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Prologue
CAIA
I was five years old the first time I hurt myself to get my brother’s attention. I was too young to think clearly but as I got older, I couldn’t stay away from causing myself all that pain. I needed him to see me. I needed him to love me. But I couldn’t get him to look at me. Not even with blood on my hands and tears streaming down my face.
The older I got, the harder it became for me to accept that I wasn’t his favorite sister, and that I probably never would be. It was unfair, and nothing would ever change his mind. No matter how many times I would hurt myself, nothing would ever compare to the hurt Wavel had to endure.
Wavel was sick. She was in the hospital a lot, and my family spent a lot of time sitting by her bed, mostly watching her sleep. She didn’t look the same without her blonde hair. Hair that looked just like mine. And despite all the treatment she had to endure, she always looked beautiful.
We were twins. We looked the exact same. Still…Sly only ever looked at her.
I often wondered if things would’ve been different if I was the sick one. If I had suffered the way Wavel had, would Sly have loved me?
There was no way for me to find out. But with time, I would get him to love me.
Me.
Not Wavel.
Or anyone.
Just me.
Chapter 1
CAIA
I hated sleep. I didn’t need it. Even as a little kid. Instead of sleeping, I spent the nights reading books or watching movies. I also liked to paint, but that was a hobby I liked doing with enough daylight. Though, there weren’t many days where the sky wasn’t gray over this town. It rained almost constantly, and the fog covered the skyline, taking away a beautiful view from the house we lived in on top of a hill.
These large floor to ceiling windows only allowed us to see how sad this town was, and with the luck of being homeschooled, we also never had to endure the long and unhappy faces of the citizens.
Mom and Dad rarely left the house too. Mom was our teacher, and Dad’s job was to help people with mental instabilities to heal. That’s why we often had people over. Strangers. But often times, they became family.
Dr. Keagan Alsten psychologist was written on our front door, but Dad wasn’t a psychologist. He was a cult leader but that didn’t sound as classy. Or trustworthy.
But after every new therapy session, the people fell for Dad’s games.
People usually came alone but Dad sometimes put together a like-minded group of men to have long conversations at night. Tonight was one of those nights. And nights like these were my favorite.
I stood in the doorway looking at Dad who was sitting in his leather chair, with his right ankle resting on his left knee, and his hands resting on his stomach. His head was tilted to the side as he listened with great interest to one of the men. They were all sitting in our living room, and I could barely make out their faces in the dim light. The man speaking was keeping his voice low, and with the rain outside, I had a hard time picking up on anything he was saying.
I kept standing there and took it all in. I didn’t want to bother them. I simply didn’t want to go to bed. I wouldn’t sleep anyway. And waking Wavel wasn’t an option. She would just tell me to go back to sleep. Or she would tell me once again that I desperately needed to see a doctor and get myself checked because of my lack of sleep.
I was fine. Nothing was wrong with me.
Nothing at all.
When one of the men lifted his gaze and met my eyes, I smiled at him, giving him a small wave. He looked confused, but he had seen me before. I knew he had been here a few times already. Maybe he was wondering why I was awake. Or he had forgotten about me.
That wasn’t hard to do. Everyone forgot about me from time to time. Especially my family. When Wavel had to be rushed to the hospital one night, they left me here for three full days. I was eight back then, and they only called once to let me know that Wavel would be okay.
I ate scrambled eggs and cereal for the time they were gone, and when they came back, my mother was kind enough to point out that there were frozen meals in the freezer that I simply had to put into the microwave. I could’ve been smart enough to check the freezer. Then again, I was eight.
The man kept looking at me, and his gaze started to travel down my body. They lingered on my naked feet, and when I started to feel uncomfortable, I shifted and crossed my ankles.
I wanted him to stop staring, but he wouldn’t.
I should go.
