9. Kinsley #4
That confirms what Edge told me. I keep to myself what I saw them doing earlier. I’m shocked Brielle hasn’t told the entire school that I’m a creepy voyeur who gets off on watching her get banged from behind.
“She and her friends create the balance of bitches to the assholes of Venom. The school needs them both to be symmetrical in a way.” Bryce shrugs.
His weird reasoning kind of makes sense. There’s always a set of popular people who think they’re better than the rest. It’s part of the hierarchy of being a student in a wealthy school like this—in any school, for that matter.
“Gunner and Levi, they’re pretty cool. They’re more chill than Edge and Kade, probably because they're surfers. Their dad was a big-time surfer who traveled all over the world. He travels all the time. So, needless to say, Gunner and Levi have some banging parties.”
My class is getting ready to start, which interrupts my interrogation. It always baffles me how lunch goes by in a blur, while my classes seem to last for an eternity. I ball up the wrapper of my sandwich. “Thanks for getting me up to speed.”
“My pleasure.” He gathers his trash and shoves it into the paper bag. “Thanks for not letting me choke to death.”
Laughing and shaking my head, I get to my feet. “Glad I could be there to save your life.” I gather my backpack and sling it onto my shoulder. “I’ll see ya later.”
“Hey,” he calls after me.
I turn. “Yeah?”
“When you see Eden, tell her she owes me an iced coffee with two pumps of vanilla.”
“For what?” It’s none of my business, but I ask anyway.
“For not dying.”
I shake my head and smile. The guy is definitely a trip. I tell him I’ll pass on the message when I see her.
My bed is beckoning me from the moment I walk into the house. I toss my backpack on the floor and obey without a fight. Almost instantly, sleep tows me under.
I watch as my dad gets beaten to death, over and over. I’m completely helpless, unable to stop the beating.
The door to my bedroom bursts open. I’m sitting up, gasping for air as the silhouette of a prominent figure stands in the doorway.
The sight steals away the last hints of air from my lungs.
They rush in, and then the edge of my bed dips.
I’m still confused by the remnants of the nightmare slipping to the surface of my consciousness.
“Kins, breathe… Just breathe… Slow… In… Out…” My uncle’s soothing voice matches the gentle circles he rubs on my back.
I try to do as he says. Drag air in through my nose, then slowly release it. I reach up to wipe the dampness from my forehead.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I go to answer, but my voice cracks. My throat hurts with raw pain from screaming. The nightmare has been on repeat since that tragic night. Every time, it’s the same unshakable memory: helplessly watching from outside of the cage, the fight that will forever change my life.
The worst part about the horrific dream is that for the first few seconds after I wake, I think it’s just that—a nightmare—one where, when I wake, my family is right back together, and my parents are sleeping just down the hall.
Then there’s the exact second when it all detonates, the moment when I know it’s not as it should be and remember that my dad is gone.
That’s when the ache becomes all-consuming.
“Yeah, just a bad dream,” I croak out.
“I’ll get you a glass of water.” He leaves to go into the kitchen, giving me a chance to slide on a pair of sweatpants. When he returns, he hands me the glass and sits on the bed's edge again. “You want to talk about it?”
I don’t want to talk about it, ever, but it’s the only way to get past it. At least that’s what the therapist says. But as usual, lies or omissions will have to be woven into my words.
“Just about Dad. I keep seeing him beaten and lying dead on the mat.” A memory pops into my head from the dream: Edge standing over my dad’s body with that devious grin laced across those full lips. I take a sip of the cool water and will the image of Edge to dissolve.
“Ah, kiddo, it’s your brain messing with you. You didn’t see him get killed, and it was a closed coffin.”
I wish that were the truth. I would do anything to take back what I saw.
No one, except Luca, knows I was there the night he was beaten to death.
The blow after blow I saw him take, the bruises, the welts, the open gashes on his head and face, all of the blood, the paralyzing shock that took over my body, the guilt of failing to stop it—all of it.
Uncle Trey takes my hand, sadness welling in his eyes. He too lost someone who was like a brother. He just didn’t witness the horror of him being beaten to death.
“You lost him in the most horrific way.” He sniffs. “I know nothing I say or do can ever bring him back, but I wish there were something I could have done to stop him from climbing into that death trap.”
I wipe away the tears streaming down my face. “Me, too.”
Then, ever so slowly, my anguish morphs into anger, the fuel that reminds me of what my mission is.