I remember telling her that half the girls we knew with curly hair wished they had hair as straight as hers, and she teased me for trying to give her a “the grass is always greener” speech. In the end it made her smile though, so that was good enough for me.
I remember the first time she tried to cook dinner, and how she set a towel on fire and we dumped it in the sink, and then buried it out in the postage stamp of a backyard we had then, making sure our dad would never find out.
Even though the kitchen still smelled like burnt shit when he came home, he didn’t say anything.
There are so fucking many memories. From when we were younger, growing up together and inseparable, to when we were taken by those men and used as a way for our dad to atone for his stupidity. I see Hannah’s face in my mind over and over, happy and sad and angry and scared. I see her standing up for me when some kid at school called me a bitch, and I see her crying when some idiot broke her heart.
I want to feel something as they all run through my mind. Happiness at remembering the good times or even sadness that I’ll never see her destroy a sandwich again.
Anything.
But there’s nothing. It’s like I’m watching a slide show from someone else’s life, standing behind a wall of glass and watching it all play out.
I’m broken.
I’ve always kind of wondered if I was broken before, but I had shit to do and no time to really think about it too much. But now I know. Now I really am. I’m not sure how to live anymore, and honestly, I’m not even sure if I want to.
Hannah is—was—my reason.
Even when I thought she was dead the first time, I kept going because I wanted to avenge her.
Losing her again after getting her back? I don’t know how to resurface after that. I don’t know how to keep myself from drowning in the darkness and numb silence, and it’s hard to come up with reasons why I should try.
A neon sign catches my attention, breaking through the loop of memories as I walk by what looks like a shitty dive bar.
There are a few people hanging out outside, leaning against the side of the building smoking cigarettes.
They eye me as I walk in, but I don’t pay them any attention, just walking inside and going up to the bar, still numb all over.
“Get you something?” the bartender asks. He’s tall and broad, but that’s about all I notice before I stop caring.
“Whiskey,” I manage to tell him. My tongue feels thick and clumsy in my mouth. The word feels weird, like even talking has become too hard to do.
He just nods and gets a bottle down from the shelf behind him, slopping a generous measure into a glass before shoving it in my direction.
I wrap my hands around it and knock back the drink in one motion. It barely burns going down, just a slight warmth that settles in my stomach when I’m finished.
If the bartender thinks there’s something wrong, he doesn’t ask. Just lifts the bottle and raises an eyebrow.
I nod, and he pours again.
I drink the next drink just as quickly, not even tasting it. I don’t know if it’s good whiskey or drain cleaner shit, and I don’t care.
Someone else comes into the bar, stealing the bartender’s attention for a second, and when he looks back to me, I push the glass toward him and meet his eyes.
“Another.”
4
Gage
My eyes snap open, and I sit up with a feeling of sudden urgency.
It’s dark in my room, and the house sounds quiet, but my body feels tense, like all my muscles are ready to leap into action at once.
I don’t know what woke me up, since there’s no sound in my room except for the usual house settling noises and the crickets and shit outside. The house is quiet beyond my door too, so everyone else is probably asleep. I can’t remember if I was dreaming or not, but I’m wide awake now, as if something shook me out of my sleep.
With a sigh, I scrub my hand over my face and sit up in bed, letting the covers pool around my waist. My pack of cigarettes is on the nightstand, and I grab one, lighting it with a practiced flick of my thumb.
I rest my forearms on my thighs and inhale the smoke, letting it linger in my mouth and my throat for a bit before blowing it all out in a rush.
It’s a calming ritual, breathing in and out, and I let it settle me down from whatever woke me up.
It’s sometime late as fuck at night, and I know I haven’t been asleep for more than a few hours since I laid down. But I’m wide awake now.
My mind goes immediately to the last thing it was on before I fell asleep, and it’s no surprise that it’s River. It’s been like that for a while now, if I’m being honest. It’s hard not to think about her and the impact she’s made on our lives, but especially now, she’s on my mind.
I’m worried as hell about her.
I’ve never seen her like she was when we got back from the church, so blank and empty. Like all the fight and the fire had been drained out of her, and the part of her that was all spark and sass died when her sister did.
I haven’t known her all that long, which is strange to think about, considering how well I feel like I know her now. She’s made a space for herself in our home, our little family, and she fits right in.
She’s in a fucked up place, that’s for damn sure. No one can blame her for that. Getting her sister back only to have her taken away on the same day she was supposed to get free is a shitty fucking twist of fate, and I have no idea how to help her.
Priest said to just be there and make sure she knows she’s not alone, so I guess that’s what we’ll have to do. It feels like there should be something else, something more I can do to fix it, but I know it doesn’t work like that.
No matter how much I wish it fucking did.
There’s an ashtray on my nightstand, and I stub the remains of my cigarette out on it, then get out of bed. My shirt is in a crumpled heap on the floor, and my sweats hang low on my hips as I head for the hall.
River’s room is just a few doors down, and I walk quietly, not wanting to wake any of the others just because I can’t sleep.
I know Priest is in River’s room, but I want to be near her too, almost like seeing her sleeping—hopefully somewhat peacefully—will soothe me back to sleep as well. And if she’s having trouble sleeping, then at least maybe me being there will help her. Let her know she’s not alone in the dark.
Her door is cracked open a bit, and I push it open the rest of the way and peer into the room. The bed is rumpled, and there’s enough light falling into the room from the combination of the moon and the streetlights to see that there’s only one sleeping shape on the bed.
Considering it’s tall and broad, I know it’s not River.
My chest tightens.
What the fuck?
“Priest.”
I say his name out loud, at full volume, and Priest wakes up immediately, sitting up in bed. His usually light colored blue eyes are shadowed by the darkness in the room, and the longer parts of his blond hair are tousled from being asleep. He has creases on his cheek from the pillow, and he’s still in his clothes from earlier.