Not from any of that.
I was fucking terrified that if I told her the truth, that if Alex knew I remembered almost killing her, she would never look at me the way she was looking at me right then and there. And I would lose the only girl that ever mattered to me.
The girl I was supposed to protect.
The girl that I vowed to never hurt.
My best friend.
“Alex, you shouldn’t be up. You need—”
“I’m fine,” she reprimanded with a stern tone. “I’m not leaving until I talk to Austin. Alone. Now, if all of you could please give us a few minutes.”
Aubrey’s mom looked back and forth between us. “You have ten minutes.”
Everyone left, much to Lucas’s disapproval. He lingered at the door before disappearing into the hallway. Alex got up off the wheelchair to shut the door. I opened my mouth to stop her.
“I’m fine,” she interrupted, walking over to me. Sitting on my bed, right next to my waist.
The guilt was eating me alive with each passing minute.
I couldn’t take it anymore and instantly pulled her into my arms, hugging her as tight as I could. I didn’t give a fuck how much it hurt my ribs. I was so grateful that she was alive.
That I didn’t kill her.
She willingly came. Wrapping her arms around my neck. For the first time I was the one to tuck my face into the side of her neck. Needing comfort, reassurance, and love.
Needing her.
Even though I didn’t deserve any of it. Not after what I did.
“I’m so sorry, Half-Pint. I’m so fucking sorry,” I openly bawled not being able to hold back.
“Shhh…” She rubbed my back. “Shhh… Austin. I’m fine. It wasn’t your fault and it doesn’t matter. We’re alive, and I love you no matter what. Shhh…” she soothed, whispering reassuring words, over and over again.
All lies.
Every last one of them.
But I didn’t stop her.
I broke down until I couldn’t anymore.
She told me that she didn’t remember anything either. She told me that everything was going to be okay. She told me that she loved me over and over again. She told me everything I wanted to hear, everything I needed to hear. It should have made me feel better.
It didn’t.
After she left, I sat there by myself. I couldn’t get my mind to shut off, I couldn’t get my feelings to stop attacking me, turning on me and making me feel like a bigger piece of shit than I already knew I was.
Regret…
Remorse…
Shame…
Almost. Killing. Alex.
I reached for the morphine drip.
And pressed the button.
<>Briggs<>
I jumped as soon as I heard the knock on the door. The loud noise startled me even though I knew it was coming at any moment. It still didn’t prepare me. Nothing did. I held in my breath the entire time not wanting to make a sound, trying to remain calm in the chaos. Not allowing it to take me further and further into the black abyss. Praying that my uncle would accept my silence and just go away. I jumped again with the second knock, my nerves were on fire and all that did was pour gasoline on the fear that had taken up residence in my body, igniting it more.
“Daisy…”
My heart dropped.
The pounding rhythm immediately subsided and it was replaced with an unfamiliar feeling. A feeling I couldn’t quite place, it didn’t scare me, but it didn’t comfort me either.
“Daisy, open the door. It’s me.”
It’s me.
He said it like it made a difference, like it took away the last few hours of my life, like he didn’t play a part in the turn of events tonight and like he wasn’t one of the reasons I was there in the first place. As if saying “It’s me” made it all go away and magically better. Trying to put a Band Aid on my soul, when it was already broken beyond repair.
“Daisy, please… just open the fucking door,” he wallowed, his voice wrecked and torn.
My feet moved on their own accord, my body being pulled by a string. Drawing me closer and closer to the door. Before I knew it I pushed my dresser out of the way and turned the knob. I instantly jerked back, assaulted with the strong scent of alcohol. Esteban was leaning on the wall beside my door, one arm propped up with his forehead pressed against the drywall, his other hand still in the air ready to knock again.
It took him a second to realize I had opened the door. Angling his head slightly to look at me, we locked eyes, our expressions mirroring each other. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen. I couldn’t tell if it was from crying or from the bottle of whiskey that was still firmly clutched in his grasp. We stood there for a while not saying anything. Words weren’t necessary. Our eyes spoke for themselves.
And his spoke volumes.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he breathed out. Desperation and sadness written all over his face, I had never seen him like that before.
It physically pained me to see him that way. The once strong, solid man was gone. All that was left in his place was a man nearly on his knees begging for forgiveness.