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It’s finally hit.
It’s finally sinking in, and it hurts so fucking bad.
The door jars behind me. “Beau?” James calls. I jolt with his constant pushing of the door, not bothering to wipe at my face. Not bothering to fix myself. I’m really not okay, and I can’t pretend I am anymore. At least, not with James.
I shuffle forward on my ass, giving him room to open the door, and when he muscles past and finds me on the floor, all I can do is smile lamely, my lip wobbling, my face drenched.
His big body seems to shrink before my eyes. I hate that too. I sense things are coming to a head and, as much as I don’t want to be an added problem, I can’t find it in myself to fight the onslaught of emotions. I’m done. Exhausted. The adrenalin has gone. Empty.
Silently, he takes my hand and gently pulls me up from the floor, engulfing me in his arms and lifting me from my feet. His move gives my sadness another hit of sorrow, and I bury my face in his neck, my body jumping, my cries ruling me. I haven’t lost control like this since Mom died. Back then, I was blinded by my grief, unable to see what lay ahead. Now? Now I know what lies ahead, and it scares me. I know what needs to happen, what we both need to find closure for the murders of the people we love the most. But this new grief feels somehow unstoppable. It feels like there will never be a cure, and it’s terrifying. James taking me to those places that always released me from my torment doesn’t feel like it could work now, which leaves me dangling off the cliff, ready to plummet into the darkness with no lifeline to bring me back.
He walks across the room and eases me down to the bed, reaching behind him to detach my arms from around his shoulders. I can’t look at him, my eyes low. I don’t want him to see the utter hopelessness in me. I don’t want him to feel like I do, because if he doesn’t believe he can fix me, I don’t know where that leaves us. Our anguish has always been shared, whether silently and unknown, or with the truth. It lightened the weight on our shoulders. Offered respite. And on top of my shredded emotions, I feel guilt, because it wasn’t only me who lost the unexpected glimmer of light beyond our purpose.
“Beau,” he breathes, trying to encourage my chin up, trying to find my eyes. I resist, fighting against the pressure of his finger. “Beau, look at me.”
I shake my head, swallowing, trying desperately to rid my throat of the overwhelming lump, jolting with every inhale I attempt to make. I can’t breathe. Can’t feel anything except the overpowering emptiness that crushed me when I woke from my coma. Can’t see anything but James’s face when he told me.
I know what’s coming, I know the feeling, the uncontrollable panic hijacking me. “No.” I will it away, standing from the bed, pushing James back. I frantically search the room for Dexter. Where is he? I look for the drawers that Dexter always kept the paper bags in. Where are they? I search for Uncle Lawrence, for his peaceful balcony that he always took me to. They’re not here. I gasp, reaching for something to cling to, defying the pull. I grapple at the material in my hands, feeling something grab me, hearing the bellow of a man.
“I can’t breathe,” I gasp, heaving, searching for air. “I can’t breathe!” My heart thunders in my chest, my pulse booming in my ears, my vision hazy from the blackness creeping in from the sides.
And then it’s there, over my mouth, and I grab it, urgently pulling in oxygen as my strung body gives and I sink into something soft. The black begins to clear, and I blink, staring at a gold chandelier, disorientated.
“Fuck . . . me,” someone whispers, as a hand strokes through my hair.
“What happened?”
I swallow, my breathing regulating, and drop my eyes. “Aunt Zinnea?” I mumble into the bag, willing my mind to straighten out. The bag continues to crumple, the sound deafening. My face feels taut, my throat hoarse, my chest tight. I remove the bag and try to sit up, but I’m met with force, two spade-like hands pushing into my shoulders and forcing me back to the bed.
“Take it easy.” He appears above me, his handsome face cut with worry. “Please don’t tell me you’re okay or I’ll lose my head.”
“I’m not okay,” I whisper jaggedly, taking the bag back to my mouth, as James virtually exhales his relief and Zinnea whimpers her sorrow, reaching for James’s arm and resting her hand there.
