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However, as soon as I got back to the townhouse, I’ve pretty much been stuck here. Whenever Liam wasn’t here, someone else came to keep me company, which was usually Sasha or Mama Astrid.
Dad opted to stay in the town house next to us, and he’s been over here multiple times. Unfortunately, I’m never alone with him so we haven’t been able to really talk much.
He’s told me more about his life. Growing up. His parents, who I wish I could have met. And about Nikki and Sadie. When I asked about Sadie’s dad, for some reason, he shut down and just said he’s not in the picture. I wanted to pry more, but again, we weren’t alone.
Shaking my head, I set my coffee down on the table. My hands graze over the blue and black journals Sasha gave me yesterday, as well as a pack of colored pens. We ended up having a video call with Levi, who apologized profusely for not being able to come to see me, but I totally understood and told her that. Her wedding is in a couple of days, and she needs to finish getting things ready.
During the video call, Levi told me her story. About being kidnapped a bit before her sixteenth birthday. About Scott and then about Black Plague when they kidnapped her again earlier this year.
She showed me her scars, and I burst into tears at seeing what they’d done to her. She said Reaper’s scars were far worse than hers, and I’d bet anything it was because he tried to draw their attention away from her. On top of the normal protectiveness I’ve seen toward Old Ladies, they’d just found out that she was pregnant with twins before she was kidnapped.
I showed her what Carter had done to me, which had both of them in tears as well, even though Sasha had already seen them. Knowing what Levi had been through and that it was sorta similar to my situation helped me open up about it more to them.
Then they told me about the journals.
When she held up her own journals for the first time, it finally clicked. I’d seen Reaper writing in some notebooks like hers after breakfast each day. Sometimes multiple times throughout the day. When I said that, she gave me a small smile and said in the hospital after they were rescued; she told him about the journals. Her family uses them as well.
My mind wanders back to our conversation.
“Besides talking to family and friends about things, or sparring, or throwing knives, I also keep two journals. I always have a stack of each color for when I fill one up and I never let the stacks run out. You never know when something will trigger a memory or your emotions and you’ll have the urge to use the journals.
“The blue one is my everyday journal to chart how I’m feeling. I use whichever color pen strikes my fancy but never black or red for the lengthy daily journal entries.
“On days that are exceptionally hard, I make a note, like this one,” she says as she points to an entry in her own blue journal. It had the date and just a simple note of ‘used the black journal’.
“If I feel like I’m in a really dark place, I’ll make a note like that in either black or red ink. That’s how I track how frequently I use it. I only use black or red pens when I’m writing in the black journal, no other colors.
“In the black journal, I’ll jot down everything that I’m feeling. Times where it seems like I’m caught in the clutches of darkness and trying to claw my way out. I would write out every dark, and often torturous, action I’d do to my captors.
“When I found myself crawling out of that dark hole, I’d go out back to our firepit and light a fire. Then I’d rip out those pages and tear them up before rolling them into little balls and throwing them into the fire, letting the fire burn away my hateful and gruesome thoughts.
“After each... incident I’ll just call them, the time periods between needing to write in the black journal were usually pretty frequent. Dad had heard of a saying that some therapists use with their patients to gauge how they’re doing. He’d ask me ‘how long?’. Meaning how long has it been since I felt the urge to write in the black journal and I’d always answer truthfully.
“Over time, the time periods between using the black journal and burning the pages lengthened. I found myself being able to process my emotions better and not need to use the journals. Once I feel like I’m in a good place to put it all behind me, then I burn the blue ones as well.”
Blinking, I pick up the notebooks and pens and put them in my backpack along with my Kindle. Reading has helped me pass the time since I’ve been stuck here for two days.
But that ends today.
Yesterday, Mama Astrid brought over the little golf cart she sometimes uses when carrying things back and forth between the clubhouse and their house. Since Doc doesn’t want me exerting myself too much yet, she said I could use it to get around.
Putting my phone in my pocket, I slip on my flats and head out, locking the door behind me.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
I jump, startled, and twirl toward the voice. Scowling, I curse myself for forgetting Timber has a Prospect watching our house since Carter and Andrew were able to sneak onto club grounds.
Colt stands a few feet away, his arms crossed with a stern look on his face, but his eyes dance with amusement. Like he knew I’d crack soon.
Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin, not breaking his gaze. “I’m going to the clubhouse. I have to get out of this house. Plus, a few minutes of fresh air would be nice.”
He frowns. “My orders are to keep you here and keep anyone not related to the club out.”
“I need to see something other than these four walls. Besides, Doc cleared me to be more active so there’s nothing wrong with me going to the clubhouse.”
His gaze narrows on mine and I cross my arms. The skin around my stitches pulls a bit at the action, but I refuse to show it. “You said you’re supposed to protect me, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, his gaze narrowing even more.
