Page 58 of Be Your Somebody
WakingupinCas’arms is something I’m not sure I’ll get used to. I shift my body to face his, hoping to catch a glimpse of him before he wakes. He’s so beautiful when he sleeps. I barely resist the urge to tuck a strand of wavy hair out of his face.
Last night was incredible. I poured my heart and soul out to Cas through my song so that he would stop seeing himself asbroken. Part of me hopes that he sees himself for all that he is, while another part of me can't shake the feeling he isn't fully there yet. His father did a number on him, and the thought of him going through that alone makes my blood boil as my rage comes full force.
The sound of rustling sheets beside me pulls my focus back into the present moment. “Good morning, freckles,” he says before leaning over to give me a quick kiss. As he pulls back, a look of confusion crosses his face. “Hey, are you okay? You’ve got your murder face on right now.”
“My what?” I ask.
“Your murder face. It looks like you want to execute whoever you’re thinking about right now. You have these deep creases on your forehead and your eyes? They become this darker shade of green when you're irritated. The lethal look on your face right now shouldn't be sexy as hell, but it is. It makes me want to do all sorts of things to you. Who’s on your mind that has you thinking murderous thoughts?” he asks with a goofy-looking grin on his face.
“Your dad,” I say matter-of-factly. His face falls.
“Avery. He doesn't deserve your hate or anger. You can't go back and change it or rescue me from it all. That hate and anger is wasted on him,” he says, tense with a hint of frustration.
Is he seriously telling me I can’t be angry right now? I pull myself out of his arms, fully intending to give him a piece of my mind, but he quickly tries to right himself.
“Avery, I know what you’re thinking. I know you. I’m not telling you that you can’t be angry. I’m just saying he doesn’t give a shit, and neither should you,” he says. I know he sees the look on my face because now Cas is frantically babbling.
“No, you, I—fuck, this is all coming out wrong. I’m trying to say you can be angry, but my dad doesn’t even give two shits about anyone other than himself and his habit. He’s a selfish bastard, and I…I just don’t want to see you upset over him.”
I abruptly shoot myself off the bed and walk towards the dresser, needing space. The angel and devil are arguing on my shoulder. One saying I can and should be angry with Cas for telling me how to feel. The other is saying Cas is right and he doesn’t want me wasting my energy on that man. I try to work through my tangled thoughts, but nothing seemsto work. I feel Cas’ arms wrap around my waist and my body instinctively melts into his.
“Hey, tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”
“I-I…” I can’t finish my sentence as images of his abuse play in my mind. He didn’t tell me the details, but my brain is being hella creative right now. Each scene makes my stomach bubble with nausea and I start to squirm in his embrace.
I bolt out of his arms, running out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I find myself hunched over the toilet dry heaving. I can’t—I just can’t believe that this happened to him. A child should never have to go through something traumatic, yet Cas went through it all. I think about that eight-year-old boy with this fresh lens and my heart breaks for him.
A soft knock on the door startles me and I’m mentally beating myself up for not locking the door.
“Avery, baby, are you okay?” he asks, but all I can let out is a choking sob. “I’m coming in.” My eyes are closed, willing the dizziness and nausea to vacate my body. I focus on the coldness of the toilet seat and the soft creak of the door opening and closing. Cas’ warm body sits down beside me. I flinch, surprised by his close proximity to me. He’s holding my hair in one hand and rubbing soothing circles on my back.
“Baby, listen. My dad, he’s a sick fuck. I wish I didn’t tell you any of this. Then maybe you wouldn’t be disgusted by me,” he chokes out.
Despite the spinning in my head, I snap my head in his direction and look at him. How can he think I’m disgusted by him?I’m racking my brain, trying to find an answer, when I remember squirming underneath his touch only moments ago.
“Cas, I’m not disgusted by you. That’s not it at all. I flinched because I was making your trauma about me and how I feel. I should be comforting you, not the other way around,” I croak out.
Cas remains silent for a moment. I’m frantically searching through the maze that is my mind trying to find the exit. Each roadblock I come across is another self-doubt my mind throws at me. I’m about to apologize for whatever I said or did, but he’s pulling me into his lap. His rough palm is the perfect contrast to my smooth hair, bringing me a sense of comfortand ease.
“Avery, listen to me. Yes, this is my trauma to process, but you’ve been a part of my life for so long that it affects you, too. I’m still trying to work on not feeling disgusted with myself, so I automatically assumed you felt that way about me.” His voice comes out shaky and soft, and when I look into his eyes, it seems like he’s fighting back tears.
“Cas, I could never be disgusted by you. You were a fucking child. You were supposed to be protected, and he failed you. If I’m disgusted, it’s with the bastard who took advantage of you. It’s at your shitty ass father for putting his needs above his child’s. I’m disgusted with myself for not knowing what you went through. That I wrote that damn letter—" I burst into tears, my entire body shaking. I have been hanging onto everything for too long that the dam has officially broken.
Cas doesn’t respond to anything. He just cradles me in his arms and holds me. I should feel self-conscious about soaking his chest with my tears, but I have no room for that feeling. We never really talked about the letter, except when we fought. I still feel guilty for writing the letter, even more so now that I understand him better. If only I had done more in high school or tried harder to get him the help he needed. If only I didn’t give up on him too quickly. If only…
“Maybe if my childhood were normal, I wouldn’t have had any of this happen to me,” he says.
I wince. “I said that all out loud, didn’t I?”
“You did. Yes, you wrote that letter to me, and it did break me a little, but I never did thank you for it.”
I look up at him, confusion written all over my face. Wait, what? Why would he want to thank me?
“Thank me?” My mouth is set in a frown while my brows are scrunched together.
“Yes. You had to do it. Not just for you, but for both of us. I would have kept going down that path where I cared about nothing other than getting high. Well, that and you. But of course, back then, I was cocky and thought you would always be with me. I took advantage of your kindness and forgiving nature. So the letter you wrote was my wake-up call. I knew I needed to change because a life without you is not worth living.”
“Cas, I was so hopelessly and painfully in love with you. It’s on me to think that my love for you would get you to see reason. Eventually, I got tired of you playing puppet master with my heart, so I wrote the letter. That day youoverdosed, it tore me up. I almost didn’t give you the letter. I almost caved that day, letting you back in,” I say.
