Chapter Ten – Mabel
I stand in a room that’s not mine, but one that would become mine for the foreseeable future. Bags and a few small boxes with everything I’d need litter the room. The walls are a sterile white, nothing hanging on them, and the bed sheets match. The wooden furniture in the room has zero personality.
The strange thing is I feel more at home here than I did at the new house with my dad.
Speaking of…
When we got there, I could tell he was worried about me—and maybe even cried a bit while Dr. Wolf and I were on our way. I didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone, but I can’t deny that going on the way I have been wouldn’t be good for me, long-term.
I can pretend I’m fine and wear the mask in front of my dad, but that’s just it: a mask. Fake. Not real. And what Dr. Wolf said just might be true: it only takes once. If you try so much, if those irrational, intrusive thoughts win… it only takes one time for it to be the last time.
I’m in the strange middle of not wanting to die and also wanting it all to end. Not a fun place to be.
I have my own bathroom, practically my own wing of the house. Tristan’s room is on the opposite side of the large house; I don’t doubt Dr. Wolf chose this room for me on purpose.
It’s weird, but I feel safe here, even though I know Tristan is violent. That he killed people. I’m not worried about my life or my safety in this house. In fact, this house is the only place I can truly be me, where I can let it all out and I don’t have to expend energy constantly pretending. I had to hand my phone over to Dr. Wolf; he has a house phone where my dad can call anytime he wants to talk to me, and my dad can visit anytime.
Cut off from the world, most people would be going out of their minds, but I’m already one step ahead of them when it comes to that, so handing over my phone was actually pretty easy. It gives me an excuse to shut everything and everyone else out and to focus on myself and the ones inside this house.
And by that, I mean Tristan. It will be interesting to see what happens here.
I don’t bother unpacking. All I do is change into some pajamas and crawl into bed. The sheets smell new, like no one has ever used them before, and I don’t doubt that’s true. It doesn’t sound like Dr. Wolf takes on many cases—I don’t know how he could have enough money to pay for a house like this and have anyone live in it. Makes me wonder if Tristan comes from money and is paying out the ass.
As I lay in the darkness, my thoughts drift to Tristan over and over. What he said he did, how he killed lots of people… what is lots? A few? Half a dozen? More than fifteen? Did he kill more people than Jordan?
I shouldn’t compare them. Jordan’s dead. Tristan isn’t. They’re not the same beast.
Totally unsurprisingly, sleep doesn’t really come. Not a solid, decent sleep, anyway. What bits I get are broken up by tossing and turning—but the silver lining is I don’t dream. I can’t complain about that when lately all I dream about is that day.
Morning comes, and strangely it’s a sunny day so the sun is bright and shining. It helps me feel not as groggy as I get up and change. I brush my teeth and throw my hair into a messy bun; don’t feel like showering just yet. After being awake most of the night, I am hungry, though, so I wander downstairs to the kitchen.
Thanks to having no phone, I don’t know what time it is, so I don’t know whether to expect anyone else in the kitchen.
When I reach the first floor, I’m instantly greeted by the smell of… bacon, I think? My dad used to make bacon every Sunday before we went food shopping as a family. Since the day everything went down, he hasn’t touched bacon at all, and as a result, neither have I.
But, memories aside, it smells good. Delicious, even, and my stomach growls in response. My bare feet take me through the main hall, towards the back of the house, where the kitchen and dining room are.
I come into the kitchen and find Dr. Wolf near the stove. For the first time, he’s not wearing a suit; he wears simple dark pants and a long-sleeved, button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Not exactly a pajama outfit, although I can’t really imagine the man in any sort of pajamas.
Dr. Wolf must hear me, because he glances over his shoulder at me and gestures to the table on the far side of the room. “Good morning. Sit.” He leaves no room to argue with him—though arguing with him is the last thing I’d ever do in this circumstance. I really do just want that bacon.
It’s only after I sit that I ask, “Do you always cook?”
“No, but I wanted to welcome you to the house.” Dr. Wolf brings me a glass of orange juice and a plate with two pancakes on it, perfectly cooked. The last thing he brings over is the bacon. I look around. “What about Tristan?”
“Tristan never comes down for breakfast. Typically he sticks to himself throughout the day.” Dr. Wolf comes over to me and sits beside me, the expression on his face a serious one. “I do believe being here will be good for you, Mabel, and I know you are very curious about Tristan, but—”
He’s trying to warn me, telling me that Tristan is no good for me and I shouldn’t bother with him. In truth, Dr. Wolf is probably right: it’d be better for me if I ignore Tristan’s presence here, if I focus on myself.
I don’t know if I can do that.
“I know,” I say softly. “I’ll be careful.” After all, I’m no stranger to murderous, dangerous guys. If anyone can handle Tristan, it’s me.
Dr. Wolf gives me a small smile. “Good. Now, eat up. I’d like to have our first appointment today at ten-thirty. Don’t be late.”
I watch as he leaves the room, and I’m suddenly alone. Maybe it’s where I am, but all those times I spent alone at home, I let the dark thoughts take me. Here? I have other things to think about, such as what Dr. Wolf and I are going to talk about… and, of course, Tristan. Let’s not forget him.
Truth be told, I have lost a bit of weight since the shooting. Sometimes eating just feels like a chore. No foods really taste good anymore. Sometimes eating doesn’t feel like it’s worth the hassle. But this morning, with the smell of bacon in my nostrils and a plate of perfect pancakes staring up at me, I know I’m about to demolish everything that’s in front of me.
I go for the pancakes first. They really are evenly cooked. No super crispy parts, no section undercooked. I can’t remember the last time I had pancakes that looked like this. Dr. Wolf might not cook every day, but when he does, he’s damn good at it.
It’s delicious. I cut huge bites and stuff my mouth full, only pausing to have a sip of orange juice every now and then. I thought I was given an ungodly amount of food, but I put it away like nobody’s business. The pancakes, then the bacon.
And the bacon… God, the bacon takes me back in time to when things were better, simpler. To a time in my life when I was oblivious to the depths of my brother’s rage.
His rage. His depravity. His darkness. It’s a better thing to think than the fact that when he came around that corner, before he lifted that huge ass gun and fired it at the students behind me, he smiled at me.
He smiled. Like it was no big deal. Like he was just pranking everyone and not killing them. I’d rather think of my brother as being secretly pissed off than a closet psychopath—because if he was a psychopath, that means he was always one. It means he hid it from me our entire lives.
And since we’re twins… what if I have a part of that same darkness?
I push those thoughts away. Now would really be a perfect time for Tristan to make an appearance, but I’m not so fortunate this morning. I eat in silence, alone, and after I finish I clean up my dirty plates and head back upstairs for a shower and a change of clothes. By ten-thirty, I’m in Dr. Wolf’s office, waiting for him to join me.
It’s our first session with me living here. I do wonder if it’s going to be different than the others we’ve had, if we’re going to dive into some really uncomfortable things immediately.
Since I have no shoes on, I can tuck my feet under my butt on the chair as I wait. I’m picking at my nails when Dr. Wolf strolls in. He takes the chair beside mine and gives me a short nod before he says, “You’re on time.”
“Of course,” I say. “Don’t really have much else to do, so.” I shrug.
“Tristan was late to our first appointment together. I did not know if you would follow in his footsteps—although I did have the feeling you wouldn’t. You and Tristan share a certain kind of trauma, but you are two different people. Even if you know someone well, there’s no guarantee you can predict their actions.”
I don’t know where he’s going with this, so I don’t say anything.
“Let’s discuss the reason your father wanted you to get some help.”
Ah, there it is.
“Walk me through the day he found you with a knife.”
My stomach coils as I listen to Dr. Wolf say it aloud. I don’t want to relive that day—there are so many other horrible days in the recent past that haunt me, all vying for the top position as the worst day in my life. This particular day is definitely one of them.
My dad was at work. It’s funny how your life could be falling apart at the seams and you’re still expected to go to work and pay your bills like everything is fine. But that’s the thing—nothing is fine. The house is burning around you. Everything is falling apart. The very foundation of your life is crumbling and you’re supposed to grin and bear it because, hey, it could always be worse, right?
I don’t see how it could be worse. Mom is gone. Jordan is gone. It’s just Dad and I left, and it seems not a day goes by when we don’t either get hate mail or messages spray-painted on our garage door.
We’re not welcome here. Everyone hates us because of what Jordan did… because of the way Jordan smiled at me before he started shooting—and what he said after.
It’s on video. One of the students in the computer lab recorded the whole thing, making it plain to the world that Jordan would never have shot his precious sister, and since he’s no longer here to blame, the blame falls squarely on Dad and me.
Mostly me. I’m his twin. We share a soul. His sins are mine and they always will be.
I don’t know how I end up in the kitchen, at the small, dinged-up table, but I do. Time has felt weird lately; the days blur together. Sometimes I don’t even remember what I did the day before. Everything sucks. Nothing’s getting better. How am I supposed to live like this?
Going on like nothing changed, like my brother isn’t one of the most hated people in America right now… like I’m not one of the most hated people, there’s no way. There’s no fucking way I can do this.
I must do it unconsciously, have a mini-blackout episode or something, because I don’t remember getting the knife. All I know is I’m suddenly standing there near the sink, clutching one of the biggest knives we have. I stare at my reflection in the stainless steel; it’s not a perfect reflection. It’s a bit blurry… and that blurriness only intensifies when my eyes start to water.
This life… what’s the point? What’s the point of going on when the act of going on is so miserable, like you’re stuck in a pitch-black tunnel with no way out? How are you supposed to move on when there’s nowhere to go, nothing to move on to?
I have a thought then, and it’s not the first time I’ve had this particular thought.
Jordan should have killed me, too.
He should’ve. It would have been better for me. It would have made things so much easier on my part, for everything to just end. But no, instead I’m still here, struggling each and every day while knowing I played a part in Jordan’s killer fantasy.
How am I supposed to live with myself while knowing he killed them for me? Because of me? Sixteen are dead. Seventeen if you count Jordan. Eighteen if you count Mom. Should have been me. I should be one of them.
Tears fall from my eyes, trailing down my face in a wet mess as I continue to stare at the knife. I grip it so hard my hand shakes.
None of this feels real. It all feels so fake, so… impossible. Like this isn’t really me, like none of this is actually happening and I’m going to close my eyes and wake up one day and everything will go back to the way it was.
I’ll have Jordan again. Mom will be alive. We’ll be one happy family, like I always thought we were. Nothing sounds more perfect than the impossible.
It’s a fantasy that will never come true. Every day from here on out is going to be torture, so why bother going on? Why bother trying to keep going when it would be so easy to just… stop? To end it all like Mom did? If my mom couldn’t handle the weight of everything that happened, why should I be expected to?
Time is weird. Sometimes you blink and you swear an hour has gone by, but it’s only been ten seconds, and other times you swear it’s only been five minutes, but in reality it’s been hours. It must be the latter, because suddenly I’m not alone in the house anymore. Suddenly my dad is home, and the moment he walks into the kitchen, he sees me and the knife I’m holding less than an inch above my wrist.
Twice my dad’s heart broke. Once when he found out Jordan was the shooter, and once again when he found Mom on the couch with her pills. This makes three times.
It’s not fair to him, I know, but I just can’t… God, I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to. I want to check out of this life for good, because at least the pain will end.
“Mabel,” my dad says, inching closer. He holds out a hand, like he’s trying to stop me. “Mabel, don’t—”
My lip quivers as more tears stream down the sides of my face. “I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want to be here.” I hardly sound like myself, but I don’t care. Right now the only thing I care about is ending this shit for good, permanently checking out of this shitshow.
Everything happens fast after that. I bring the knife to my wrist with a singular goal: to cut it deep. My dad lunges at me, faster than I thought he’d be. The edge of the knife meets with my skin the same moment he reaches me, and he’s able to rip the knife from my hand and throw it aside while wrapping me up in his arms. Somehow we end up on the floor, nothing but a small nick in my skin and a negligible amount of blood.
The tears take over, and I sob openly into my dad’s chest as I say on repeat: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Sometimes there’s no moving on from the horrors you’ve lived through.
Dad doesn’t say anything, but I can tell by the shudders in his chest he’s crying, too. I don’t know how long we stay there, rocking back and forth, but it feels like an eternity.
An eternity. Just what I didn’t want.
Dr. Wolf listens to my recollection of that day, not saying a single word—though he does cock his head and jot a few things down. I shrug as I finish telling him about that day, “Honestly, my dad is the only reason I’m still here. Obviously I’ve thought about doing it again.” Like driving into a tree.
He nods once. “It’s not uncommon for people who’ve experienced trauma to have suicidal ideations. Attempts are not uncommon either. You shouldn’t hate yourself for what you tried to do.”
My gaze falls to my lap. “Is it normal to stick around for someone else and not yourself?”
“Sometimes that’s the first step to recovery: knowing other people depend on you. Sometimes it may even be a pet. Anything that keeps you grounded, rooted here. The longer you are alive, the more chances you have to work on yourself, get the medication you may need, and be better. It’s not easy to overcome trauma. It will always require work on your part, but life is worth living.”
“Is it?” The question is out of me before I can stop it.
“I won’t lie to you. Some days are terrible. Some days are boring. Sometimes it might feel like your life is going nowhere. But there are also days that are great, days that are filled with excitement or happiness. Those days will pass in the blink of an eye sometimes—but that’s the thing about life. It goes on regardless of all that. All we can do is make sure we’re on the ride as long as we can be, and only get off when it’s our time. Mabel, it is not your time.”
I want to believe him, I do. I’m young, there’s so much that life can offer me, so many things I haven’t experienced yet… but at the same time, I can’t just forget about the past. “My time should’ve been four months ago.”
Dr. Wolf knows. “The shooting. You believe you should’ve been one of the ones to die.”
All I can do is nod.
“You do know that you’re not responsible for the actions your brother took on that day, don’t you? You didn’t force him to pick up that gun and shoot. His actions were his own. Now, let’s discuss what happened to your mother.”
“There’s nothing much to say, not really. She couldn’t handle things after the shooting. She went to the doctor, got some pills because she couldn’t sleep, and then… one night she had enough. I guess she never came to bed. My dad found her on the couch.”
Dr. Wolf rungs a finger along his pen. “Not only did you have to reckon with the aftermath of what Jordan did and the lives he took, but you also had to say goodbye to your mother. One of those things alone is a lot, but to be forced to handle both… most people would understand why you want everything to end.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You carry the weight. You feel as though the shooting is your fault, and therefore your mother’s suicide is also your fault. Why?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, I think you do. Let me phrase it this way: what could you have done to change it? How could you have stopped any of it from happening?” When I remain silent, he adds, “Short of being psychic, I don’t think you could have seen any of it coming.”
He’s wrong. He’s so wrong. I want to tell him that, but all I end up doing is shake my head.
Dr. Wolf leans forward, and he stares straight at me with an intense look that makes me want to squirm away. “Listen to what I’m about to say before you automatically tell me I’m wrong and that I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
I inhale slowly, waiting for whatever it is.
“What you are feeling, what you have been feeling these past four months, it’s survivor’s guilt, and it’s amplified by the fact that the person responsible was your brother. Your twin. The person you perhaps felt more connected to than anyone else in your life. You feel like you should have seen the signs, that something you said or did could have stopped him from carrying out his plan. In extreme cases like yours, guilt is preferable to the alternative.”
I meet his gaze. “Which is?”
“Helplessness.”
Hearing the word makes me cold all over, and I’d give anything to get out of this office and breathe freely somewhere else. He’s saying my subconscious would rather feel guilty than face the truth—the truth being how helpless I was.
He… might not be entirely wrong, but I don’t know if I can fully accept it.
“You want desperately to believe there was something you could do, something you could have said, to stop your brother from carrying out his violence that day,” Dr. Wolf continues. “Deep down, you’re worried that if you admit to yourself that’s not true, you’ll be forced to reckon with the fact that you were just like every other student.”
I close my eyes, feeling the emotions inside me threatening to spill over. “I don’t really want to talk about it anymore.” When I open my eyes, I find Dr. Wolf watching me with a solemn expression.
“That’s all right,” he says quietly. “We can revisit it whenever you are feeling more comfortable.”
That’s the problem. I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready to talk about Jordan and what he did… or how the guilt I feel is merely masking the helplessness I mentally can’t deal with. That day shaped so many lives for the worse. What good is facing it going to do? Nothing can turn back time; those people will still be dead. Mom is still gone. And Jordan?
Jordan can never be forgiven, never be absolved. The blood on his hands will remain that way for eternity, leaving me to wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do with the rest of my life knowing the other half of my soul turned out to be the king of all monsters.
What if somewhere deep inside, I’m just like him?
What if there’s a monster hiding inside me?