by Nyla K
In the blink of an eye, he’s gone again.
Followed by a loud crash in the hallway that makes me jump.
I flop onto my stomach and cover my face with the pillow, screaming into it as loud as possible, while Lazarus screams from somewhere in the dark.
After lunch the next day, I go exploring again. Traversing this expansive home has become a new hobby of mine.
I stroll the perimeter of Lazarus’s property, just thinking, which takes a while because he has acres upon acres surrounding his mansion.
Last night was a head-trip. Lazarus came into my room, and not only did he let me see him, at last, but he also crept into my bed and let him touch him, before he got spooked and took off.
But it still happened, and that gives me hope. Maybe he’s slowly warming up to me again.
Honestly, the dude’s like an abused animal. He gets startled so easily. I guess the unfortunate truth is that he has every right to act this way. Still, I wish I knew more about what’s going on inside him so I could at least try to help.
Making my way back inside, my curiosity gets the better of me and I go upstairs to try some doors in the east wing once more. There’s the possibility that after last night’s manic episode, he may have forgotten to lock one of them.
When I get there, I tiptoe down the hall, keeping as quiet as possible in case he’s around somewhere watching me. I always feel like he’s watching me in this house.
Trying a few door handles, I find them all still locked. But then I reach one that looks slightly ajar. The handle is locked as I jiggle it, but the door looks like maybe he didn’t pull it shut all the way, and I’m able to push it open.
My eyes widen. Jackpot.
Stepping slowly into the dark room, I look around for a light switch. I can’t see anything, but that doesn’t stop me from creeping inside. As my eyes adjust, I notice that I’m in some kind of den, though it’s small enough that I think it’s a connecting room to somewhere else. Still, there are a few chairs, a television, and even a pool table in here. The room appears sparsely used, and I continue inching around the edges until I discover another door at the far side.
Twisting the handle, it’s open, so I step inside this next room, equally dim, immediately recognizing it as another office. However, this one differs greatly from the one downstairs, in that it’s completely trashed.
This must be where Lazarus has been breaking things every night. There’s smashed furniture everywhere, toppled chairs, shattered glass, books strewn about, and what look like holes punched in the walls, surrounded by dried blood.
Jesus Christ…
Stepping carefully in my sandals to avoid cutting my feet on all the glass shards everywhere, I make my way to the desk. Papers litter the top, and all the drawers appear to be open. So naturally, I snoop.
That’s why I’m in here, after all.
Rifling through the contents of the drawers, I’m looking for anything interesting. Not really sure what I’m hoping to find, but I suppose I just want to see what Lazarus keeps in here, and if any of it has to do with my father…
Most of the papers on the desk are Westright documents. My eye catches on some legal forms, sent over by Dad’s lawyers. Financial portfolios for the company, everything now belonging solely to Lazarus Weston.
I glance at a number on one of them, and my eyeballs nearly pop out of my skull.
Westright is worth ten billion dollars. Holy fuck.
I’ve always known that my father was rich. I mean, he was already rich before he started his company. But I had no idea how lucrative his business truly was. And now, between Lazarus and me, we own everything he had.
It’s overwhelming, and a tightness settles into my lungs that makes me squirm.
Moving past all that stuff, I check the bottom desk drawer, picking up a black journal. When I open it, I find a bunch of papers stuffed inside.
First, a document from the Department of Child Services in New York. As I read over it, my hands tremble.
This is from when Lazarus was born. It says that his birth mother, Birdie Weston, signed him over to the care of the state, after being reported an unfit guardian with no living relatives who could take him.
There’s another paper folded with this one… A copy of a death certificate from three years later.
Oh my God. Lazarus’s birth mother is dead?
I knew she lost him when he was born, but I never knew she died. Fuck…
Flipping through what follows, there are more papers from Child Services and foster records for his first family. Another death certificate copy, for Laura Hanson, his first foster mother. The one who killed herself. Then papers for Kara and Steve Williams, his second foster family. The file says they lost him when he was ten, because DCS discovered them using drugs in the home.
Those were the junkies he mentioned… His Two.
Wide eyes scan the words on these pages as fast as my fingers flip through them. The next papers are for his third foster family, Helena and John Turner. With them are a few news clippings, articles apparently from back then.
I can’t even believe what I’m reading.
His foster father murdered his foster mother when she was four months pregnant… What the actual fuck??
It says John Turner accused Lazarus of killing her, but there was never any evidence to support his claims. DNA confirmed the husband as the killer and he was sentenced to life without parole.
Bile rises in my throat as I swallow over and over. This was the foster family he wouldn’t tell me about… His Three. The one he loved being with until it was apparently ripped away from him in tragedy.
My heart shatters for Lazarus. He’s known so much devastation, it’s no wonder he’s been screaming and destroying things. He has every reason to.
But despite that truth, I don’t feel pity; I’m not sympathizing.
I’m in awe of him. That he’s still standing, to me, means he must be the strongest person in the whole damn world.
The last papers in his DCS file are for his fourth and final foster family, the Reece’s. There isn’t much that comes with this file, and even the log on visits from the social workers seems sparse, which is unsettling.
Underneath the documents, I find a handwritten letter. Swallowing over my dry, scratchy throat, I read…
To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing this letter as a concerned citizen. A friend of mine is being abused by his foster father, Alan Reece. While I haven’t witnessed it with my own two eyes, I have heard from my friend personally about the atrocities he deals with on a daily basis in his foster home. And I have seen the bruises.
I’m writing this because my best friend is too afraid to come forward. Alan Reece is a dangerous man. He’s sick, and he needs to be stopped.
I once found my friend dirty, cold and starving, after having slept outside in the woods all night, just to escape Alan Reece. I don’t doubt that if he hadn’t left that house, he would have been molested and likely beaten by his foster father, and even writing this now, I’m sick to my stomach.
Something needs to be done here. Alan Reece is a drunk, he’s a creep, a degenerate, and he should be arrested. My friend is afraid to speak up because of potential retaliation from Mr. Reece, but also because he has already been through three prior foster homes, and he just wants to finish his high school education here in Westchester.
I will gladly testify in this matter, and I will convince my parents to take Lazarus Weston in if need be. Please contact me if you required further information and do your due diligence to stop this disgusting human from hurting others.
Thank you for your attention.
Signed,
Damien Wright
My mouth hangs open as I stare at the name on the paper; the signature I recognize as my father’s, albeit slightly different, since this is clearly from when he was much younger.
Shaking my head repeatedly, I reread the words until my eyes beg me to stop.
> Lazarus never told me that his fourth foster father was abusive…
God, how has he even survived all of this?? He’s practically indestructible.
A tear slips from my eyes as I search the papers for anything to indicate that Dad’s letter made some kind of difference, but there’s nothing. And the more I study it, the letter looks like an original. As if it was never even sent…
I have so many questions for Lazarus; I feel like I might explode. My mind is running a mile a minute, swirling through all the chaos I’ve just learned about his past.
Flicking the pages of the journal for more answers, they’re all blank. Except for one…
On the very last page, there’s some handwriting.
It says,
Raised from the tomb after Four Days of Death.
Four.
4.
I blink, running my fingers over the handwriting.
His Four. That’s what the tattoo means…
And by tomb, I know he’s referring to the story in the Bible. About Lazarus the beggar, whom Jesus wept for, and raised from death after four days.
That’s why he said meeting my father saved his life.
Suddenly there’s a noise just outside the door. I startle and slap the journal closed, clutching it to my chest as I duck down to hide behind the desk. Footsteps approach as my heart lodges in my throat, my pulse rocking so hard I’m shaking.
The sounds of glass crunching beneath shoes grows nearer and I hold my breath. They stop, and everything in the room grows quiet. I cover my mouth with my hand.
The silence stretches for what feels like minutes on end, until finally the footsteps turn, apparently leaving the room.
Releasing a breath of relief, I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting until I’m positive no one’s around before slinking out of the rooms, darting down the hall of the east wing toward the west. Back to my bedroom.
When I get there, I can breathe again. I’m certain that was Lazarus just now. He probably knows I was in his library, but for whatever reason he didn’t call me out. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
Either way, I’m sure he’ll notice eventually that something very important is missing from his desk…
I stuff the journal under my mattress for safekeeping and try to compose myself.
I don’t know what to think about what I’ve discovered. I’m bound and helpless to all these revelations. All I know is that I’m finally seeing the real Lazarus Weston.
After all these years…
I’m seeing it all differently.
Chapter Forty-Six
Lazarus
I should’ve let him call me baby.
Pacing around my bedroom.
Knuckles raw from hitting things.
Eyelids barely able to stay open.
I should have been with him.
Honestly, I don’t remember the last time I slept. It may have been four days ago at this point. Maybe five. I do remember passing out after being awake for seventy-two hours, but that seems like a while ago.
All the days have blended together, anyway. But the fact remains.
I would have given up everything for him… Why didn’t I??
We could have tossed our middle fingers at the world and been happy. We would have been… I know it. I’m always happy with Damien Wright.
Despite what we thought wasn’t the right thing, I would give up my own life right now in less than a heartbeat to bring him back.
I can’t live in this world without him. I don’t want to.
It’s been two months since my best friend died, and I’m still just as broken as I was when I got that phone call. I still feel exactly the same agony and confusion and despair I felt when that fucking voice on the other end of the line told me they did everything they could.
He was coming to see me.
The only thing keeping me from slitting my wrists right now is Traci. She’s recovering from her own turmoil… also caused by me.
The curse of Lazarus Weston persists, wreaking havoc on all who step into its path.
Regardless of knowing that, I couldn’t stand the thought of Traci living alone, or in the place where she overdosed. So I said she could stay here.
And now she’s here, living in my house. She’s been here for weeks and I still haven’t spoken to her.
At first, I refused to let myself near her. I’m a contagious virus that needs to be quarantined. I couldn’t let her see me. I knew if she did, she’d say and do things that would make me want to stay with her. And I just couldn’t do that.
But the other night, I finally broke.
I’ve been slipping into her bedroom at night, every night, just to look at her. Just to watch her face. She’s so peaceful while she sleeps. And as chaotic as her young life has been, while she’s sleeping, she just looks so innocent and untarnished. Like a small bird, beneath the sun. Living in warmth and comfort. Flying free when she wants, settling in her nest when she wants.
But never being caged. Never worrying about being kept down.
She’s so beautiful.
She looks so much like him…
It hurts my heart, like the plunging of a thousand knives between my ribs. I love looking at her, because of how much she resembles them both. But then sometimes it gets to be too much and I have to flee, before I break down.
And break things.
That’s what happened the other night. The moment I crawled into that bed, all I could smell was him. All I could see was him, even in her face. It was like he was back with me, just for a moment. Just for one night…
He was back.
Of course I knew it was her. She still smelled like her, too. But her wearing him. Breathing life into my chest in such an intoxicating way, pleasure rushed with blood straight to my dick. I wanted to touch her soft body everywhere, and to listen to her tell me how much she needs me.
It’s been so damn long…
But then I started hearing his voice, and it tripped me up. I’m so fucking torn, between wanting her so damn badly and wanting him back. I don’t know what I’m feeling anymore.
It’s ridiculous, and the entire second floor library in my home is destroyed because of it.
I died with Damien that day, in that car.
Except that I didn’t get to move on in peace, like I’m truly hoping he did. I’m stuck in purgatory, in the excruciating eternity of life without him.
He was coming to see me.
I should’ve let him call me baby.
I think I passed out again.
I don’t remember lying down on my bedroom floor, that’s for sure.
My eyes open slowly to the feeling of fingers trailing my jaw. They feel familiar… Bigger and stronger than Traci’s.
My vision swims as I look up and see Damien’s green eyes gazing back at me.
Jumping up fast, my lungs suck in air as I blink again and again, trying to figure out if this is some sick joke.
How am I seeing him right now??
“Don’t look so surprised,” Damien’s voice croons, with that typical amusement lacing his tone.
With wide eyes and a racing heart, I’m now one-hundred percent sure I’ve lost my mind.
“How are you here?” I speak in hoarse jitters. “Did I hit my head or something?”
Damien chuckles, and I think I might faint… Again.
“Jesus, you’re dramatic,” he grins, kneeling in front of me. “I missed you. And I know you’re struggling, so I needed to come talk to you.”
My head shakes over and over. “What the fuck…”
“Lazarus, listen to me,” his voice commands, and I have to listen. I’ve never been able to ignore him when he tells me something like that. “You need to stop blaming yourself for my death. It wasn’t your fault.”
“But… you were coming to see me…” I whimper, and I think tears want to fall from my eyes, but there aren’t any left. My body is an empty shell, dried up and left for dead.
“S
o?” He scoffs, and I blink once more, my mind still unable to process why it feels like he’s really here right now. “We live ten minutes away from each other, ding dong. I would’ve been driving the same way to get home.”
“What are you saying…?” I whisper.
“I’m saying that it happened the way it was meant to. The way it was always going to.” He pauses and takes my hand. It feels so real, only cold. My Damien’s hand… “This was the plan.”
I huff indignantly and shake my head, though it doesn’t stop me from threading my fingers through his, just to get that feeling I’m fucking starved for. “You don’t believe in shit like that.”
“It’s not about what I believe. It’s true. As much as you know I would’ve loved it, I wasn’t meant to be with you. We weren’t meant to be more…”
“I don’t want to believe that…” I mutter, squeezing the imaginary hand. “I wanted you. You made me want you.”
“Flattering,” he smirks and I laugh a little, startling myself. It’s such an alien feeling. And leave it to a hallucination of Damien’s ghost to bring it out of me. “But I’m with Lia again. And now you can be with…”
His voice trails off and he looks down, swallowing visibly.
“See? You still hate me, even as a figment of my imagination,” I grunt and rub my eyes hard with my fingers.
He laughs. “I don’t hate you, baby. You’re the other half of my heart.”
I gulp and marvel in his smile, scooting closer and reaching for him. I want…
I want…
He pulls away. “I told you, we weren’t supposed to be together. It happened the way it needed to.”
I stare at him for a few long minutes. They could be hours for all I know, my eyelids heavy and my muscles sore from sitting on the floor so long.
“Are you sure?” I finally breathe. “I broke your heart, Day. I smashed it to bits…”
“No, you didn’t,” he sighs. “You made me see things I had never seen before. You confused me, sure. But then you’ve always done that.”
“I miss you,” the words flee my throat, as if they refuse to be inside me for one more second. “So fucking bad.”