electricity, no water—still thinking they would come back—I lived to hear them barging through the door. I told myself, when I was falling asleep with a growling stomach, that I'd be better. I'd make them stay. I wouldn't make them angry anymore, and I'd do what they said, even if I didn't want to go ask neighbors for cigarettes or beer money.
I'd tell myself that, over and over.
But they didn't come back.
But… not because of me. It wasn't my fault.
The words come to my mind for the first time, bringing me to a halt. And I believe them. It wasn't my fault. I saw that on Saturday, something I couldn't see when I was a kid.
My parents were scum, just some filth that bumped into each other, stuck together, and shit out a kid. They abandoned me in our old home because they were shitty people, not because of anything I did or didn't do.
They rejected me. Was it even possible for them to have accepted me?
I'm staring at the ground. It looks familiar, like something I haven't seen in years. When I look up, I'm surrounded by trees. I'm just outside of the clearing behind the college.
Bree's clearing.
This is where I followed her that day after she rejected me. She was the first to reject me, after my parents.
I walk forward into the clearing, making my way to where she spread out her blanket.
Up until I met Bree, I was in control of the women in my life, when they entered my life and when they left. No one walked out on me until I was ready for them to go. Not until Bree.
Was it all just about my parents? Some fucking sick desire to undo the past, rewrite it?
I laugh mirthlessly into the clearing—back then, I used to be as quiet as possible when I was here.
Some deep fucking wound that must be. I've been chasing after the only girl to reject me for years, became filthy rich because of this chase, just to escape the pain of being abandoned.
All this time, that's why I couldn't let her go, why I never grew tired of the long nights in the office, the fights with the other guys in the company about the direction of Companion. I never stopped fighting for control—that's the only way I knew I could have her, not to make her regret walking away from me but to make her mine, wholly and truly mine.
Bree needs me, needs me like I need her. I feel it. She doesn't want to leave. That feels good. It feels better than anything. Bree feels good, in my arms, submitting to me, wanting me.
There's a silent snow falling around me. When did that happen? How did I not notice it?
How did I not notice what I've been feeling inside this whole time? I got used to the pain, that's how. But now everything is possible, the future brighter.
No, that's not right. The future is uncertain—because Bree doesn't know what I've done, what it took to get here. It doesn't matter if she's been a part of this liberation I feel now, the lightness that's starting to take hold in my limbs. Because she's been blind to all my lies, my manipulations, the way I've controlled it all—and the way she's helped me heal.
Bree was a crutch for me all along, wasn't she?
Fuck.
I keep completely still and let the snow drape me in a light blanket that's only getting thicker.
Who knew that with the death of my parents, I'd be hit by all these revelations? Shit, their very existence was blocking me from thinking about anything related to them walking out on me, rejecting me, leaving me in the cold. But not anymore. They're dead, that's the way it'll stay.
And the man I became to cope with all the bullshit, he's dying with them.
It'll start with me telling Bree about everything.
With that thought comes a familiar pain, the sharp feeling in my chest—the fear of losing her when I've come so far.
But that's the only way I can be serious about this. If I give her the chance to turn away, destroy my life, then if she stays, I'll know it's for me. I'll know she feels what I feel, that burning intensity to be together.
If she leaves, well.
I'll deserve it.
I'll deal with that when it comes. Thinking about it feels like swallowing ice shards.
I need to make her understand. As fucked up as it's all been, there was a reason, a compulsion.
In a little while, I will. In this moment, I still have Bree, the memories of us together. I can still reach out and touch her. My line to her hasn't been severed yet, nothing has come between us.
I won't drag this out. I'll tell her as soon as I can.
Just not tonight, not while the snow is falling in our clearing, blanketing me and all my shame, all the dirt and grime.
At least for now.
"Bree," I whisper into the still night, my eyes unfocused.
Snow keeps piling.
"How long have I loved you?"