Page 70 of Vow of Revenge
Time ceased to tick. It was better this way. Lost in her memory, replaying her laughter, reliving her voice in my head. I had no idea how long I stayed in her bed. Hours, maybe days. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered to me anymore.
* * *
A single ray of sunlight streamed in through the window. Flecks of dust danced and twirled, brought to life by the movement of my body as I heaved myself up to sitting. My breath was stale and my throat dry. All the crying had left me parched. The low rumble in my belly only reminded me that I would eat alone.
Still snuggled in her sheets, I padded out to the hallway and went back to my own room to find my phone. I sent a quick message to Calvin and then sank down to the floor. I was exhausted.
No matter how hard I tried to forget, I couldn’t shake the memory of her funeral. Even though I’d been there, it felt like an out-of-body experience. I’d zoned out of the ceremony and retreated to my old bedroom immediately after. The same room where Syrah and I used to play hide and seek as kids and curl each other’s hair with hot tongs. I stayed in bed, hidden away from reality until everyone had gone. Nobody knew her like I did, so I didn’t care what they had to say about her.
I remembered a knock at my door. It cracked open and someone came in, but I was too far gone to answer their questions, to be civil, to care.
Brett was the last connection I had to my sister. He knew things about her that I hadn’t yet heard. I wanted to know what her last thoughts where, what they had planned together, how she envisioned her future with him. I needed to know the last details. Adrenaline got me to my feet. I dragged the phone off the bed and into my palm.
“Freya…? It’s Kaleb.”
I rubbed above my left eyebrow, feeling a shooting pain. An obvious sigh blasted past my lips, unsure why the bastard was answering Brett’s phone. “Where’s Brett? I want to talk to him, not you,” I blurted out.
There was a second of silence, hesitation. “He’s not coping very well. Look, Freya, I wanted to talk to you at the funeral, but you…”
Tears stung and I slammed my hand over my eyes. “I don’t care,” I interrupted. “I didn’t want to talk to anyone, including you.”
I heard his footsteps like he was moving away from someone and then his tone dropped. “I came into your room, to check on you and see if there was anything you needed.”
“And? Should I thank you?” I snapped, anger burning a hole in my pain. The pulsating in my skull was becoming more intense.
“It wasn’t my choice to walk to away, Freya.” His voice was gravelly and low.
“Who cares, Kaleb? You did what you wanted regardless of the consequences.”
“But that’s what I mean - Ididn’twant to.”
“I want to speak to Brett.” I couldn’t gather the mental clarity to consider his words or dare for them to be true.
“He’s taken a shit load of narcotics and downed a few bottles of whiskey. Now isn’t a good time.”
“Fine.”
“Do you need anything? Can I drop by?”
“You can’t help me with anything. Tell, Brett, I rang. If he wants to talk, he can call me back.” The words spilled out laced with venom.
“Freya…”
“You played a good game, Kaleb. I fell for it. You won. Everything has gone to shit. You must be so fucking proud of yourself for breaking my heart. Well guess what, there’s nothing left to break. My sister is dead. Not only was she my sister, but she was my best friend too. Now all of that is gone. And you, you fucking walked away. I’m empty. So don’t worry about me, you just worry about you, and your own fucked-up heart.”
“Freya, we need to talk.”
I ended the call. His voice was filled with concern and pity, not love or remorse for breaking me.
Crashing to the bed, my shoulders sank, my hands cradled my throbbing head. Where could I go from here? My heart was obliterated. There was no way I could spend the evening alone, again. The apartment was desolate and empty without her laughter and chatter. I needed to run away from my misery, but I felt weak, and my eyes had become sensitive to the low light sinking behind the buildings outside my bedroom window.
I rolled off the bed, trudged to the adjoining bathroom and searched the cabinet. I cracked open a bottle of migraine tablets and swallowed down a couple with a gulp of tepid tap water. Under my eyes were sunken and my face ashen.
It didn’t take long for the pills to induce sleep. I was curled up under the sheets, in a pathetic state of anguish. It was my pain to hide in. No one could take it away from me.
* * *
Syrah was the fun-loving party girl who trailed me away from my laptop. That connection to the outside world was no longer there. I had to force myself to get the hell up, get dressed and get drunk to dull the depression. Laying in bed all day, alone, with only my memories of her wasn’t helping my mood. I knew if she were here she wouldn’t take my mopey bullshit. She would demand that I get out of bed and face the facts, head on. She would want me to be strong.
