Theo’s Epilogue
Theo’s Epilogue
It was the scent of strawberries and honey that woke him this morning—like it did every other.
Theo tightened his arms around Audrey and nestled closer, breathing in deep, awake but unwilling to open his eyes.
Not yet.
When she no longer smelled like coffee, temporarily on her days off back when they first met, and permanently after she’d finally quit her job at the café, he thought she smelled like summer: all sunshine and sweetness and light.
It made sense. That’s what she was to him, so of course she’d smell that way.
He buried his nose in her hair now, letting the heady, sleepy warmth of her body curving against his wash over him, soothe him, settle into his bones. He wasn’t ready to wake up fully—not yet. He needed more time.
He’d always needed more time.
It was sweeter this way, savoring her like this, like she was one of his dreams. Because for him, she was. She was his most beautiful dream.
And every time he opened his eyes, he was terrified he’d find that she was only a dream.
He was terrified to find himself alone again.
The accident was exactly two years and five days ago.
Theo knew because he counted: another day he managed to beat back the looming specter of death was another victory in the game of life. Another tally added to his scoreboard.
One more tick mark.
One more point.
One more win.
But it was one year, ten months, and twenty days since he woke up alone in his house for the first time after he’d lost his father—and himself.
Every bit of his body and mind had felt like they were being torn apart and burned away.
And he’d considered throwing the game entirely.
One year, ten months, and twenty days ago
PAIN.
Searing, incredible pain shattered across his face when Theo rolled over onto his right side in his sleep. All of a sudden his pillow was made of broken glass, stabbing and tearing into his skin, driving an ice pick straight into his brain.
He screamed.
He flipped onto his back again, fumbling for the pain pills on the table next to his bed.
But his hand was shaking too hard, and he couldn’t quite grab the bottle.
His stitches were only freshly out of the wounds on his arm and they were still raw, still red, still aching, but no longer bleeding.
At least, not on the outside. But his grip was still shot, his nerves still damaged, his skin still burning, constant pins and needles and electric static jolting down his shoulder and across his palm to the tips of his fingers.
He leaned too far to the side and nearly passed out from the pressure on his right hip.
Theo froze in his bed, gasping like a fish out of water, and even that movement was painful, given how difficult it was to open his mouth wide with the lingering swelling from his wound. The ragged way he sucked for air through the fire searing across his body and face made his throat burn.
Coming home alone this early was a disaster.
It was stupid.
Fucking idiotic.
Why did he demand this?
He coughed, drew in a slow, steadying breath, and finally managed to grab the little amber bottle, holding it still enough to twist the cap open with his left hand before immediately swallowing two pills dry.
He rolled back onto his pillow and traced every bit of their journey down his esophagus, watching the shadows dance on his ceiling with his one good eye and trying not to panic when the meds slowed their descent and stuck in his throat.
Why did he insist on coming back so soon?
Everything was fuzzy. He couldn’t even remember coming home.
He did have a few memories: the sound of shattering glass and him screaming at someone—his mother, probably—while he was standing upright, leaning heavily against a wall for support.
Then a different kind of screaming, a gut-wrenching wail, doubled over and anguished, as if his soul were being ripped apart.
Wetness on his face. His hand tugging at his hair.
A deep, aching sense of emptiness and disgust.
Aside from that? Not much. There were only vague impressions of movement, the sensation of rocking, and the feeling of someone helping him up the stairs, a familiar, soothing male voice murmuring while a strong arm held him steady at his back.
He glanced over at the cane propped up next to the bed. It was one of those aluminum ones with four feet and a curved, padded handle, telescoping and set almost at its maximum for his height. He hated it. He fucking hated it.
This was what he’d been reduced to:
A cripple.
He blinked, and the memory of bright, approaching lights flashed in his mind, blinding him anew.
His world shattered again along with it.
Dad’s dead.
Nothing but glassy eyes surrounded by crumpled steel.
Oh.
Right.
That was why.
It was because being in that house again had been unbearable.
His breathing stuttered now under the sheer weight of it.
Dad’s dead, his corpse buried deep and rotting in the ground, and it’s your fault.
A tear slipped out of his left eye and rolled down the side of his face.
Theo didn’t remember much, but he did remember being trapped in his mother’s house. The feeling of those old, white walls and low ceilings closing in around him.
It’s all your fault.
The smell of musty, aging wood, painted over in a dozen layers. Too-short doorways he had to duck under. Whispers outside his room, talking about him in hushed tones, thinking he couldn’t hear.
His ears hadn’t been damaged in the slightest.
He wished they had.
You killed him.
The sensation of wanting to tear his skin off if only to relieve the incessant guilt crawling beneath it like spiders skittering along his bones, and the horrible, crushing knowledge that even if that were an option, he couldn’t. He wasn’t capable anymore.
YOUR FAULT.
He held up his right hand.
You’re the shame of the Redmond legacy.
The biggest disappointment this family has seen in generations.
It shook so violently, he couldn’t even grip a drinking glass for fear of dropping or shattering it. It was only his cup from the hospital with its plastic handle and wide, clear straw and leak-proof top that he could manage now.
You killed your own father.
A fucking sippy cup for a grown man.
He didn’t want to touch it.
It sat empty on his bedside table.
You deserve to die too.
It was useless.
He was useless.
What could he do with his life now, like this?
You’re a piece of shit.
Fucking garbage.
Lloyd was right all along.
Theo turned onto his left side. His blackout shades were down, but he was sure it was afternoon already. It didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered anymore.
He thought about the little amber bottle sitting next to his bed. There were more pills in there. Everything hurt. Maybe he should take another dose—or two. Maybe three, or four.
Or twelve.
But that would mean he’d have to try to open it again.
He closed his eyes.
Maybe if he did, he wouldn’t wake up this time.
It’d be a relief, in the end.
One year, nine months, and seventeen days ago, Theo left his house by himself for the first time.
He wouldn’t have if Amelia hadn’t made him.
He sat across from her now, gripping his cane tightly in both hands, twisting it over and over again. Maybe this time, he’d manage to break it. Maybe—
“I’m really glad you made it out here, Theo. It’s nice to see your face.”
“No, it’s not,” he spat without thinking.
He swallowed bitterly, closed his left eye, and shoved his cane to the side.
His right eye was still buried under layers of gauze.
Last week had seen another reconstruction surgery to his face, trying to more elegantly piece together his shattered cheekbones beneath the wound slashing across it, marring the vision he had of himself—not that he’d had the courage to actually look in a mirror yet.
He hadn’t truly seen himself in months.
And, of course, there was the titanium plate holding those cheekbones together. Screws mixed with sinew, metal and muscle, welded permanently inside his head.
He’d die with that in his face now.
Ironic, really. It was metal that tore him apart and nearly killed him. And now it was the only thing holding him together, both there and in his hip. The reason he’d been injured in the first place was the only reason he could walk. What had ripped open his face had patched it back up.
If there was a god, he sure had a wicked sense of humor.
Fuck him.
Theo didn’t find him at all funny.
“It is nice to see you in person. I’ve been really worried about you.
” Amelia dug her bare feet into the soft carpet between them and leaned forward to gently squeeze his hand, her lavender-dyed hair swirling around her kind face like grape cotton candy.
It was one of the reasons he’d picked her as his therapist years ago, her choice of hair color.
She liked to keep it bright, or pastel. Never natural.
Always cheerful. It was part of her style, her art.
Theo liked that.
He did love color, even if he didn’t wear it much himself.
“I can barely see you.” His left eye watered.
When he lifted a hand to wipe the tear away, a button on his sleeve brushed too close to the gauze on the right side of his face.
It snagged and pulled, and he cried out and recoiled, then flinched again at the fresh wave of pain rolling swiftly on the heels of the first.
Even minor expressions were excruciating.
His therapist tilted her head at him, her brows knitting into a soft frown. “Are you not taking your pain meds?” He shook his head slowly, and her look of horror grew. “Theo, you just had surgery. You’re still recovering. You need—”
“I don’t want to take them.”
“Why not?”
Because you’re a piece of shit who killed his own father.
Fuck.
He’d been here for a whole five minutes and Amelia was already poking around in dangerous territory.
And unfortunately, she knew him well enough to read when he was lying.