Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
There’s not a trace of doubt in his tone. He knows what needs to be done, and it’s clear he’s doing this whether I want him to or not.
I cup his cheek, running my thumb across his smooth flesh.
“A little kiss before you go?” he asks.
I don’t give him a little one.
But despite his enthusiastic response, this isn’t like before we started this session. He stays tense, on edge.
I accept that my kiss isn’t enough to make that better, and when I pull away, he wears a solemn expression. “Go on. I’ll be okay,” he assures me, which only makes me feel like this is gonna be so much worse than I can imagine.
I grab my things and head upstairs, taking one of the desk chairs with me and setting it up on the other side of the door. I keep the room illuminated with my phone light, mentally prepping myself for whatever we’re about to experience.
It’s quiet for some time, giving me hope that maybe it won’t be as bad as Luke thought. But then I hear grunts, groans, and cursing before a wave of pain hits me, followed by an anguished cry from the cellar. It shakes me to my core, and I clench my fists, starting to my feet.
As Luke screams again, there’s another jolt of pain. I grab the doorknob but stop myself. There’s an impulse in me to just say fuck what we agreed upon and get down there and end his pain, but then I remember what he said: I need to keep it together. He’ll do this on his own.
Over my dead body.
“Fuck,” he calls out, followed by another cry.
I clutch the doorknob and press up against the door, gritting my teeth, knowing instinctively that the worst is yet to come.
21
LUKE
I stand in the atrium of the church, silent.
It’s not real. He’s not gone.
It’s a lie, I keep telling myself, as Mom thanks the attendees.
Wake up, Luke. Wake up, and you’ll find out none of this is real. Only a nightmare.
But the more people who talk to me, who say things like, “I’m so sorry for your loss, my poor boy,” the angrier I get that my eyes aren’t opening, pulling me from this horrible place.
When Brad touched me while I was enduring that horrible memory, a flash of awareness moved through me, and I knew what I had to do.
It’s not something I wanted to do. I wouldn’t think anyone would want to force themselves back through the worst memories of their lives. But I know like I know who I am that this is the only chance I have of having the Moment. It’s the only chance of saving people from the Slasher.
I’ve already been through the pain of being at the hospital with Mom, but my torment isn’t over. Not yet.
It’s after the service. We’re in the cemetery, watching as the coffin is lowered into the hole in the earth.
It’s not him, I assure myself, though I know better.
He wouldn’t leave me like this.
I turn to Mom, who puts a handkerchief to her face, unable to stifle her sobs.
Why does she keep crying when it isn’t even him?
“No!” I call out as I experience the pain I wouldn’t let myself feel the depths of that horrible day. It’s like nails driving into my chest, tearing me apart. I won’t survive this, I’m sure of it.
I should stop, but now that I’m in these memories, it’d take more effort to leave than to stay with them.
A flash between weeks, then months after the funeral, to a day when I’m sitting at the kitchen table in the afternoon.
He’s gonna come home. He has to. But why doesn’t he?
In my dreams he’s there, and he’s real, but then I wake and he’s not. Why?
Then comes a moment I remember too well, but it’s not like the other memories. It’s much later.
I’m in high school, and I finish my 5A championship, breathing heavily as I search for Mom, who hurries to me. Yet a part of me, some part that’s forgotten, even after four years, looks for Dad.
But he’s not around.
Tears stir in my eyes.
Don’t let her see. Don’t let her know.
But as her gaze meets mine…
Fuck, she knows.
I stuff all my emotions away. Push on like that didn’t just happen.
Now I’m in the hospital, and my uncle approaches, teary-eyed. He looks just like Mom did back when Dad died.
No, no. It’s not real. It can’t be.
It all comes flooding back. Every cruel moment. Her funeral. Stuffing down my emotions to keep it together long enough to make it through. Then the haunting moments, like with Dad, not the terrible, nightmarish moments, but beautiful moments when I wanted them to be there.
To see me.
To be proud.
To show me they loved me.
I’m opening a letter.
My acceptance to St. Lawrence. A rush of excitement runs through me, and I search around as if they’re somewhere here with me, for me to share it with.