I stopped, a sob coming out of my throat, unbidden and uncontrollable. Raine laid herself back in the sand, scooting down so when she reached around my head and pulled me to her
, my cheek was pressed against her shoulder. One of her arms wrapped around my shoulders, and her other hand ran through my hair, holding me tight against her. I tried to focus on her touch and her scent filling my nostrils, but whether my eyelids were opened or closed, all I could see was their eyes as each of them realized they were next. All I could smell was their blood. All I could hear were their screams.
“I didn’t do anything, Raine. I didn’t help your dad…I’m sorry…I’m sorry…I’m sorry…I’m so fucking sorry…if I had known you then…I would have done something to help him, I swear I would have, Raine…I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”
“I know, Bastian.” Her arms tightened around me, and she held me as close as she could. I could hear her crying, too. “There was nothing you could have done. I know there was nothing you could have done.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why were they there, Bastian? What were they all doing there?”
“I have no fucking clue, baby,” I answered. “I don’t know how your father got there or why he was there. During the trial there was another cop who testified – I think he was a supervisor or something – and he said they had been off the beat. He said they weren’t supposed to be in that area at all and they hadn’t radioed in to say they were going to investigate something.”
“My dad would have radioed,” Raine said, not a doubt in her voice.
“That’s what the prosecutor kept saying. None of them seemed to know what they were doing there, and I know that sounds really suspicious and shit, but I wasn’t paying close attention to that part. It didn’t matter to me how they got there.”
“It matters to me.”
“Fuck, baby…I wish I could tell you. I just don’t know.”
She held me…or I held her…I don’t know which – maybe both – for a long time. The sand was becoming uncomfortable, but I didn’t really care. I had told her as much as I could ever tell her about that night; I just needed to finish what was left before I couldn’t talk any more.
“It fucked me up, Raine,” I whispered. “Even after all the death I’d seen – all the death I’d caused – I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat anything without getting sick, and I couldn’t get all their faces out of my head. Every night, over and over again. I couldn’t even leave my apartment for a while, and after about a month, I finally told Landon I was never going to fight again. A week later, Gunter was arrested, ratted out his uncle, and the next thing I knew, I was agreeing to testify for immunity. Landon found out, came over and beat the shit out of me, but I refused to back down. I thought if I did that – if I helped put them away, maybe I could sleep again. Either it was going to let me sleep or I was going to be dead anyway.”
“It didn’t work, though,” I told her. “Even after Gunter went to prison, I still had the dreams. Maybe because Franks was acquitted…I dunno…so I started drinking…a lot. I drank when Jillian left, and sometimes it helped me forget for a while, so I started drinking when the nightmares kept me up. After a while, they’d go away, or at least I wouldn’t remember them after I drank myself unconscious. So that’s what I did…for years…up until we were on the raft.”
“You’ve talked about some of it in your sleep,” Raine told me. “You talked about the trial when you had that infection, and you talk about Landon all the time.”
“I didn’t know I did that before,” I admitted. “I never really slept with anyone but you.”
Raine let out a soft, snorty chuckle.
“I mean…”
“I know what you meant, Bastian. It’s okay. I know you’ve…been with a lot of women.”
“Not like you,” I said softly.
“I know that, too,” she said, trailing her fingers over my jaw.
“No one’s ever treated me like you do,” I told her. “I was always…I don’t know…tossed out? When I was a kid, I didn’t even have a real name.”
“What do you mean?”
“One of the social workers told me when I was older. I had asked her where I came from and who my real parents were. I was probably six or seven, I think. I had just been transferred out of one foster home and into another. I was still in the same school and accidentally got on the bus going back to the first home. When I got there, the foster dad wouldn’t let me in even though it was raining. He yelled at me and told me to stay outside. The social worker came and picked me up eventually. I asked her who my real parents were.”
“He made you stay out in the rain?” Raine gasped. “How could anyone do that to a little kid?”
“He was pretty angry with me,” I said. “I don’t remember why, though. I assume I deserved it.”
“No one deserves that,” I heard her mumble, but I didn’t feel like arguing that point. Obviously someone deserved it. Me, for instance.
“Back then, I was just called Sebastian Smith. I only knew my first name when I was found, I guess, so they just made up a name and a birthday and shit for me.”
“You don’t know when your real birthday is?” Raine sounded absolutely mortified.
“No,” I responded. “They just took me to the doctor who told them I was probably born in May, and they picked a name and birth date to make the birth certificate.”