“Mommy,” I whispered through my tears as I closed my eyes.
“Yeah, I need you at the house. Tell Frank to come, too; I want this off the record. No, I didn’t have to do it. Mason did it for me.”
I glanced up to see him placing his phone in his pants. He stared down at me with no sign of emotion. He looked calm and relieved.
“Don’t worry, son. She wasn’t your mother anyway.” Then he turned and walked back to his office, leaving me there to mourn the loss of my mother on my own. The mother I’d just killed. How would I ever be able to live with myself?
The police came and I was escorted to my room. I was told to go to bed and try to forget about the night, but how was that possible? Images of her falling were imbedded in my brain. I would never forget it and deep down, I knew Dad wouldn’t let me forget it, either.
Chapter 4
Mason
I gasped as I sat straight up in bed, covered in sweat. Another dream. The same fucking dream I had almost every night.
I rested my elbows on my knees and cradled my head in my hands. I wanted to scream. The dreams were coming more frequently, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. Sighing, I ran a hand through my hair. I could feel my body tensing up as I looked over at the clock. Four in the morning. My hands balled into fists and my nails started to grind their way into my palms.
Emptiness. Darkness. It consumed me, like this powerful force which dragged me into a sea of nothingness, and I fucking hated it. I needed to feel. I needed to release it. It was poking at my skin from the inside and there was only one way to get it out.
I groaned.
I needed the ache, the burn to course through my bones. I was never one for instant gratification. And even though deep down I was begging for it, I wouldn’t give in to it. Not yet.
Climbing out of bed, I walked to my dresser and pulled out a pair of sweat pants. I needed to run the feeling out.
I walked down the hall to the second door on the right and entered my workout room. It housed everything I could possibly need, but the treadmill was the one thing I was focused on.
Classical music blared through the surround-sound speakers as I turned the stereo on. I couldn’t listen to music with words. They had too much meaning. I needed to be soothed and caressed, to blank out my mind.
I stepped on the treadmill and set the speed. I’d run for as long as it took and with the way I felt, it was going to be a while.
I ran and stared at the wall. I could feel my muscles warm up and start to burn from not stretching first, and it felt good. Not as good as it felt to punch my bag, but that dream was different. Same dream, different part. It was rare that I slept long enough to dream the whole thing, but when I did…the darkness was all-powering and there was nothing I could do to stop the pain.
I wiped at the sweat rolling down my face as my muscles ached and my legs started to feel numb. I looked at the clock to see it was already past five. An hour is good enough. I slowed down to a walk and got off the treadmill, making my way to the small fridge against the far wall by the weight bench. I grabbed a Gatorade and chugged half the bottle.
I wanted the run to help. I needed it to take the urge away, but I knew deep down there was no getting rid of it. I always prolonged the inevitable. Everything that dream made me feel was still there. It brought up to the surface all I’d buried: guilt, pain, loneliness, resentment, fear… emptiness. It was a weight on my chest, and I was suffocating.
I left the workout room, making my way back into my room and straight to the bathroom, stripping my clothes as I went. A sense of relief was already washing through me, calming me in a way I never fully understood. The only thing that made sense to me was the release. It was my addiction, my high.
Opening the side drawer at the sink, I pulled out my razor. I should get a new one. That one was starting to dull, but I wouldn’t. I liked the pain that came with it too much.
I looked down at my hip, so many scars. I hated and loved them just the same. They represented who I was and everything I hated. Bringing the razor down, I pushed it into my skin. The pain shot through me instantly and my eyes rolled to the back of my head. I pulled the blade along and let it all pour out of me, all my emotions flowing down my leg. I looked down and watched the impurity run out, the itch on the inside no longer taking over my senses, the weight on my chest no longer suffocating.