36. Preston
PRESTON
Fais dodo, mon petit trésor,
Maman veille, même quand il fait noir.
Ferme les yeux, garde bien ton ciel,
Si je pars, je serai dans tes ailes.
Dors, mon c?ur, oublie les voix,
Quand tu trembles, pense seulement à moi.
Si demain je ne suis plus là,
Dans tes rêves, je te prendrai dans mes bras.
Mom?
I blink, and her soft face blurs into focus. She looks like Dr. Duret with her gentle features and high cheekbones, her chestnut hair, and thin lips.
Her arms are wrapped around me tightly as she rocks back and forth, stroking my back. Her brittle voice carries on with the lullaby.
It’s that night she left me all over again.
Was she trembling this much? Was her voice shaking like this?
Could it be that I was so overwhelmed by the feeling of safety that I blocked just how much she was struggling to stay afloat?
The lullaby drifts and drifts. The words are different from the usual “Fais dodo, Colas mon p’tit frère,” which she often sang to me before bed.
Why didn’t I notice it back then?
The French words seep into my head like tendrils of smoke, their meaning slowly ripping through me.
Go to sleep, my little treasure.
Mama’s watching, even when it’s dark.
Close your eyes, hold tight to your sky,
If I leave, I’ll be there tucked in your wings.
Sleep, my heart, forget the voices,
When you tremble, just think of me.
If tomorrow I’m no longer here,
In your dreams, I’ll still hold you in my arms.
My throat closes as I register the last two lines. She was saying goodbye?
“Mom…” I croak, reaching out to her worn-out face. “Don’t leave me.”
“Mon chou (My darling), my love…” She strokes my hair, eyes shining in the dim light. “Mommy was such a bad mom. I’m so sorry.”
“No…no…I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too, trésor. You grew up into such a handsome young man.” She kisses my forehead, her lips shaking against my skin.
“I’m so proud of how far you’ve come. I’m proud you didn’t follow me.
You survived better than me during all these years, Pressie.
You’re way stronger than me. I hope you know that, my sweet boy. ”
“No, I’m so weak, Mom.”
“No, you’re not. I am. It hurt so much, I chose to leave, but you chose to stay despite the pain. You’re an admirable survivor, mon petit (my little one).”
My throat closes, my nose tingling as tears well in my eyes. “But you can’t stay for me?”
“It’s not good for you if I stay, Pres.”
“Take me with you, then.”
“No. You have so many people waiting for you, mon amour (my love).” She hugs me close, singing in French.
“Sleep, my heart, forget the voices. When you tremble, just think of me. If tomorrow I’m no longer here, in your dreams, I’ll still hold you in my arms…
If tomorrow I’m no longer here, in your dreams I’ll still hold you in my arms… ”
I open my eyes, and the first thing I notice is the lack of warm arms wrapped around me.
Then stinging pain follows, spreading across my chest and all the way to my bones.
My tongue feels so heavy in my mouth, and it tastes like sandpaper. Flashing light creeps into my vision, and I groan softly.
Is this hell or something?
My head is groggy, running through all the glamorous options that led to my death.
Flashes of memories trickle in, all jagged and distorted.
Noises and screams and pop, pop, pop—
“Preston…baby…please…”
I gulp, jerking up, then grunting when pain explodes all over my body.
Fuck.
Marcus.
It was Marcus who held me in my last moments, right?
Fuck.
What have I done?
Or maybe I hallucinated that? Was I so desperate to see him one final time that I made it all up?
Firm, strong hands push me back. “Preston, you need to stay calm.”
Long bursts of air rip out of my lungs as Dad’s serious face materializes in front of me.
Wait, if I’m in hell, he shouldn’t be here, too.
I mean, not so soon, at least.
Then, little by little, my surroundings come into focus. I’m in what seems like a luxurious-looking hospital room decorated with a sofa and two chairs opposite it.
My father watches closely from beside me as an army of doctors and nurses fuss over me, running tests and making me drink water.
I go with it, not fighting, not grumbling, not being a dramatic, little bitch.
Because I’m slowly coming to a realization.
If it hurts this much and Dad is acting so serious, then it means I didn’t die, right?
I made a stupid decision in one impulsive moment, but I’m still here.
I’m alive.
My heart roars, beating so loudly.
For someone who’s wished for death my entire life, I’ve never loved feeling so alive this fucking much.
The doctor tells Dad something about remarkable improvement and tissue repairs and says he’ll prescribe a few things, but I’m barely listening.
Hey, fancy doctor, I want out of here. I want to…what?
Go to Marcus, and be like, “Sike, bet you thought you’d never see me again.”
I need a better plan.
Wait.
I remember the godforsaken letter that I hope to fuck Hayes defied orders for once and didn’t send, and I kind of slump back into the bed.
Dad sits on the edge, and I push back against the headboard. Whoa. That’s the closest he’s been to me in ages.
“Am I dead after all?” I croak, my voice husky and slightly raw. “Is this my punishment? Being strapped to a hospital bed even in the afterlife?”
Dad lets out a long sigh that says without words, Here goes the Preston shenanigans again.
He looks like his usual self in a camel three-piece suit, but there are bags under his eyes, as if he hasn’t slept a wink in ages.
“Be serious, Preston,” he says finally.
“I am serious. This could pass the vibe check for my torture chamber—don’t need hellfire for that. Quick question, how much do they pay you down here to have those baggy eyes? What’s the currency of hell?”
His lips twitch in a small smile, and I gulp.
This is creeping me out now.
“It’s good to have you back, son.” He plants his palm on the back of my hand. “How are you feeling?”
I can’t really focus on his question, because Dad is kind of holding my hand, which is totally like how he hugged me that day in my brain, and I’m starting to freak out.
Panic attack in three, two…
“Did someone die?” I whisper, my lips trembling.
Did they get Violet after all? What if it’s Marcus—
No. No. Fuck no.
“Many people died, but they deserved it,” Dad says. “The gunmen and your grandmother.”
“Granny?”
“Yes. She ordered a hit on Violet. You were right in your overly dramatic personal will—Violet is family. My half-sister, to be precise.”
“Ha. I knew it! And it’s not overly dramatic, just the right type of dramatic. You’re just salty because I called you a robot. Also, hold on, did you say Grandma wanted her dead? What a plot twist! You didn’t defend her?”
“I wouldn’t defend someone who shot my son.”
I swallow thickly, feeling awkward at the sound of his firm, nonnegotiable tone. “I mean, she’s your mom.”
“That doesn’t give her carte blanche to hurt you.”
“So you killed her?”
“Didn’t have to.” He raises a brow. “You have so many people going on revenge sprees for you.”
“My bros, Jude and Kane!” I laugh, then stop abruptly when my chest explodes with pain. “I knew they’d have my back. Did they make it as painful as possible?”
“Yes.”
“Get it!” I cough and wheeze, and Dad helps me drink from a glass of water as he pats my shoulder.
Someone call the imposter police, because he’s never been this…well, affectionate. But maybe, like, call it after a while.
“You need to take it easy, Preston. You’ve been out for two weeks, and your body needs more time to recover.”
“Wait, hold up. Two weeks?”
“Two and a half if we count the days you’ve been awake but not fully conscious.”
“Oh.” I stare over Dad’s shoulder. “Where are Jude and Kane? Shouldn’t they be at my bedside? Violet, too. Even Dorita had better be here. Pretty sure I saved her ass, too, and she should be grateful for life.”
“No one but me is here.”
“Is there a game today?”
“No. Everyone just thinks you died.”
“What?”
Dad goes on a monologue about how he told the surgeon who took me into the operating room to announce that I’d died. Only Julian, Dad, and possibly Uncle Atlas know the truth.
The reason was that my life was truly in danger, and I had to be put under using Julian’s experimental coma-inducing drug. It worked, and I’m back to the world of the living.
But at what cost?
“You could’ve at least told Jude, Kane, and Miley.” And Marcus.
Fuck. Marcus thinks I died?
Dad said there was a funeral. I had a fucking funeral.
“No, it was too risky when I still hadn’t figured out who was behind the attack. I also needed Dad to excommunicate Mom, and he probably wouldn’t have done that if he’d known you were alive. The whole theatrical show needed to happen. Besides…” He trails off, and I catch my breath.
“Besides…?”
“I believe it’s a good idea for you to disappear.” His usually dead eyes soften a bit. “Leave the Armstrong name that suffocated you all these years.”
“You’re…kicking me out?”
“No, I’m giving you a way out of this life.” He frowns. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I don’t want to live my life alone without my friends or family, Dad! I don’t…want that.”
“Then what do you want? Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.
Whatever it is. No conditions, no buts. Just talk to me, Preston.
Tell me what it is you need so I don’t have to see footage of you baring your chest in front of a bullet or throwing yourself down the stairs or against walls or punching and bruising yourself.
Tell me what I need to do so you don’t go to empty houses and talk to an empty chair for hours.
” He almost chokes on his own words, then clears his throat.
“I failed you before, but I don’t want to fail you again.
I don’t want to watch you inviting death upon yourself any chance you get. ”
I press my shaking lips together. “Just…don’t kick me out.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t lock me up either.”
“I didn’t intend to do that.”
“But the visit to Dr. Fenwick…”
“Was just that—a visit.”
“But I mentioned Dr. Duret and Lenin. Surely you were planning to lock me up?”
“No. You had to visit Dr. Fenwick because you hadn’t seen him for a while, and when you mentioned Dr. Duret, I realized that we needed to do it urgently.
” A deep breath rips out of him as he tightens his grip on my hand.
“I know you don’t like small, confined places, and I’d never let them keep you in one again. You know that, right?”
“I don’t know, Dad. I really don’t.” There’s some water in my eyes that makes him all blurry. “I keep thinking one day I’ll screw up and you’ll leave…just like Mom. You’ll hug me and tell me you’re sorry, then leave.”
“I’d never do that. You hear me? I’d never…ever leave you.”
“Mom said that, too, but she didn’t keep her promise. And yes, I know she killed herself since I was a teen, Dad. Grandma gave me the suicide note she left me.”
“Your mother…” He swallows, straightening up. “Didn’t want to leave you either, not really.”
“Then why…”
“It was guilt and self-loathing. She only ever told me this in her suicide note, but it made a lot of sense. Valerie came from an extremely abusive household, which I already knew, but I didn’t know just how far the depravity in that place went.
In the note, Val said her parents sexually assaulted her and her three siblings, and she never forgave herself for being the one who got away.
Two of her siblings died of drug overdoses in the streets, and the third died in an accident while drunk driving.
Val was the only one who got out of France alive.
She thought she’d start a new life in America and have everything she never had when she was a kid, including a loving family, but that wasn’t her reality, as you’re aware. ”
“Why couldn’t you just stay with her, Dad?”
“I tried, but it was impossible. I woke up every day in fight mode, my muscles bunched for whatever disagreement she’d come up with.
That’s not how relationships should be. She didn’t really want to stay with me either.
You probably don’t know this, but we had an amicable divorce.
” He pauses, his voice dropping, sounding scraped.
“But you’re right, I should’ve stayed with her.
That way, you wouldn’t have gone through what you did. ”
“I don’t… It’s not…your fault. I don’t blame you or Mom.”
“You have every right to. We failed you as parents. Val knew that, and she felt it ten times worse because she invited what happened to her onto her son, and she couldn’t live with that.”
“She didn’t know. I’m the one who kept quiet and didn’t fight.” My voice breaks on the last word.
“No, Preston. No.” He clutches my shoulders. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened. You were a child. A victim. And victims should never blame themselves for their perpetrators’ actions.”
“But if I’d told you or Mom…”
He shakes his head. “Don’t think like that, okay? Don’t be trapped in a past you can’t change, son.”
Trapped in the past.
Is that what I’ve been doing all this time by refusing to let go or face it properly?
Instead of killing my seven-year-old self, have I actually been confined inside him, refusing to let him go?
“If you need to blame someone, blame me, okay?” Dad’s grip tightens around my shoulders.
“Blame me for not protecting you, for not seeing the signs, for not insisting you stay with me when you wanted to. Keep loathing me all you want, but don’t ever, ever blame yourself for something that was out of your control. ”
Two rivulets of tears fall down my cheeks as all my fucked-up emotions rush to the front. “I n-never hated you, Dad. I just…wanted you to stay.”
“I am staying, Preston. For however long you need me.”
He pulls me close, and I wrap my arms around him, shaking, trembling, even as striking bolts of pain slice through me.
Even as my chest crumbles and the little seven-year-old boy inside me disintegrates.
“Dad?” My lips tremble around the words.
“Yes?”
“What happened to him? Did Mom kill him that night?”
“No. He only lost consciousness.” His hand sweeps over my back in a slow, grounding stroke.
“I locked him in a cell and tortured him for years, only keeping him alive just so I could torture him again. I cut his dick off and made him choke on it for days. Unfortunately, he died a couple of years later due to an infection. Otherwise, I would’ve tortured him for a lifetime. ”
“Wow.” I chuckle through the tears, pulling away. “I didn’t know you could be this ruthless.”
He lifts a brow. “How do you believe I got this far in this world?”
“Thank you, Dad. It feels good to know he suffered.”
“Anytime, son.”
“And, Dad?”
“Yes?”
I gulp past the feelings clogging my throat. “Do you think I’ll ever get better?”
“You already are, Preston.” He rests his hand on my head, his fingers sliding gently through my hair. “You already are.”