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I start my car and pull out of the driveway before lowering the top on the Shelby. Going slow so I don’t get pulled over, I travel the deserted early morning streets of our affluent suburb at a leisurely pace. When I get home, I drive around back, turn the car off, and pull a joint out of my wallet. Lighting up the blunt, I sit back in my seat, taking several long drags. Chemical bliss floods my system, relaxing me enough to go inside and deal with my parents.
Fuck, I hate this house. The only thing that makes it worth coming home to every day is my sister Kinsey, and half the time, even knowing she’s inside isn’t enough to make me want to leave the safety of my car.
I pray my mom isn’t already high, then giggle at the hypocrisy, pulling another long drag from the joint. Me having to get high in order to deal with my prescription drug abusing, alcoholic mother? I snort in sick, twisted delight.
Later, when I look back on this moment, I realize it sucked that I never saw the police car parked out front or noticed the thirty-seven missed calls on my phone. Maybe I wouldn’t have smoked that joint. Maybe I would have been better prepared for the worst moment of my life. Maybe I wouldn’t have laughed like a hyena when I found out I was a killer.
But that’s exactly what I am.
2
Killer
Darkness. And pain. Definitely pain. A dull, throbbing, nauseating pain that radiates from my head all the way down my entire body to my toes. A long, violent tremor shakes me, stripping away the last vestiges of unconsciousness and thrusting me into the horrors of being awake to live another day.
Fuck.
With one hand, I rub my sore head as I throw my feet over the edge of my bed. I use the other hand to snatch the bottle of whiskey off my nightstand, chugging down a few big gulps. Hair of the dog. I huff, unamused as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, wondering why they don’t just call it what it is—the need to go back to fucked-up oblivion.
One more swallow and I cap the bottle, shoving it in my back pocket after tugging on a pair of jeans that have somehow become two sizes too big. Tired and groggy, I shuffle down the hall to the enormous kitchen that no one cooks in, my stomach protesting the lack of food by growling loudly. Even though I feel sick and the last thing I want to do is eat, I put a slice of bread in the toaster and wait.
The eerie silence of the massive mansion I call home sends chills down my spine. I fucking despise this house. It’s a house of death, sinister and black, as if a dark shroud covers it from top to bottom. Every inch is filled with morbid ghosts of the past, threatening to tear free from the walls and smother me until I join them in the next life.
The pop of the toaster sends me two feet in the air. Jesus, my head hurts. I snag the piece of bread and eat it dry, each tasteless bite scraping its way down my throat to land in a lump at the bottom. Food is merely a necessity. I could care less what or even if I eat.
Bored, I wander to the back windows, staring at the glistening water of the pool and greenery of the lush lawn. Doesn’t matter where I look, I’m not really seeing anything through my hazy vision.
Goddamn, the sun is bright. What time is it?
I remove my phone from my pocket and grunt. Two in the afternoon. Another wasted day, just like every other day in the six weeks since I killed Kinsey and my life disappeared along with her. My entire existence is a waste of fucking air and space.
The agony of overwhelming guilt punches my gut like a wrecking ball. It’s so powerful I hunch over from the pain, clutching my stomach. My other hand reaches out blindly, gripping the window frame to keep from falling over. I claw at the edges, my nails digging into the wood to stay on my feet.
Fuck!
The pain is devastating. I squeeze my eyes shut, holding back the tears that burn behind my eyelids. It’s my fucking fault she’s dead. My beautiful little sister, gone because I’m a selfish asshole. I inhale a ragged breath, choking down the sob trying to wrack my body.
Once I get my sorry ass under control, I slowly stand up, glancing one last time at the backyard and stop breathing.
Oh fuck no. She wouldn’t. No, no, no…
In a panic, I dash into the great room, yanking at the patio doors. My hands are shaking so hard it takes several frustrating tries to unlock the latch and fling the doors open. Ignoring the loud crash of one of the windowpanes shattering from the impact, I dart outside only to trip on the paved stones and land hard on the uneven ground.
Shit! I scrabble to my feet, heedless of the blood dripping from my scraped palms, and dial 911.
Fully clothed, I jump into the pool and swim over to the lifeless form. When my arms go around her waist, I know I’m too late. But I still spend an agonizing twenty minutes administering CPR until one of the paramedics pulls me away.
Soaked through, I collapse on the ground and shiver. Violent convulsions wracking my body. It’s fitting, how cold and numb my skin is, because that’s exactly how I feel inside.
Britton
“Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Wonderful, Britt! That’s the most you’ve done without using the parallel bars.”
I grin. The achievement seems small in the wide scope of things, but at one time was an impossibly huge hurdle for me to overcome.
“Thanks, Nina.” My left foot wobbles. “Ummmm, I may need help getting back to the chair.”
Nina laughs. “Sure.” She hooks her arm around my waist. “I should make you go back on your own just to prove you can do it,” she teases.
