“I don’t understand what’s going on. I don’t know what you’re saying. Are you going somewhere? I want to come with you if you are. I hate my life without you. I hate everything right now. Please, take me with you,” I beg.
“I can’t, baby. I wish I could, but I can’t. Please don’t cry”, he says while wiping tears I didn’t know were falling down my cheeks. “I have to go now. I love you. I always will,” he says softly with a pained expression.
He skirts out from my grasp, holding my pleading hand as he stands. There are no words I know that will say what I need them to say since I don’t know what I’m even trying to say. Do I beg him to take me with him? Do I beg him to stay? Do I apologize for what I’ve put him through by leaving him out of my life? Do I just tell him how much I love him?
Shutting my eyes as he leans over me, kissing me gently on the forehead, lingering longer than normal but not nearly long enough, I savor the feeling as if I’ll never feel it again. My heart breaks at the prospect that that might actually happen.
Cool air tenses my skin; I know I’m alone. He’s gone. Rogan is gone. I don’t open my eyes again as I lie back down on the sheets I’m happy I never threw away. Curling into a ball, I breathe in the scent of my Rogan, the sound of his voice, the feel of his skin. I put all these things into a box in my mind, somehow aware that I’ll open that box more than I want to think about right now.
My head is throbbing. I feel stiff and hot, and my throat is burning. I’m looking at the feet of the coffee table. The TV is on, but the sound is muted, and an arm is surrounding me, resting heavily on my hip. An image on the large screen of the TV slaps reality in my face like a hammer to the gut.
Pictures of Rogan are sliding across the screen, him as a baby, him in a hallway at school, him in the stands of a football game. It’s too much to see, but I can’t look away. I’m seeing it all while lying on the family room floor with Bruce still holding me from behind, a sleeping Bruce based on the tone of his breathing. I guess we both fell asleep. I’ve never been as awake as I am now, though.
Rogan is gone, like really gone. I thought he was here, but it was just a dream. He came to say goodbye. Tears burst mercilessly down my face. I’ll never see him again.
What am I going to do now?
Bruce moves his arm right as I’m preparing to throw it off me. I need to sit up, I need to move, I need answers. What the hell happened?
The TV goes blank. Mom is sitting on the loveseat, clearly having turned the TV off after realizing I was awake. “Turn it back on,” I say brusquely. I have no decorum left in me to care about my attitude toward anyone right now. Hesitantly, mom hits the ‘on’ button of the remote, bringing his face back into my view.
I’m frozen in place, but only briefly, before I’m crawling toward the screen where he is. This is as close as I’ll ever be to him, and I need to be as close as I can right now.
“Jess,” a soft voice calls for me. “Why don’t we go into the kitchen for a while? I’ll make you some tea, something to eat maybe. I don’t know when you last ate something,” mom says in the same hushed voice, the voice used in a library or a museum, the voice used around skittish animals so as not to scare them. I guess she thinks I’ve become the skittish animal.
“Leave me alone, mom!” I shout when she tries to pull me from the TV. My eyes are frozen to the screen, to the images of the boy I loved. I can hear her sniffle from behind me but I can’t look away, I can’t look at her. She’ll make me leave.
“Bruce.” She says his name as a plea, clearly looking for help in handling me.
“Jess, why don’t you come sit by me so we can talk about what happened?” he says in his familiar assertive voice, the voice of reason when there seems to be no reason left.
I hear the click of the television remote. Not needing to look, I know mom turned it off; probably for the best.
Like a moth to a flame, a ship to a lighthouse, a dog to a bone, whatever stupid cliché out there, I stand and walk to him, drawn to him as I’ve always been. I know I’m supposed to be mad at him, I wanted to kill him not that long ago, but I also know I need him. I know he didn’t do anything wrong. I know he didn’t hurt Rogan, and I know I can’t bear to lose him now.
“Sit next to me,” he says while patting a vacant spot on the loveseat. “Do you want to know what happened? Or would you like to wait?” he asks bluntly.
Thoughts run rampant through my mind. Do I want to know? Do I have to know? What will I do once I know? The answers are yes, yes, and who the hell knows.
I nod reluctantly.
Resting his hand on my knee closest to him, he tells me to stop him if any of this gets to be too much. I don’t like where this is going, but I suck it up, prepared to endure the pain soon to follow.
“Rogan didn’t go to school today. Like most students, he skipped since it was only a half day. His mom was off from work, but had errands to run this morning, so Rogan was left alone for a few hours. She went up to his room when she got home to see if he wanted something for lunch, but found only a wide-open window. The wind coming through it was blowing everything around the room. She went to close the window, realizing there was no screen. She looked outside to see if it had fallen out. That’s when she saw, well, when she saw, she saw . . . Rogan.” He finally spits out. “He was lying face-down on the lawn outside his window.”
Sucking in a sharp breath, I nearly pass out from this news. Bruce gives me a moment, asking if I need him to stop, but this is like pulling off a Band-Aid—do it fast or not at all. I close my eyes, make a silent plea with the Cosmos to keep my stomach where it belongs, and squeeze tight to the sofa cushions as life preservers. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
“Keep going,” I whisper.
“She ran out to him, but it was too late. When the ambulance arrived they believed it was a suicide.”
I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“I heard the call come in on my CB radio so I immediately went to see what the hell was happening. The EMT’s on scene were examining a note when I got there, a suicide note they thought, but it didn’t make much sense to them. When I saw it, I knew instantly that that’s not what it was.” He takes a calming breath. “It said, ‘Now you’re mine forever, my lovely Jess.’”
He did this? He who has no name to me, yet who has ingrained himself into my life so deeply I don’t remember a time before him? I’m his forever? I don’t even know who he is, yet I’m forever bound to him. He’s my shadow, my nightmare I can’t awake from, my tears I shed, the breaths I take. He lives inside me, touches every part of who I am, of everyone who surrounds me. I thought I could keep Rogan safe, but I couldn’t. I can’t keep anyone safe. He’ll find a way, always find a way.
I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to run and never look back. My hands are clammy, yet that now familiar freeze is surging through my body, leaving me shivering in its path. I stand from the sofa. Looking down at Bruce, I wonder what will happen now. What will life be like now? He has no answers for me; there are no answers for me.
Running my hands through my hair and down the sleeves of my shirt, I pace the room, debating whether to turn the TV back on, but deciding not to. I can’t watch any more of that. The reporters act as if they know him, but they don’t. They don’t know anything about him except that he’s dead. He’s just another story, a story they’ll get tired of soon enough before moving on to some other poor person’s trauma—Vultures.
Mom walks back in the room, holding a cup of tea, her solution to everything! She looks terrible, though, so I don’t protest when she hands me the cup. “Where’s Cass?” I ask. I doubt she’s handling this very well considering what happened with Luke.
“How are you doing?” mom asks, evading my question.
“I’m worried about Cass, that’s how I am,” I say louder than I intended. Setting my untouched cup of tea on the coffee cable, I walk around mom and Bruce toward the stairs. Cass must be in her room. I have to see how sh
e’s doing!
With one foot on the landing, preparing to go to Cass’s room to find out how she is, I’m stopped by the doorbell ringing. The house seems still. Apparently, I’ll be answering the door myself.
Flinging the door open, I’m blinded by lights. “What the hell!” I shout, shielding my eyes from the bombardment of camera flashes snapping loudly in front of me.
“Jessica, did you know someone was after Rogan?” stranger number one asks.
“Do you have any idea who it might be?” stranger number two asks.
Adapting to the fluorescent lights, I count four, no, make that five, reporters and their cameramen, standing on my front porch, hitting me with question after question about Rogan.
“Do you think whoever killed him will try to kill you?”
What the hell? What kind of question is that?
“What kind of question is that, you asshole!” I smile as Bruce reiterates my inner question, with a little more flare than when I thought it, of course. “Get the fuck off this porch before I arrest all of you for trespassing!”
Four reporters and their cameramen scurry toward the street, one man walking casually behind the others. The door slams in front of me before I can process any of what just happened. Why are reporters interviewing me? What do I have to do with any of this?
I don’t care! I just have to find Cass.
Leaving the entryway, a nervous looking mother, and a fuming Bruce, I bound up the stairs as if a pack of wolves is behind me, or a horde of reporters. I have to find Cass!
I nearly fall backwards down the stairs when large arms close around me from behind. A hand covers my mouth, silencing me from screaming, though I try anyway.
“Shh, just relax, my sweet. I’ll take care of you,” an unfamiliar voice instructs.
My sweet? No one calls me that, except . . . No! It can’t be! How could he have gotten in here?
“Ple—Jus—Go—” I attempt to beg for release, though mumbled words are all that come out.
Darkness shrouds my eyes. Sleep demands my cooperation, forcing me into a restless slumber.
Chapter Thirteen
Three years ago . . .
My eyes are trying to open despite my efforts to keep them closed. The pain is unbearable.
There’s pain in my head.
Pain in my arms.
Pain in my belly.
Pain in my throat.
For so many reasons, two, forefront in my mind at the present moment, I wish my heart would stop thumping against my chest, one being the nauseating wave of pain it brings, the second being that I wish I were dead.
Speaking of pain, why am I in so much of it? Where am I?
“Oh good, you’re awake,” a voice says in the distance. “You’ve been asleep for a while now. I was beginning to worry,” he says in a tone that almost suggests it’s my fault I slept so long.
“Who are you? Where am I?” I try for answers.
“Where you are is of no importance. As for who I am, I’m disappointed you don’t know,” he answers with frustration. “I’ve been with you for so long I thought sure you would recognize me.”
“Maybe I would if I could see you,” I suggest.
“That’s probably true.”
I wait for him to show himself, propping myself up on the bare mattress I’m on to get a better view.
“But I think it would be more fun for you to guess. Don’t you?” he questions from somewhere dark and hidden from my view.
I have to guess? How am I supposed to do that?
“Don’t worry, I’ll give you some clues,” he declares excitedly, as if we’re playing a game.
“Let’s see. A clue.” He trails off, apparently thinking. “Oh, I got it! Who do you turn to when times are hard, when you need to talk because you’ve had such a bad day?”
Who do I turn to? I always turned to Rogan, or mom, or Cass, but I doubt they’re the answer to this riddle. So, who do I turn to? Who else is in my life, or has been in my life. Think, Jess! Think!
Silence drags on; I still have no answer. Rogan is the only person I can think of, so I say his name. I know this is a ridiculously stupid response, which I more than likely will be killed for, but I would rather die with Rogan’s name on my lips than a lie of appeasement to a monster.
Nothing happens. Time continues and still, nothing. Maybe he left. Maybe I’m alone.
“I see,” his voice echoes from somewhere in the distance of the room we’re in.
He’s farther from me than he was before. Did my answer anger him? Is he going to leave me behind now? I hear rustling; it’s getting louder, closer, louder, closer. He’s coming, coming for me. Emotion after emotion roll through me, eliciting thoughts, some happy, some not so much, as they pass.
Love, pain, excitement, desire, want, joy, happiness, fear all rush through me, centering mostly around Rogan, with mom and Cass woven in in equal importance. Is this what they mean when they say your life passes before your eyes right before you die? Am I dying?
Hands are around my throat, knees driving into my abdomen, indiscernible words being shouted. What’s happening? Screams are trapped in my throat, their release forbidden. Kicking and punching, I try to free myself from the force holding me down. With every ounce of effort I exert, a pound of energy is drained, and to no avail; the force isn’t slackening. When my nails catch flesh, I leech on. The hold loosens for a quick moment, teasing me with the breath of air I suck in. A small whimper escapes my lips, further angering whoever is on top of me.
“All you had to do was be mine!” he shouts. “I would have given you anything! Everything! Yet all you can think of is him! I’m the one who loves you, the one who’s always loved you. I made it so we could be together and still you run to him. Why? Answer me!” he demands while shaking me, my head bouncing repeatedly off the hard mattress, incoherent thoughts replacing logical ones.
Tears stream down my cheeks of their own accord; I have no more control over them than I do the man on top of me. I feel swimmy in my head, weightless all over. I feel free. Death isn’t so bad. Soon this will be done and maybe a place exists where Rogan and me can be together once more.
Peace floods my body. Fear, terror, pain, all replaced by indescribably beautiful feelings there are no words for; my body hums with anticipation.
“Get the fuck off her!”
Peace is gone.
The heavy weight that was on top me is gone, a chill from the vacancy taking its place. Rolling onto my side, I gasp for air. I want to scream, but my voice is too hoarse for anything more than a pathetic grumble to leave my chapped lips.
The sounds flooding the room break through the ringing in my ears. It sounds like someone is dying. With the last of my strength, I sit up, my arm propping me upright on the mattress. One leg, heavy and painful, slams onto the floor. Second leg follows suit. Pulling both hands into one another, I take a moment to calm my dizzying head, doing everything I can to keep from vomiting.
“What did you do to her? Answer me, you piece of shit!”
Standing slowly on my unsteady legs, I let my body catch up with my brain.
“I’ll kill you! I swear to God I will!”
Turning toward the shouting, I see Bruce. He found me! He came for me!
“I swear, if you touched one hair on her head!”
“Bruce.” I choke on his name, nearly collapsing onto the mattress from my weakened state.
“Jesus Christ, Jess! I thought you were dead! I didn’t think I would ever find you!” he exclaims, pulling me tight into his chest. “Are you okay?” he asks.
Nodding, I curl into him, savoring his warmth and protection. I was okay with dying. I can’t deny I had given up, but now he’s here, I’m here, because he saved me. I’m so exhausted, but I can’t sleep, not before I know who did this.
Attempting to move out of Bruce’s hold proves pointless as his arms tighten around me the more I try. “Bruce, I have to see him. I have to know who did this,” I plea
in barely a whisper of a voice. “Please.”
“You’ll see him soon enough, just not now. How he looks right now isn’t what he normally looks like, so it wouldn’t do much for you to see him like this,” he states with no room for challenging him.
“I’ll see him soon, though, right?”
“Sure.”
“Bruce, I have to see him, you know I have to. I won’t be able to sleep knowing I was this close to finally facing the bastard.”
“I know, and you will. Let’s get you out of here for now and we’ll deal with that later, okay?”
Stopping him from moving, I have to ask the one nagging question I need answered now. “Do I know him?”
“Yeah,” he drawls out, a growl emanating from his chest.
“It’s that bad, huh?” I push.
“Let’s get out of here, okay?” he says as a question, though there’s only one answer he’ll accept.
We walk up a flight of stairs of a basement lit with a single hanging bulb as police officers pass us going in the opposite direction. No one stops us as Bruce all but drags me up the remaining stairs. Passing through a kitchen, a family room, finally the garage, we don’t stop until we’re in Bruce’s SUV.
Looking at the house in front of me, everything muddied by fear, solidifies with clarity. I was held in the basement of this normal looking house. I don’t recognize it, but it could be anyone’s. It’s a white two-story house with green shutters, nothing exceptional about it, yet inside it housed a monster who invaded my life, stole everything that meant anything from me; a monster that almost killed me.
Lights, sirens, booming voices competing to be heard over the chaos are filling the night sky with an eerie aura. Bruce starts the engine after looking at me, reading my silent plea to be taken away from here. Soon we’re on the highway. I know the car is silent, but with all the questions in my head, it feels anything but. What just happened? Who was that person? How did he get into my house? How did Bruce find me?
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