21. Preston #2
Marcus, June, and Andrew are in the snow, photographed under a white tree.
Marcus is tiny, bundled in a puffy red jacket, his cheeks flushed, looking no older than six or seven.
Andrew stands behind him, his hand on his shoulder, his face unreadable.
June is grinning wide as she holds Marcus’s gloved hand and stares at the camera.
I take the frame without thinking. There’s something…familiar about his face.
There’s a tug somewhere under my ribs, like déjà vu that just won’t manifest. A memory that I shouldn’t have forgotten.
I put it back as if I’ve been electrocuted.
Strange.
The stairs creak under my feet as I go up. They’re narrow, clean, and have a dark-orange carpet runner. I find the door to his room at the end of the hallway, and it opens into a space that is so…Marcus.
It’s organized. Not military neat—just intentional. Tools on a shelf. Books stacked in straight lines. Several hockey trophies are collecting dust on top of a dresser that’s too small for them.
Now that I’m looking through them, there’s a lot.
And I mean a lot. About five MVP awards.
Most Improved Player award. Top scorer plaques—seriously, highest scorer?
I vote fake. Tournament medals. Coach’s award—he bribed him, no doubt.
A puck collection. A sportsmanship award.
Like how the fuck does he deserve such an award?
He obviously holds one hell of a grudge in everything.
He acts so nonchalant at times, I almost fall for the facade, but then he shows his true colors like a perfect sadist.
Asshole.
I sit on his bed, and the mattress dips beneath my weight.
Everything smells like him. The sheets, the pillow. Clean, woodsy soap, and something metallic and warm that shouldn’t make my chest do whatever it’s currently doing.
The room hums with that quiet, lived-in warmth I’ve never had in any of my homes, and my brain probably should be mocking this sentimentality.
I’ve never really had a home.
When my parents were married, I was more plagued by their fights, but maybe that was my home. Because at least at that time, I was surrounded by both my parents, who doted on me in their own way. Then there was Mom’s house—the one from hell. And then back to Dad’s house.
It was never the same after that. It just…wasn’t.
There’s Jude’s place lately, but we both know it’s temporary and barely lived-in. We spend more time outside than inside.
There’s nothing of…this. Whatever this is.
In every corner of Marcus’s home exists affection and warmth I’ve never experienced. Despite the chipped edges and marks, there are also signs of a childhood well spent, like the wall where June’s scribbled Marcus’s height alongside his age and countless hearts.
Mom would’ve never done that. It’s not that she didn’t love me; she did, more than Dad, probably. But her affection fluctuated depending on her mood.
One day, we’d be shopping and doing some cosplay and singing all over the house, and the next, she’d be drinking and grumbling and whining about Dad nonstop.
Whining and whining and fucking whining.
I wonder if June did the same about Andrew.
She better have. I already hate that prick Marcus more since I stepped into his house, seeing just what type of privileged upbringing he had.
Sure, I might be richer, but he has something a lot more valuable than money.
A parent who protected him when he needed protection.
I sink sideways on the mattress, staring at Marcus’s desk in front of me.
This is…weird.
I shouldn’t be here in Marcus’s house, in his bed, but I don’t move as I inhale him sharply, briefly closing my eyes.
Just a second.
It’ll only be a second.
Dark.
It’s all so…very dark.
Even the stars that used to accompany me are gone, their neon light snuffed out by the black fog that’s dragging me under.
A dense wave of smoke scrapes down my throat, and my stomach heaves in response, on the verge of spilling my guts on the floor.
But I can’t move.
It’s as if my body is made of heavy cement that keeps on sinking me down.
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
Just silence.
And the dark.
There’s so much of it—the dark. Layers upon layers upon layers of pitch-black that cram into my throat, invisible hands asphyxiating me.
I can’t breathe.
A creak filters through from the door. The haunting squeak is low, but it crushes through my bones.
A frantic thump-thump-thump bleeds through the silence. It’s too fast, too loud, and I try to shield my ears.
No. It’s not coming from outside.
It’s coming from the cage in my chest.
The desperate drumbeat against my ribs intensifies with each breath that fogs in the air.
No.
I try to fight the black, to thrash out, but the cement poured on my body imprisons me in place. I can see my own limbs, but my skin is stretched tight, detached, and far away, floating in the void.
These limbs don’t belong to me.
I don’t belong to me.
The darkness shifts, transforming into a suffocating presence—a heavy velvet curtain draped over my face. The weight steals my breath, and nausea spikes hard, but I don’t throw up.
I can’t.
The thump-thump-thump accelerates, a chaotic rhythm of panic. It’s no longer my heart that’s beating in my ears. It’s the sound of a hammer driving a nail into soft wood. A sound scraping the inside of my head.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Mommy.
Daddy.
Help.
I can’t breathe.
Please help me breathe.
I can’t…breathe.
I scream, but only a low, haunting voice comes out.
The stars slowly return to the ceiling, shining brighter, and I can see them dangling toward me.