I heard her say my name again and again, her voice rising, the sound panicked as the distance grew between us. It was always dark in my dreams, so dark I could barely see anything as I went in search of her, scared because I couldn’t find her. I never could.
More than anything I was afraid my dad would kill me because he told me to watch over the bitches, that they were sneaky and would do whatever it took to slip away from him. Words he’d never spoken to me in real life, yet I dreamed them anyway. I was even guiltier by association in my dreams.
I always woke up sweaty, gasping for air as my heart pounded an incessant beat against my ribs. Those dreams twisted and writhed in my brain, fucked me all up because just when I thought I had things under control, that my life had stabilized and felt relatively normal, he’d come back to haunt me.
And so would she.
I never blamed her for what happened. Getting tossed in the foster care system was some straight-up bullshit and really, if I were being honest? It was her fault. If she’d let me walk like I wanted when I took her to the police station, I wouldn’t be where I was right now. I was fucking miserable in this group home. The other guys living here were a bunch of fucked-up mental cases who preferred to start fires, steal shit, and fuck every girl they could get to drop her panties over anything else.
Me? I stayed focused. I tried to keep up with my homework so I could stay in sports. Which was the only thing that cleared my head and made me feel like someone else. Not like myself.
I really fucking hated myself.
Though I guess it could have been worse. I could’ve been with my father, living the same dreary, hellish routine that we’d had together for years. Pretending everything was fine when I knew it wasn’t.
No matter which way I looked at it, my life was total shit. Sometimes . . . sometimes I wasn’t so sure it was even worth living. What sort of existence was this anyway?
But then I thought of Katie and what happened to her. What my father did to her. How fucked up her life must be as she tried to recover. Would she ever find peace? Would she ever be all right? Ever feel whole and alive and normal?
When I compared myself to her, I had no reason to complain. None.
The trial was starting soon. After all the stays and the rescheduled hearings and the protests against biased jury selection—hell, his lawyer had tried to change venues, wanted the trial held in a different county, but that request was denied—it was happening. I had to testify. Katie was planning on testifying as well, from what I understood.
Turned out, she was my father’s only surviving victim, at least that they knew of. No one else had stepped forward and the investigation had revealed only three other victims. He’d killed three girls, all under the age of twelve.
Fuck me.
Hanging my head, I tugged the last cigarette out of the pack that was resting on the grass near my feet and settled it between my lips. I brought the lighter to the end of the cig and lit it, taking that first satisfying drag before I blew out smoke. Everything turned peaceful the second I felt the nicotine hit my system.
Fucking nasty habit, but my stress level was through the roof most of the damn time and besides, I never smoked when I was playing a sport. But I snuck a few cigarettes on the weekends or at a party. I couldn’t completely let the habit go, despite my knowing full well it was gonna kill me.
I sort of didn’t care. About anything.
Least of all me.
The moment he left, I went through my normal routine. Locked the front and back doors, cleaned up what was left over in the kitchen, which wasn’t much, turned off the lights, went to my bedroom, and brushed my teeth in the adjoining bathroom, but I changed up my final task for the night.
I strip, methodically taking off all my clothes and leaving them in a pile on the floor until I’m left in only my cotton panties. The bedroom light is already off and I crawl onto the bed and lie down in the center of it on top of the comforter, my entire body still vibrating from our kisses, the way he touched me, the look in his eyes, the way his tongue curled around mine.
Adrenaline still flowing through me, I close my eyes and remember the feel of his mouth, his hands, the way he whispered my name, the quiet moan that escaped him when our mouths connected. I wish we could have kissed for longer but it also scared me, the intensity between us every time our lips met. It would lead to more. He touched me in a way that no one ever has and I know what he wanted.
Me. Kissing me, touching me. Sex. With me. And I wanted that, too, I did, but it also scared me.
Scared me so much I was almost relieved when he said he should leave. I’d agreed but then immediately regretted it. I wanted him to stay.