Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
By the time we get home, I am utterly exhausted. Mentally and physically drained. Too many emotions in one day, and I am even more confused. How could my sister's body be gone? I have no doubt she is dead; I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and a corpse doesn't just walk away.
Latham is quiet for most of the drive home; he appears to be thinking while all I can think of is the house.
I wish I had waited outside. The entire drive home, I keep reliving that night.
Reliving every damn day in a horrible place, questioning everything I’ve ever heard, everything I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot living in that house.
You don't have the father I had without seeing things no child should see.
I still remember the night mum was tossed on our curb.
We spent days looking for her. She went to get groceries, and a few days later, we woke to the screech of tires racing down the street before a screeching halt and yelling.
My sister and I ran to the living room only to hear gunfire.
The front door was wide open while my father stood on the front lawn firing shots at the retreating car.
All while my mother lay naked and beaten in the gutter, drenched in her own blood.
My father ushered us into our room before locking us in our room.
I will never forget that night; it is one thing that’s stayed with me—his wailing while my mother kept telling him she was alive, she was OK, but nothing about that was OK.
It was the first time I had ever seen my father afraid.
"Bella?" Blaine's voice pulls me from my memories.
I haven't even realized the car had stopped. I look up at him and quickly glance around. We are home. Walking up the stairs, I feel like I am on autopilot. I pull my keys from my handbag when they suddenly disappear from my grip.
"Where are you going?" Latham asks.
I stare at him, confused, before Xavier steers me toward their apartment. Yet I suddenly crave nothing more than to be alone with my thoughts. I hate that they could pick up on my energy and read me so clearly; I don't want them to feel like me, dead inside.
"Shower, then bed," Latham demands.
I don't even have the energy to argue. Bed sounds good, and for once, I am glad someone is telling me what to do.
* * *
Sleeping is a terrible idea. My dreams are plagued with one particular night.
I can even smell him. He has a specific scent, one that is sickly sweet.
I have woken to his hand stroking through my hair.
I have tugged the blankets up to my chin, and the ghostly shadow tilts his head before sharp, pointed teeth smile down at me, and the covering is suddenly gone.
My petrified scream rings out through the night, and I run toward the bedroom door and start banging on it, trying to get my parents’ attention.
This seems to amuse him as he watches slowly moving closer to me, and I rush to my cupboard, as he reaches toward me, ducking under the ghostly-looking hand as his finger runs through my hair. I feel my hair pull painfully from my scalp as I slip into the cupboard, the pain making me cry out.
I watch him through the gaps, watch the way he taps on the door, the spooky rattling sound that leaves him every time he breathes.
He would just stand and wait like I would answer the door.
It is a game to him, just a way to instill more fear.
His shoulders shake as he laughs, a deep cackle that sends terror through me.
He never speaks, and his silence is sometimes the scariest. The lights flick on, and he disappears, just vanishes.
I instantly scream and hang onto my clothes when the doors open, already knowing what would happen next; it is always the same.
They never believe me. I see my father standing there, having been woken by my screams. My mother walks in, shaking her head as my father grips my legs, dragging me from the closet.
"No, no, no!" I scream, begging and pleading. "He's right there, right there. Dad, please!"
"Stop it. You are being ridiculous. There is nothing there. Nothing," he says, trying to stop my thrashing before gripping my waist and hoisting me up.
He tosses me on my bed. My mother yawns like this is just a standard routine. In a sense, it is. But each night, the horror of him gets worse, the fear gets worse because I am not sure whether or not I am, in fact, crazy or truly seeing him.
"Arabella, stop this! Every goddamn night," my mother says as my father holds me down.
My mother pulls the cuffs from my bedhead. I have lost count of the number of times I tried to break the padlock to remove them from my bed's frame. I try to escape my father's firm grip but am no match.
"He's right there. Just look, look," I urge, but they ignore me when my mother pulls a syringe from the pocket of her dressing gown.
She stabs me in the thigh and presses the plunger down. My thrashing slows, my body going numb as I try to fight back until I am left completely paralyzed.
"Dad, please!"
"It won't hurt you," he says when my mother leaves.
He walks out of the room, taking the light with him.
Leaving me paralyzed in the dark with the monster that lurks next to my bed.
I breathe harder as I watch him step forward; he tugs the blankets back and strokes my arm, my legs, every piece of skin showing.
My heart thumps in my ears, and I blink, trying to remain awake, fighting the darkness as the drugs wash through my system, my eyes becoming too heavy to stay open when I feel my pants sliding down my legs, his smile haunting my dreams.
* * *
I gasp, sitting upright and looking around the darkened room. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and my body moved quickly as I scramble over for the lamp and flick it on as I jump to my feet, looking for the ghostly figure. Then hands grip my arms.