Page 20 of Pieces of Us

“I’m afraid it’ll never be over,” someone says. I force myself to look over until I see it’s Casey. Carter is gone. “I’m afraid ten years from now, I’m still going to be this… thing that they’ve made me into. Like I’m going to be free, but never happy.”

This… thing that they’ve made me into.

I leave on trembling legs, barely making it to the nearest bathroom before the panic spills out of me in the form of vomit and sobs. Because it wasn’t them who made me into this thing, was it? It was me. I took the easy route. I helped them break me down. I threw myself into being what they wanted.

I destroyed myself for a lie.

If Casey is worried he’ll never be happy, how is there any chance I’ll ever be?

Chapter Seven

Maison

I’m standing in my childhood home, the hardwood floors cool against my bare feet. The lights are out. All of the power is.

I’m staring at a window. It’s the window of my nightmares. Knowing this doesn’t make things easier, just like already knowing what I’m going to see won’t make it any less devastating. My chest is already aching with it. My ears are buzzing. My skin is slick with sweat. I feel weak. Small. I feel like the little boy who stood there and watched while his daddy said his final goodbyes before dying, unable to say anything, even a simple I love you. The little boy who wanted so badly to comfort his mom as she stood at the kitchen sink crying into a dish towel to keep from making noise, but had no idea what to say or do. The little boy who just stood there frozen.

I’m not frozen now.

I walk.

Five steps to the window. It’s a triple panel. Bright colors flash across the panes, the fireworks in the night sky reflected on the glass. It’s not until I’m just inches from it that I see the front lawn.

There are people everywhere. So many people. Just a mass of bodies, no space between them, no room for any of them to even breathe. I feel suffocated just looking at them.

The feeling gets worse when I see what they’re watching. Our kitchen table—the one with all the scratches and nicks and stains from when Mom let Carter do her nails—is out there, spotlighted like it’s on a stage. Kneeling naked on that table is Carter. Travis is right behind him, holding a knife in his right hand. The fireworks are reflecting off the blade, painting it red.

“Carter!” I scream, shoving away from the window and toward the door. It feels like an endless stretch of time before I finally reach it.

It won’t open.

It’s not stuck or jammed or locked. It. Just. Won’t. Open.

“No, no, no.” I yank at the knob again and again. Pound against the wood. Remembering my training, I step back and lift my leg, aiming my foot for the weak spot. It does nothing. Doesn’t even hurt, even though it should. I do it again. Again. I take a few steps back and run forward, slamming my whole body into the door. The wood doesn’t even shake. “Carter! I’m coming. I—fuck—Carter!”

Where’s my gun? I can shoot my way out. I reach for my holster, hand shaking, but it’s not there.

I head back to the window, an agonized sound escaping me when I see that the scene has taken a horrific turn. The knife is still bright with red, but it’s not the fireworks reflecting on it providing the color anymore. Bile burns my throat as I frantically tug at the window. It. Won’t. Open.

I slam on the glass, screaming at Carter that I’m trying, that I’m coming, to just hang on. I pry at the seal around the edges until my fingernails break off. I glance around for something to use to break the glass, but the house is completely empty.

“Travis!” I scream, smacking my hands against the glass over and over. “Travis, please! Please stop! Please!”

I scream and scream. I sob. I hit the glass until my palms are slick with blood. Beckett blood. The same blood that’s coating that knife out there. That’s covering our old table. That’s dripping off my brother’s skin.

“Please.” I collapse to my knees, forehead pressing against the glass as I watch. “I trusted you, Trav. Please don’t do this. Just stop.”

Carter’s eyes find mine through the glass, heavy with exhaustion and pain.

Even from across the yard, it’s clear what he’s thinking. Why aren’t you saving me, Maison?

I scream myself awake.

The problem? I didn’t save him in real life either.

Dr. Singh, the sneaky fucker that he is, is waiting outside of my bedroom when I open my door after barely managing a few restless hours of sleep. He takes one look at me, raises an eyebrow, and asks, “You done yet?”

I rest my temple against the doorframe with a groan. “I was hoping to get another day out of it, if I’m being honest.”

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