Page 16 of His Last Will

Three count in, three count out.

I mouth the words of three things that are real. The hair tie wrapped around my wrist. The soft cotton of my nightshirt. My silk underwear.

Three truths to break me from my nightmarish prison. I repeat the process until I can find the strength to lift myself off the floor.

Sitting up, I lean against the wall, letting my head fall back, and close my eyes. Rocking back and forth, the slow rhythm keeps me grounded and aware.

I think what makes everything worse is that there is no new information on what actually happened that night. We don’t actually know who took the hit out or a concrete reason why. The Order is investigating the hit, but it seems to have stalled, and I can’t find the energy in me to investigate myself. I feel broken beyond repair.

And to all the people who say that time heals all wounds, disrespectfully, go fuck yourself.

I wish I could feel nothing. Embrace shutting down and letting the numbness consume me. Watch as the black fog descends around me and swallows me whole. The pain would be gone, and maybe then I would finally be able to get some rest.

My whole life was ripped away from me in the time it takes for a bullet to hit its mark. Shattering everything around me.

Pressing against the rim of the toilet, I push myself up and make my way to the sink, splashing water onto my face to clear away the layer of sweat beginning to cool and turn sticky.

I don’t look into the mirror. All I ever see are thick red streaks covering my reflection. Painting me in the blood that he lost that night.

Sharp pain radiates from my chest and shoots to my head. I sway a little as I wait for the dizziness to go away.

This cannot go on much longer.

With more effort than it should take, I turn toward the bedroom and walk over to the balcony to open the French doors, hoping the breeze will lift some of the staleness in the room. The sounds of cicadas chirping and the sweet scent of spring flowers fill my room.

I prop the doors open with brick doorstops and walk back to the bed. I do my best not to think of how empty it looks. How empty it feels without him. The white sheets are cool and slightly damp now from the drying sweat. But I don’t dare move to the other side.

Turning my back to the far side of the room, I pull the covers over my shoulders and grab my phone.

Pictures of my friends light up my screen. Heavily liquored-up bar photos grace my feed as they make their way through the city, living their Saturday night to the fullest. Meeting new people, concerts, dancing. Reese, another hockey player, appears to be at a poker table, probably somewhere underneath the city that is invite-only.

Everyone seems to be moving on and continuing their lives while mine has come to a standstill. The dichotomy between people who have been impacted by grief and those whom loss has never touched is vast.

Turning off my phone, I place it back on the nightstand, unable to stomach any more joy.

Resting my head against the pillow, I turn my cheek and glance outside. The starless sky is an endless depth of black that feels like it could swallow the whole world. I wonder what it would take for it to consume me.

Shutting my eyes, I wonder if I will ever sleep through the night again.

Murmuring into the empty room, I try one final time.

The dark sky. The empty space next to me in the bed, the sheets long cold.

Brodie dead.

That final truth is very real. And since then, nothing has been the same.

Because the reason I hang on is gone.

CHAPTER

FIVE

AIDEN

Watching her cry disgusts me. Especially over that piece of shit.

I’ve never really known what to do with tears. Sadness is a wasted emotion.