Chapter 4 Reverie #3
Through swimming vision, I get on all fours and search around, finally locating it halfway beneath my bed. I unlock it and find several missed calls from Sable.
I always text her to let her know when I’m home, and considering she knew something was going to happen, I'm sure she's been losing her mind. She’s going to lose it even more when she hears what he’s done.
My hands shake as I click on her name and call her.
It doesn’t make it through the second ring before she’s picking up.
“?Por qué carajo no me has contestado?” she barks through the phone.
I groan and crawl closer to the bed before dropping my forehead onto the mattress.
“Don’t make me think, Sable.”
On a good day, I can understand most of her Spanish, but right now, I can barely understand my own thoughts. They’re racing too fast for me to decipher. All I can do is feel pure fucking anxiety because of the pile of plastic body parts behind me.
It’s like my lungs have grown paranoid and revere oxygen as toxic, battling with my brain on accepting the poison.
“I’m coming to you now,” she says sharply, likely sensing the turmoil in my voice. “Are you in your room?”
“Mhm. Dummy chopped up. Bring stuff,” I mumble, hoping like hell she can figure out what the fuck I mean.
“Are you fucking kid—” She cuts herself off to go on a tirade in Spanish with the occasional English word mixed in.
I don’t bother paying attention, and instead, I put all my focus on coercing my lungs to just fucking expand.
At some point, she clips out that she’s on her way, then the line goes dead.
I’m not sure how much time passes before I force myself to stand on shaky legs and open the CDCR website, my heart thudding heavily. It only takes thirty seconds to get to the site and type in his inmate number.
In custody.
Somewhere deep down, I’m relieved. But despondence encases my brain, like a thick shell squeezing it and rendering it incapable of feeling anything else.
I’m just… so fucking sad.
Defeated, I toss the phone on my bed, then peel off the cold, damp clothing from last night, wrap a robe around my shivering, clammy body, and trudge to the showers.
The second I’m standing beneath the hot water, I tackle the Sharpie staining my skin, scrubbing at the numbers until my flesh is bright red and rubbed raw. Even with only faint remnants of the ink remaining, the dates are just as bold as when he first wrote them.
Inhaling a shuddering breath, I lift my face to the stream and hold my breath.
Except, the silence invites in the events of last night.
My throat tightens as I try to wrestle away the memories and focus on counting.
However, I'm unable to control the sob from bubbling up my throat, bursting my control and causing me to release my breath after only seventy-eight seconds.
I slap a hand over my mouth, desperately trying to breathe through the unbending urge to bawl my eyes out.
My sinuses burn, and my body jerks from the sobs forcing their way to the surface until I have no choice but to give in, my face crumpling as low whimpers leak through my clenched teeth and into my palm.
I drop into a crouch, holding my stomach with one arm while my other hand continues to firmly cup my mouth. Then I bow my head and cry.
For how long, I'm unsure, too lost in agony and turmoil to have any bearing on the time.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, awareness of my surroundings creeps in, and I pray no one walks in and hears me.
It triggers my instincts to battle down the storm of emotions and bloody memories plaguing me until I can shove them all into a dusty bin in the backside of my brain where they can fester in the darkness with the rest of my trauma.
It takes a few minutes until I'm successful, but once the tears recede, I drop my hand as I lift my head back toward the spray, inhaling one last time before I restart my count.
My lips continue to wobble, like the emotions left behind a stain, but I make it to two hundred and two before my lungs burn, and I'm physically unable to hold it any longer without instincts taking over.
I release my breath, my head spinning as I tilt my face away from the water so I can focus on breathing.
I beat my previous record, but it feels abysmal when I realize I have Dread to thank for it.
Defeated, I stand and wash my hair before stepping out and quickly scurrying back to my dorm, a towel wrapped around my damp body. It's a small win no one came into the showers or lingered in the halls to see my red, puffy eyes.
I step into my room, keeping the mess firmly out of my vision as I slip on fleece-lined sweatpants and a matching pullover sweater.
I’ve just sat on the side of my bed and finished pulling on fuzzy socks when Sable comes flying into my room. I jump, my heart practically flying into outer space.
Admittedly, the suddenness of her arrival is slightly triggering after last night, which only amplifies the dangerous cocktail of anxiety and adrenaline swirling in my veins.
I bring my knees up to my chest, tuck my head down, and wrap my arms around them, rocking back and forth as I try not to descend into another panic attack.
She didn't even bust through the door aggressively, but I'm so on edge, an actual fly buzzing in probably would've sent me into a spiral just as easily.
Vaguely, I hear Sable’s sharp intake of breath, a few curse words, and then her footsteps rushing toward me.
“Come here, carino,” she coos, stopping before me and bringing me into her warm embrace, my forehead resting against her stomach as her orange blossom scent envelops me.
“You know what to do. Breathe in, and breathe out,” she coaches softly.
My body struggles to comply, though, prompting her to step back and gently tug at my arms.
“Look at me, Rev. Breathe in.”
I lift my head to see her bent at the waist so she's eye level with me, concern pinching her brows. I rest my chin on the tops of my knees, my chest finally expanding enough to draw in a deep breath.
“Good,” she whispers soothingly. “Now, breathe out.”
I do, and after a few more minutes of her guiding me through the exercise, my heart rate slows, and my lungs finally realize they’re not being poisoned.
Her features sharpen as my vision clears. She cups my face in her warm palms, studying my face carefully with a frown. Gently, her thumbs wipe away a couple of tears that broke free.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, fighting back a fresh round teasing the edges of my eyes. “It’s not even real.”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” she clips, though her rage is reserved only for Dread. She doesn’t even have to ask who did it.
It’s always him.
“I couldn't fucking sleep last night,” she tells me, her voice trembling.
“I tried to come check on you, but I couldn't get out of my goddamn driveway.
Mi papá just finished helping me plow my driveway five minutes before you called, so if you hadn't, I would've shown up within the next ten minutes, anyway.”
I shake my head, and whisper, “It's okay.”
I almost tell her I wasn't even home, but I can't get myself to focus on much outside of that fucking dummy.
“I-I thought it was the copycat who did it at first,” I admit, my voice cracking.
“He knows what I wrote in that letter to the board, so I thought maybe he is working with the copycat and had him send me a message. It doesn’t even matter it wasn’t Lionel this time, because he's still going to kill me when he gets—”
“Hey, hey. He can’t get to you here, okay?” Sable quickly cuts in. “You’re safe, and Dread’s just a sick fucking asshole.”
I nod, though her words do little to assure me.
Sophomore year, I was dating my first college boyfriend, Matt, and he’d just broken up with me. I got too drunk, made Sable come pick me up, and proceeded to spill the fucking beans about… well, everything. But especially the promise I made Lionel when I was six.
I held on to that secret for so long, and I needed to tell someone. My volatile emotions from the breakup lit the match, and the near-poisonous amount of alcohol sloshing around in my stomach made it go boom. The truth exploded out of me, and there was no stopping it.
Afterward, I fully expected Sable to judge me. Instead, she held me while I cried, transforming her from a best friend to my second emergency contact.
Naturally, I told her about Lionel getting out of prison. There’s no one else to tell but her.
While I absolutely adore both her parents, who treat me like a second daughter, they’re some of the few people who know little about the Locksmith and his crimes, let alone that he’s my father.
Sable insists they’d never hold it against me, but I’m not willing to risk them looking at me differently.
When someone learns about the Locksmith, it’s inevitable they learn about me and my mother, too, and they either share the public’s opinion, or they believe he’s guilty. Which means they either stand by my public support of him, or they believe me to be complicit. Both options fucking suck.
Either way, I am complicit.
“Did Dread find out about your father getting released yet?”
It’s impossible to contain the guilt creeping into my features. Noticing, she gives me a stern ‘what the fuck did you do now?’ look.
“No,” I say, my voice small.
I grab the letter from my nightstand, where I set it before I undressed earlier, and hesitantly hand it to her.
Frowning, she sits on the bed beside me, and as she reads over the mailing and return address, several emotions play across her face: confusion, shock, denial, and ultimately, horror.
“Is this… is this a letter informing him of Lionel’s release?” she asks cautiously as she looks up at me, like she doesn't truly want to know the answer.
I tighten my lips into a firm line, giving away my answer, and she gasps.
“Reverie, you didn’t,” she whispers, her eyes rounding.