4. Chapter Three #3
That’s why I need to remember. I need to remember what happened so that I can finally be free, but nothing seems to fucking work!
The words that pour out of me are vicious, bitter. But they’re not a lie.
“You can ask me these questions over and over again, up my fucking meds, and none of it is going to matter, because I’m still going to wake up every night drenched in sweat thinking I’m going to die, and remembering that he’s fucking alive and out there and—”
What if he kills again?
What if I turn the corner of the subway and he’s just there? Waiting to kill me so I’ll never tell the truth?
What if—
I growl in frustration.
Margaret speaks, but it’s like she’s underwater. The memories threaten to resurface, to drag me under. I grasp my head in my hands, my fingers tightening their grip in my hair as I try to force the thoughts away; try to slay the monsters within me.
It’s no use. It never is.
I curse as Margaret speaks, her voice even and steady, as if she’s not afraid of me. She should be, though.
I know I am.
I’m afraid that this part of me is one that can’t be erased, no matter how hard I try.
That I’m like him.
“So are you,” Margaret says carefully. “You are alive, too.”
Silence blooms between us.
I hear her. I do, but…
What does it mean to be alive when this is what I have to face day in and day out?
What is living, if I can’t truly be free of my past, if I never remember the truth?
What good is my life if I can’t even make it through a fucking therapy session because I’m triggered when I’m told I’m not needed anymore?
“Yeah, that’s the fucking problem,” I gripe as she sighs.
We sit in silence, for I don’t know how long. Hours, it feels like. Margaret doesn’t press me. She waits.
But I won’t give her what she wants. I can’t.
Instead, I glance at the clock, noting our time is almost up. I need to eat something, maybe go for a brisk walk to blow off some steam before I head to group therapy because the last thing I want to do is blow up in front of everyone there.
Most of the people at group don’t know my dad is the famous Red Rose Killer.
It’s not something I tell people, if I tell people anything about me at all.
I’ve legally been Kane Carson since I was ten years old, and as far as I know, no one here in the city knows Cydney Rose is my father.
Jasper made sure of that. It’s why he adopted me, changed my name.
Insisted on private school, kept me on a strict curfew, and had the house outfitted with top of the line security.
But home was just another prison. It just had better bedding.
When our session is finally over, I breathe a sigh of relief, but that feeling of guilt and loneliness pervades; especially as I exit the building. I don’t say goodbye. I never do.
Goodbyes are hard for me, and I can’t afford to say it.
I can’t cut the tie, sever the connection.
Which doesn’t do much to help my anxiety either.
I can’t help it, though. I need to move, need to get my blood pumping, and feel the rush of the wind against my skin to shock my system and steady my breath.
What I really need is to feel that moment of forgetfulness, of weightlessness, and get lost in someone else’s turmoil as opposed to my own, but that’s not going to happen. It can’t.
I have to stop putting myself in these dangerous situations with strangers, have to stop blacking out and keep on the straight and narrow.
I can’t lose control. Not now. Not ever again.
I break into a sprint as soon as I hit the sidewalk, not stopping until I get to the familiar building that looms like a towering shadow over me.
I make my way inside, not wanting to spend more time out in this cold ass weather than I have to.
New York winters are not for the faint of heart.
The wind, the ever-present chill in the air that never really leaves no matter how much or little it snows, is bone-deep.
When I get inside I take a deep breath; the smell of coffee and baked goods assaults my senses.
Damn, that smells so good…
And of course, that’s the moment my stomach decides to remind me that I haven’t eaten anything except a bland cookie from Margaret’s office during our session.
I spent most of my day before at the library, trying to find what I could about Unknown, using what little info I have.
Their username is still a string of anonymous letters and numbers, but they’ve listed their location.
Of course, New York City encompasses a lot of places, but it’s still a start.
But unfortunately, there was not much to dig up, even with my limited hacker skills.
Robbie was so much better at this shit. Why did he have to be an idiot?
My stomach growls again, and I glance at my watch, noting that group won’t start for almost another hour.
I thought the walk would help; the rush of the cold, fresh air, focusing on something else to keep my mind distracted from the thought that I may never find Unknown—or my other potential siblings.
Or Veronica, for that matter; whoever the hell she is.