7. Levi
LEVI
T he house is quiet as I slip through the back door. It’s three in the morning, and my family is asleep. They don’t even know I’m here as I step up the stairs to the second story.
It’s been three weeks since I left, and every day, I’ve been quietly plotting. Stewing.
Making my way upstairs, I pass my sister’s room, then Ava’s. Finally, I pass Paulina’s, and the room at the end of the hall beckons to me like an old friend.
Like it knows why I’m here.
The machines around the four-post bed in the center of the room ring quietly in the night. It smells like a hospital past the door, and my chest fills with disgust. I’ve always hated the scent.
He’s asleep in his bed, but when I rip the cord keeping the machines on out of the wall, it only takes a moment before his eyes open. He reaches for the oxygen tube in his nose, confusion on his face.
“It won’t work,” I say from the shadows, and his eyes go wide as I step into the moonlight. He stares at me in shock, and I grin.
I’ve been waiting for this day all my life. How many times have I envisioned what it would be like to put a bullet in his head?
Now that we know he kept my brother locked away and alive, knowing that he murdered my mother, there’s nothing that could stop me. Knowing that the longer he’s alive, under the same roof as her . . . well . . . I just can’t let that slide.
He opens his mouth to speak, but without his precious oxygen tube, nothing comes out but a raspy breath. Stepping forward, I grab a spare oxygen tube from the end of the bed, wrapping it in my hands while I approach.
“Christian wants you to suffer. Tomorrow, you would have been moved to a new facility where you’d probably be kept alive for another few months.” I shrug. “I think that’s too kind.”
And then I lunge for him. We struggle, but I’m bigger than him now. Stronger. Wrapping the tube around his throat, I pull it tight until it’s cutting off what little oxygen he can get.
“Le—”
“Shhh . . .” I tighten my hold on the tube, silencing the sound of his gurgling cough, begging for air.
It won’t come, though.
It’s time for us to move on. Be a family.
Looming over him in the darkness, his eyes are wide with fear and pain.
Good. Now he’ll finally know what it feels like to wonder if you’re going to die or not.
He struggles feebly underneath me, his bony hands clawing at my wrists to pry me off, but it’s no use.
“I always liked Mom better,” I murmur, though I’m not even sure he hears me. His hands fall away from mine to the bed with a thud, his eyes glazing over. I listen to the sound of his wheezing breath until it fades, and even then, I don’t let go.
I won’t stop until he’s dead.
When I’m sure he’s gone, I release my hold, cracking my knuckles in the silence of the room. The machines keeping him alive start to beep frantically, and I take that as my cue to leave.
I move to stand, only something catches my eye. When I step back, the body isn’t my father’s.
No, this is much, much worse.
Pale green eyes stare back at me, lifeless under heavy dark lashes. The soft skin that used to glow is now pale, fading away just like the life that once rested inside it.
“Ava.”
My voice is strained. My chest tight.
No. No. No. This is all wrong.
Why is she here?
I call out her name. I shake her small form, but she doesn’t acknowledge me. She doesn’t even blink.
The roar in my ears grows louder. My blood pumps harder.
I killed her. I fucking killed her.
“Murderer,” a soft voice whispers. “You’re a murderer.”
“I’m not—I didn’t mean to.”
“Murderer. Murderer. Murderer,” the voice sings, repeating the word over and over until the roar grows louder and I can’t help but cover my ears.
“Murderer, murderer, murderer.”
“Stop,” I growl.
Everything falls silent. The room around me vibrates. Or maybe that’s me.
I look down at the form in the bed and she’s just . . . gone.
And then the whispers are right behind me.
“MURDERER.”
The moment I sit upright in bed, I’m in my room.
Everything is dark, and the roar in my ears is gone. So are the whispers.
“Fuck.” I scrub a hand over my face and try to shake the nightmare off. I’m drenched in sweat and tangled in the sheets like a maniac.
I’m twenty-seven years old. Way too fucking old to be having nightmares like a child, but still, even as I collapse back to the sheets, I can’t wipe the image burned into the backs of my eyes.
It’s not real, right? Who cares? It’s not like dreaming this shit means anything.
It’s just my mind playing tricks on me because I haven’t been sleeping enough, but fuck . . . I fucking hate it.
I suck in a shallow breath, staring at the canopy above my head.
The vision of the girl with the lifeless eyes clings to the corners of my brain.
I shouldn’t . . .
Fuck it.
Quietly, I slide from the bed and exit my room. Across the hall, I silently twist the door handle and push the door open just enough to peek at the bed.
Still there.
I only allow myself a second, and the scent of citrus washes over me like an aphrodisiac.
Then, I glance at the door at the end of the hall.
I fucking hate that door.
Stalking toward it, I test the knob.
Still locked. Good.
If I had my way, I would have gutted that entire portion of the house, just to get rid of it.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up, almost like the brush of cold fingers sliding down the back of my neck.
Figures. Should have known I’d never really escape him.
Goosebumps rise on my skin, and I swear I feel someone standing behind me.
Only . . . when I turn around, no one’s there.
“Go back to hell,” I mutter under my breath to whatever unseen force is hovering over me, and head back toward my room.
After all . . . the dead can’t hurt you.
Fortunately, neither can nightmares.
“How are you feeling today, Levi?”
You want the truth? The therapist in front of me would shit himself if he knew how I was really feeling.
Suppose I told him I’d spent most of the night lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. My mind alternates between thoughts of the pretty little brunette across the hall and my father’s vindictive ghost haunting the space between us.
Suppose for a second, I told him that I can still feel the way his body went slack underneath me when I choked the life out of him.
How when I close my eyes, all I see are his glassy ones, staring back at me.
Do you think I’d be sitting in his plush Seattle office, listening to some bullshit classical music that’s supposed to make me feel calm when really it just makes me feel like a fucking idiot for even coming here?
No. I’d be down the street where they throw all the other degenerates and lowlifes who don’t deserve to walk the streets.
“Good, I guess.”
Dr. Proctor readjusts in his seat, raising his ankle to his knee and showcasing his obnoxious-ass purple socks.
“Why don’t you expand on that for me?”
Jesus Christ.
I scrub a hand over the back of my neck, glancing at the clock on the wall. I’ve only been here for a bit, but it feels like five fucking years.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I shrug. “I guess I just don’t have any complaints.”
Proctor nods, though I can tell he’s not convinced.
“Tell me, how are you sleeping at night?”
Like shit .
“Good. I get about six or seven hours most of the time.”
“And have you been staying away from alcohol like we discussed in your last visit?”
Not at all.
“Yeah. Haven’t had a sip.”
Listen . . . I know therapists are supposed to help, but I can handle my own problems. Whether I tell him the truth or not, I’ll still be lying awake tonight thinking about them.
There’s not a doctor in the world who could make sense of the shit in my head. Fuck, I can’t even do it, and I’ve been stuck in it for twenty-seven years.
“And your family? How have things been going there?”
“Good. All is well.”
Proctor sets his notebook down on his lap and clasps his hands in front of him expectantly. I don’t like the way he looks at me. Like he can read my thoughts before I even know what they are.
Like he can pick out my lies faster than a bee can find honey.
“Levi . . .” he starts, and I can feel the dad-speech coming before it even leaves his lips.
“Life is honest. It’s brutal and unforgiving.
It’s harsh, but it also forces us to be truthful with ourselves in the end.
The truth isn’t meant to be easy, and I think you and I both know you’re avoiding it. ”
Fuck .
I glance at the clock. Another five minutes have passed. I thought for sure it felt like ten.
“Why don’t we start with the basics?” Proctor resumes, opening his notebook and scribbling something down. “Why don’t you tell me something easy. Like your childhood?”
I chuckle under my breath.
This fucker has no idea.
“It sucked,” I shrug. “Not much else to tell.”
“Why don’t you walk me through your family? How many siblings did you have?”
“Three.”
“And they are . . .?”
“Two boys and a girl.”
“And you?”
“And me,” I nod. I don’t know why the fuck it matters. I don’t see Christian sitting beside me. Or Bella. Sebastian’s only fortunate that he doesn’t have that opportunity.
“So, we have a mother and a father, three boys and a girl . . .” Again, I nodded. “How did that work out?”
Jesus, this is painful.
“I don’t know. Like any other family, I guess.”
“What is your happiest memory from back then?”
When Mom kicked Dad out for a week, and he wasn’t there to fuck with me.
“Mom sneaking me out at night to go to this all-night family diner.”
“And what would you order there?”
“Is that relevant?”
“Everything we discuss here is relevant, Levi.”
I hate it when he says my name. Like he knows some shit I don’t.
I blow out a breath between my teeth, willing my composure to slip into place. “We’d get waffle sundaes.”
“Can’t say I’ve heard of those before. What are they? Ice cream and waffles?”
“Yeah, with shit— stuff sprinkled on top.”
“It’s perfectly fine to curse in here. I’m a grown man with three teenage boys. I can assure you, I can handle it.” He scribbles something else down in his pad, and I fucking hate it that he’s taking notes on me. “And why was this the happiest time for you?”
That one’s easy.
“Got to spend time with Mom without everyone else.”
“I see. You wrote in your onboarding packet that your mother passed when you were sixteen. I’m very sorry to hear that.”
Something is humming in the room, and it’s starting to annoy the fuck out of me. Proctor and I sit in silence for a moment before I blurt it out.
“Twelve.”
“I’m sorry?”
I suck in a deep breath. “I was twelve when she died.”
“My mistake, you’re correct. That’s a young age to lose one’s mother. Can you tell me how she passed?”
The trickling irritation that had been slowly festering in my blood finally flares up, and before I can stop myself, I snap.
“My brother murdered her and burned the family cabin down with her in it because my father put him up to it.”
Proctor pauses, and I think for probably the first time in his career, he’s at a loss for words.
Good. Teach the fucker to write notes about me.
“So, yeah. I guess you could say it was hard,” I murmur, tugging the collar of my hoodie away from my neck. Why the fuck is this room so stuffy?
Proctor is quiet for a long time before he scribbles something else down in his pad. Probably some bullshit about how fucked in the head I am.
“And was law enforcement ever involved?”
“Only after the fucker was dead.”
Proctor nods, taking off his glasses and setting them down in his lap.
“And when was that?”
Here we go.
“Two months ago.”
Proctor nods like he’s got it all figured out. Fucker doesn’t know anything about that night, and neither does anyone else.
Only Christian, Sebastian, and I really know what went down that night, and well . . . one of us is dead.
“I think what you’re feeling is entirely valid.
To go through so much at the hands of a family member is unspeakable.
But . . . you aren’t telling me what happened to you , just the facts of what your family went through.
I won’t push you more on it today, but I think it’s important to remember why you’re here. ”
“Because it was either this or the DEA would send me to prison?”
“No,” Proctor corrects. Bullshit, we both know that’s the only reason I’m here. “To clear your mind of the guilt that’s holding you back.”
I think back to the thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment I destroyed three months ago when everything came to a head.
They said it was some kind of mental break.
I think it was more along the lines of a mental rewiring.
Breaking that shit felt good, and even if I have therapy or prison looming over my head, I’d do it again if given the chance.
“I don’t feel guilty for anything.”
Lie .
Proctor eyes me over his glasses like the guy with a beard in Harry Potter. “Now, Levi . . . Are you being truthful with yourself?”
Does it matter?
Like a saving grace, the buzzer chimes, and I can breathe a sigh of relief.
Fucking finally.
Instantly, I’m rising to my feet.
“I want you to do some homework,” Proctor announces from behind me when I stride toward the door.
“I’m not a kid.”
“No, but think of this as an experiment. If you can pass, I’ll sign you off to go back to work.”
I grit my teeth. “And if I don’t?”
“Then we will continue our sessions until you are ready to return to work.”
Fucker is backing me into a corner.
“It’s either this, or we can call the DEA and tell them you aren’t capable of recovery.”
“That’s a dick move.”
He doesn’t argue.
“Fine, what do you want?”
“I want you to write down five things you want for yourself in the next year. I don’t care what it is, but I don’t want any of those things to be monetary in nature. You have money.”
“So, what the fuck do I put down, then?”
Proctor smirks, and it’s the first time I’ve seen any ounce of emotion on his face since I’ve been coming to see him.
“When you allow yourself to stop focusing on what you’ve lost, you’ll figure it out.”