Dark Lies (House of Sin 2)
Page 22
I’m no more a saint than he is.
“Stop,” I hiss, retracting my hand. “Stop calling me that.”
He makes a face, seemingly confused. “Why?”
“I’m not an angel,” I say. My body starts to shake, though I don’t know whether it’s from the coldness of the rain or the emotions laid bare. “I killed someone. Don’t you understand?”
“Yes, I do,” he replies.
My lips quiver as I gaze up into his deep, dark eyes hidden behind those thick lashes where raindrops fall as slow and hard as I do for him. But I can’t let these emotions take control of me. Not when I finally realize all that I’ve done. All that’s happened … because of him. “You made me do this. If it wasn’t for you—”
“Then what?” he interjects as we have a stare down. “You would never have murdered him?”
The air between us is thick with tension.
“You would have stayed with him even though he hurt you, repeatedly?” He looks down at my lower leg, beneath my skirt, at the spot where the bruise used to be. Now there’s nothing but pristine, pretty skin. I’m like a porcelain doll all patched up, but no amount of golden paint can brush up the scars lying underneath the surface.
And I am tired. Tired of having to erase my own history. Tired of having to fight for my own justice. Tired of trying to blame my own actions on others. Tired of having to face this constant battle between right and wrong, guilt, shame … and relief.
No one is supposed to feel that way after the death of a loved one. Or at least … someone you told yourself you should love. Someone who always said he loved you, even when his actions proved otherwise. But no one ever taught me what love truly is. How it shapes a person. What it makes them do.
All I know is the love of my parents vanished overnight. And the love my grandparents gave me never came close … nor did it last long enough to matter.
Two years ago
Leaves fall down upon the holes dug in the ground as my grandmother joins my grandfather in the grave. She only lasted a couple of months longer than he did. Her doctor said she died of a broken heart.
I don’t think either of them was ready to die yet.
Not that it matters.
They’re gone now, and I have no more family left.
All I can do is stare at the ground as the casket is lowered inside. Tears well up in my eyes as the sun shines brightly onto the wood. It shouldn’t be such a beautiful day for such a sad occasion. Maybe this is my grandmother’s way of saying a final goodbye.
Still, as she’s hoisted in, I can’t help but turn away and cry. The only one to console me is Chris, a friend who I met online and have been speaking to for quite some time. We’ve only met in person a few times before, but I still asked him to come because I didn’t know anyone else, and I needed support.
How does one bury their last living relatives all by themselves?
It’s impossible. So I turn to him, looking for him to console me even though he doesn’t even know me that well. But when his arms wrap around me, I cry harder and harder against him, feeling like I can finally let out all the pain suffocating me since both of them died.
Even though I barely know this guy, he’s still here, and that’s what matters.
“C’mon. Let’s get something to drink,” he says after the ceremony is over.
And even though I wasn’t ready to walk yet, I still let him whisk me away.
Out of misery … just so I can forget.
Present
Death has been such an intrinsic part of my life that I believed it belonged there.
That it was a natural consequence of the pain we suffered.
That I, too, deserved death. Because why would I be alive and my parents and grandparents be dead?
“Why?” I mutter, unable to keep the tears at bay. “Why did I stay? Why didn’t I fight? Why didn’t I—”
Suddenly, his arms clasp around me, crushing me into his embrace. The warmth exuding from his chest overpowers the chills in my bones.
“You blamed yourself for all the pain in your life,” he says. “Told yourself you deserved it. But you don’t have to do that anymore.”
Tears stream down my face like the rain poured down the crevice of the cliff my parents’ car dived into. A never-ending flurry of knives stabbing my heart, making me want to howl from grief.
“All these years, I let him hurt me,” I mutter, disgusted with myself. “How could I?”
“Because you wanted to feel loved,” he says. “You were afraid of what it would mean when even someone like him couldn’t love you …”