Chapter 17 #2
I can feel their cruel eyes on me like a thousand needles pressing into my skin. And they won’t leave no matter how much I try to sink into my chair and disappear. But their words are worse, and they sting worse than anything I’ve ever felt.
I try to focus on the teacher’s voice, but it’s drowned out by their mocking laughter.
It feels like my skin is burning.
“Look at her,” one voice sneers. “God, what a depressed loser. Just like her brother. It’s a shame, too. He could’ve been great, but he flunked it last second.”
I swallow hard, the bile rising in my throat.
Her brother. It’s all I’ve been hearing lately; they’re either apologetic, or they’re cruel.
There’s no in-between. I want to stand up, to scream, to tell them that they have no right, no right to say his name like that.
But I can’t. It’s like every part of me is paralyzed. Paralyzed and pathetic.
“Her dead brother,” a girl sneers then turns to me. “I wonder…” she starts, “are you a druggie, too?”
I don’t even know how to respond. My brother didn’t do drugs, but I can’t seem to make my voice work. The words catch in my throat, tangled in the mess of grief and guilt that’s wrapped around my heart.
“My brother was not—” I start, but the sentence dies before it even leaves my lips. I can’t even convince myself anymore. So, I lie. “He didn’t take drugs.”
“Oh, are you sure?” She laughs again. “Because I can definitely get you a few hits if you want? But I’m sure your mum can help you out there too. Bet she has all their numbers, all ready for you.”
I don’t know how to stop the tears from coming. I stare down at my textbook, trying to block them out, but the words blur, and I can feel the moisture gather in my eyes.
“May I please go to the restroom?” My voice is shaky, fragile. Embarrassingly so.
“Looks like she’s gonna cry,” a voice mocks from the front. The laughter that follows fills the room, and I feel it like a fist in my chest. I won’t cry. Not here. Not for them.
I bite my lip hard, the pain sharp enough to stop the tears, but it’s only temporary. The lump in my throat is growing, and it’s getting harder to swallow. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.
The teacher looks at me, her gaze flickering with pity, which only makes me angrier.
If you’re so upset, do something about it, you coward.
She grants me permission without a word, and I grab my things, too eager to get out of that room, to escape their eyes.
I don’t look back as I slip out into the hallway.
I don’t care about anything anymore. I just need my dad.
The bathroom is empty. Thank god for that. The door clicks shut behind me, and for a moment, the world feels still. I lean against the cold tiles, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts, my body trembling from the effort of keeping it together.
It’s like I’m drowning in this place, in these people.
I fumble with my phone, my fingers trembling as I scroll through the contacts, searching for my dad’s name. My hands shake so badly, I almost drop the phone. I press the screen with desperation, praying that he picks up, that he hears me, that he sees me.
When his name lights up, my heart leaps. I press the call button and wait, the silence stretching until finally, his voice breaks through.
“Dad,” I whisper, the word so fragile, like it might break if I speak too loud. “Can you please pick me up?”
“What? Why? What happened?” His voice is thick with concern, and it only makes the ache inside me worse.
I don’t want to tell him what happened. I don’t want to say it out loud. I can’t say it out loud.
“It’s happening again,” I say, my voice barely more than a breath.
There’s a pause. He knows. He knows what’s going on. He’s been here before.
“I’ll be right there,” he says, his voice filled with something I can’t quite place. “Go to the office.”
I hang up, too shaky to say anything else. My heart is thundering in my chest, the fear growing with every step as I make my way to the office. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere. I just want to go home.
Inside the office, I walk up to the woman behind the desk, her eyes soft with sympathy as she takes in the state I’m in. My heart feels like it’s being squeezed and tugged on, but I push the words out anyway.
“I’m really not feeling well,” I say, my voice cracking. “I already called my dad.”
She nods, her face softening as she reaches for the phone. “Of course, sweetheart. I’ll let you know when he gets here.”
I find a seat on the worn-out couch, sinking into its familiar discomfort. My heart pounds in my chest as I wait, the seconds stretching into an agonizing eternity.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want the lights or the questions or this stupid, scratchy couch.
I don’t want comfort from strangers.
I don’t want to be brave.
I just want to go home. I just want my dad.
***
Time slips away, the minutes blending into an hour, maybe even more. Exhaustion washes over me, and I find myself drifting off into a restless sleep.
And then, the door bursts open. Two police officers walk in, their faces tense, their eyes determined.
My stomach churns, and I know, deep down, that something is wrong.
They speak to the woman behind the desk, but their words are a blur.
It’s all muffled noise to me. They turn their attention to me, and it’s like I can feel their eyes on me even before they speak.
“Adeline Ross?” one of them asks, his voice low and filled with something I don’t understand.
“Y-yes,” I answer, the word sticking in my throat.
“We’re truly sorry to inform you,” he begins, and my stomach drops, a terrible sensation that makes it feel like I’m falling into a bottomless pit. “your father, John Ross, was involved in a terrible accident on his way here. I’m afraid… he didn’t make it.”
No.
The world stops. My mind can’t process it, can’t grasp it, and yet, I hear the words again, and again. He didn’t make it.
The room spins, and for a split second, I think I’m going to pass out.
This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.
“That’s not possible.” My voice breaks as the tears come. I can’t stop them. “Please tell me it’s not true.”
But their faces remain unchanged. The pity in their eyes is more than I can bear.
It’s not real. It’s a nightmare. Please let it be a nightmare.
But it’s not. It’s real.
A sob escapes me, ragged and desperate, and it fills the room, echoing against the walls. I want to scream. But I can’t. It’s all gone, and I’m left here, broken.
A thought slips through my mind, dark and poisonous.
It’s my fault. If I hadn’t called him to pick me up, he would still be here.
Oh my god.
It’s my fault.
The room seems to spin around me; and everything hurts and aches so much, I just want it all to stop. I beg for help. I beg, for once, for the help of anyone. Please take it all away. Please.
My chest feels tight, suffocating, and I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t do anything but cry. How long have I been crying? An eternity. A lifetime. It doesn’t matter anymore.
I don’t know how long I cry for. All I know is it hurts.
Addie
Seven years ago
The school bell rings its final chime, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I swear time goes ten times slower in school. So torturously slow. I walk to the spot where my dad always picks me up. The same spot. The same routine. But everything feels different now. He’s been distant lately, quieter.
I settle into the passenger seat, and a sigh escapes my lips before I can stop it. I don’t know why I’m so tired. But I am.
My dad’s voice breaks the silence, soft and warm, like it always is. “How was school, sweetheart?” he asks, his eyes focused on the road ahead. The tone of his voice is the same, but there’s something underneath it. Something I can’t put my finger on.
I look at him, but it’s hard to hold his gaze. “It was the same as always, Dad,” I reply, letting my frustration seep through my words. “Have you already picked up Naomi and Sam?”
“About an hour ago. They’re at home already,” he responds, his voice steady.
I nod, not really hearing him. My mind is already somewhere else. Somewhere far away.
There’s a brief pause, as if my dad is searching for the right words. I can sense the longing in his voice as he asks, “Did you make any new friends today, Addie?”
I can’t suppress a bitter chuckle that escapes my lips. “No, Dad,” I say, my voice tinged with frustration. “You ask me that question every day, and you know I’m always going to give you the same answer.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can see his face fall. I wish I could take the words back.
Well now I feel bad.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling slightly guilty. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
He smiles. “It’s alright, Addie,” he says gently, “I know how hard school can be.”
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat making it hard to breathe. I know what he means. But it’s not just school. It’s everything. The streets outside the window blur, familiar at first, but then they begin to look different. The scenery shifts.
This isn’t the way home.
“Um, Dad,” I begin, my voice uncertain, almost hesitant. “This isn’t the way home, is it?”
He glances at me briefly, his face unreadable. “No, it’s not, Addie,” he replies, his voice steady. “I have to take care of something first. It won’t take long, I promise.”
I want to ask more, to press him, but something in his tone makes me hold back. I trust him. I do. More than anything. So I don’t question it.
The car slows to a stop, and my heart skips a beat. This place… it doesn’t feel right. The streets are dimly lit, shadows pooling in dark corners like something waiting to crawl out. The car is parked near an alley, one I don’t recognize, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Why would he need to go to an alley?
Dad turns to me, his face calm. “I’ll be right back, Addie,” he says softly, his voice trying to reassure me, but I hear something different beneath it. “Stay in the car and lock the doors. I won’t be long.”
His words don’t settle me. I nod, but my fingers tremble on the door handle. He doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see how everything in my body is screaming that this isn’t right. This is wrong. This is so wrong.
Addie
Four years ago
In my bedroom, I’ve almost finished the remainder of my homework.
Honestly, I’m really proud of my progress lately.
My grades have improved drastically, and my teachers tell me they’re proud too.
Sometimes, I wish my parents would too, but lately it seems as though their world revolves solely around Mason.
Especially Mother, who seems to care about absolutely everything apart from her youngest daughter.
I glance over at the door to my room, a soft pang in my chest. Wouldn’t it be nice if someone looked at me like they were proud of me? But no. The only one they seem to care about lately is Mason. Mason and his successes. Mason and his competitions. Mason and his… everything.
I try not to let the bitterness linger. I try not to mind that my mother’s attention has shifted entirely onto him, that I’ve become a ghost in this house. But sometimes, it hurts. Sometimes, I want to scream.
The sound of the door opening and slamming shut downstairs pulls me from my thoughts, and I freeze. What was that? It sounds a bit scary, so I’m guessing it’s probably Naomi angry about something again. Except her footsteps don’t sound like that. This sounds… off.
I hesitate, heart pounding, then creep down the stairs, trying to make myself small, trying to remain unnoticed, I’m pretty good at that. I round the corner into the kitchen, and to my surprise, I see Mason.
He’s pacing around the kitchen like a crazy person and acting a bit stranger than usual. A bottle dangles loosely from his hand, and I can see the blood, fresh and dark, smeared across his cheek, dripping down his nose like it’s nothing. He’s bleeding. But he doesn’t even seem to notice.
My stomach churns as I watch him. The sight of him, whether it’s his movements, or his eyes…
something makes him so far removed from the brother I once knew.
It fills me with a cold, nameless dread.
I open my mouth, but the words feel stuck.
“Mace?” My voice shakes despite myself. I try to hide my shock, to act like I’m not terrified.
When he finally looks at me, my breath catches in my throat. I recognize that look, I’ve seen that look before and it scared me more than anything.
His eyes are bloodshot, wild, and there’s something in them that makes the air in the room feel thick, suffocating. A flicker of recognition, or maybe something darker, flashes across his face. And in that moment, I realize just how far gone he is.
Who even are you?
He starts moving toward me, and I instinctively take a step back, my body screaming for space, away from the boy that’s supposed to be my brother.
But my feet won’t move fast enough. His grip on my wrist is tight, too tight, and I stumble toward him.
He pulls me in so close, I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
There’s something else, though. Something rotten and unfamiliar, a sickness that seems to radiate from him.
His sweat is slick on his forehead, and for a moment, he looks like he’s about to break.
But then, just as suddenly, he lets go, making me almost fall backward. Mason wipes his mouth and laughs a bit manically. “I can’t even look at you,” he spits and glares at me with the kind of disgust I’d expect from my classmates, not my brother.
The bottle in his hand crashes against the wall next to me with such force that I flinch, my whole body jolting with the impact.
“Get out of my sight before I do something I regret,” he warns, and his voice is hollow and dark, and I wonder what the hell happened to him.
I don’t need to be told twice. Racing up the stairs, I retreat to my room, heart pounding, and wondering what I managed to do wrong this time.
I just sit there, curled up in a ball and leaning against the door, listening to the tortured sounds of my brother echoing from downstairs; wishing I could help, but knowing he doesn’t love me enough for that.