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The long drive home was tense and silent, as expected. Regardless, it bothered me. If I hadn't fucked up so astronomically, we would have had someone to question. We would have been a step closer to finally having the answers we so desperately need.
Neither Renz, nor Isaac, called me out or even mentioned my murder-fest back at the shipping yard, but I'd be a fool to think their silence would be indefinite on the subject. No one in our little makeshift family expects perfection. We all know mistakes are bound to happen. Despite the fact that we were all raised in this environment, we are all still continually learning how to handle everything. With that said, I know damn well that I went too far and that my mistake will cost us.
Sighing, I step out of the shower where I've been caught in my deep, contemplative thoughts for the last thirty minutes. All of the events of tonight are wearing on me heavily despite my best efforts to ignore them. My blood-soaked skin is now clean but red and irritated from scrubbing it so thoroughly. Snagging a towel off of the hook, I wrap the soft, white material around my hips and tuck it in as I make my way into my bedroom, completely ignoring my reflection in the mirror as I go.
Our home, or The Tower as we've not so affectionately dubbed it, is a luxury version of Fort Knox. A gilded cage. It's beautiful, simplistic, and sophisticated. A modernist's dream. It's chock-full of high-tech improvements making it basically impenetrable. It's amazing, really, but it's also stifling and feels nothing like a home should. Unfortunately, as proven once again tonight, it's also obviously vital to our safety.
Fifty-two floors up in a building that is solely owned by the Travino's, our concrete and steel palace is just over 7000sqft. Two floors, shiny white surfaces, plain walls, minimal décor, and so fuckingcold.And I don't mean temperature-wise. Five bedrooms, six and a half bathrooms, an office, a library, two living rooms, a kitchen, dining room, storage areas, and two elevators. And that's only the interior.
Two outdoor terraces, a landscaped deck, and a helipad make up the glass-incased outer areas. It's obvious that a lot of thought went into its design, though, you'd never catch me out there unless absolutely necessary. I may be an adrenaline junky but being damn near 60 stories up in the sky with little more than a waist-height glass wall to keep you from plummeting to your death is not my idea of a good time. Renz often finds peace out on the patios, leaning over the wall and letting the wind clear his mind but just the sight of him doing so makes my nuts draw up into my body so high, I’m afraid they might get lost.
Padding my way across my sparse white bedroom, I yank open my dresser with more force than necessary and pull out a pair of boxer briefs. It's after three in the morning and while my body is physically exhausted, my mind is whirling at a rapid pace. Thoughts of my mistake have led me down the path of contemplating who our enemy could possibly be. It's a futile debate for me to have considering we as a group have argued and deliberated the very topic to death for the last few months.
No, there is no point in obsessing over this anymore, for the time being, at least. No doubt Renz is already half a bottle of scotch deep just to clear the same thoughts from his own mind. He's more than likely holed up in his office, or out on its adjoining terrace, leaning over the edge and tempting fate.
I shudder at the thought.
My brain flits to Isaac without my permission. In my mind’s eye, I can clearly see him pacing the length of his room which is so similar to mine. He's probably got his hands braced behind his back; his face scrunched up in thought. I can imagine he's shirtless, clad in only a pair of low-slung grey sweats. Barefoot. His shoulder-length hair down and loose for once. His normally rigid and perfectly put-together facade is nowhere to be seen.
That's my favorite version of him. The real one.
The one that doesn't try to be everything for everyone, leaving nothing for himself. The version that so very few ever get to see. I've seen it, though. I've seen every single piece of him. Every mask he dons, every lie he tells, every part of him that aches to be set free only to be swallowed deep down and ignored.
He hides his true self similarly to the way I hide my emotions. The only difference is that where Isaac hides from the world, I hide from myself. If I really dissect it, I can admit that neither of our natural defense mechanisms is truly our own fault. We were raised to be this way.
He was raised callously, viciously,angrily.
I was not raised at all, but rather tossed aside.Thrown is more like it.
A wave of deep, desperate melancholy fills me as the thoughts, the memories, press in tightly on the edges of my brain. I quickly shake them off with an audible growl. Absolutely not. I would rather join Renz on the balcony than go down that path. If I allow myself to remember those times, be consumed by those dark, ugly memories, I'll lose myself. I can already feel the sadness, the depression creeping in and it freezes me where I stand.
UNWELL-MATCHBOX TWENTY
As if the ugly, intrusive emotions called out to him, Isaac strolls into my room, not even pausing to knock. He closes my door with a soft click, takes one look at me, and strides past me and into my bathroom without a word. I know what he's doing it. I hate it. Despise it. But, I can't find it in myself to protest, to shout or scream orrun,the way I want to.
I can't move at all.
My breathing comes in harsh, rapid pants. My hands begin to tremble. My knees feel weak. My body suddenly more exhausted than I thought possible. I should be raging. I should be embarrassed. I should feel exposed,so fucking naked.
Yet, I don't. I'm caught in the in-between. The place where my brain is processing everything at a breakneck speed while offering me no clear thoughts. My emotions are high and tumultuous. I feel everything and nothing at the same time. My body is so full of energy that it wants to sprint. Shoot from the place where I stand while also being weak, rooted to the spot, on the verge of giving out altogether.
Isaac returns, quickly, though calmly. He remains silent as he offers me a glass of water in one hand, a small white pill in the other. When I make no move to take either, partly because I don't fucking want to, and partly because I can't even force my pathetic body to move a muscle, he smiles. Softly, sweetly,lovingly. Because he knows. He always somehow knows exactly what I need.
Reaching forward, he pushes the small pill into my mouth and onto my tongue. He then brings the cold liquid to my now dry lips and tips it back, never breaking eye contact with me. If I was able to feel, I would feel shame. My unofficial partner, boyfriend, lover, is taking care of me like some sort of invalid and not even for a good, respectable reason like a gunshot wound or near-death experience.
No. Nothing cool or brave.
He's taking care of me because my brain is broken. Genetically, or so I've been told. Though I'm just as inclined to blame my waste of space of a mother, or perhaps it falls on my faceless, dead father. Maybe even the stepfather who relished in punishing me for crimes committed before I could even talk—
"Stop," Isaac softly commands, setting the half-empty glass on my dresser that I've yet to be able to move away from. "Whatever path you're letting yourself travel down right now, stop. It leads to nowhere good."
I say nothing. There is nothing to say.
He knows. He always knows.
Grabbing my hand, he gives it a squeeze and the tight friction rouses my senses slightly, bringing me back from the frozen state that is consuming me. He gives it a tug and my body responds without my permission. I follow him blindly, as I always do, always will. I trust him. Have absolute, unending faith in him, and in Renz. They are my brothers, my family. Neither by blood but both by something so much deeper. They will always lead me in the right direction. Now is no different.
He walks me to my bed and gently pushes me down to sit on the edge.Gently.That in and of itself is telling. Zac is not a gentle person. He is not soft or tender. But with me, when I'm like this, he is. Maybe because he knows I hate it and would fight him tooth and nail if I possibly could, in order to avoid the coddling. Maybe because he knows I love it. Cherish it. The soft hand, the kind touch, the compassion. It's not something I ever received before him.
