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Prologue
1 year ago…
Stormy
BANG!
The sound reverberates from the walls into my skull. I wake in panic mode, not knowing if I dreamt the noise or not.
Then I hear it. The screams. The yelling. Sounds of scuffling chairs across hardwood floors. Someone calls out to dial 911. In the darkness of the room, I stumble to the door, the only light breaking through is coming from behind the closed door. Turning the handle, I can't comprehend what I'm seeing, it feels like I'm looking at an alternate universe. It must be. I can’t be in the right place. All sounds fall away as I look at everyone running around. All this motion yet no one seems to go anywhere. I’m hit in the face by the pungent fumes of gun powder. It creeps into my senses as I close my eyes, a sense of doom falling over me like a cape. Opening my eyes. I see him. Bodies crowd the space, but I know it’s him. Whether it’s instinct or our connected souls, I can feel him slipping from me.
I make my way to the kitchen and fall to my knees when I see his beautiful face looking back at me. The room fades away, and it’s just he and I. I grasp his hand, it feel clammy in mine. A tear slips from his eye mixing with the blood splattered across his face. The reality of what's going on in the room surges back to me, I am surrounded by utter pandemonium. His brother is on the phone with the police. His mother is shouting orders to me and everyone around us. Directions on what to do. She’s a retired nurse, old habits and all that. I don’t move. I can’t. I’m glued to the spot—just staring. Confusion clouds my mind as I glance up. What the hell happened here? Why am I holding my dying husband’s hand?
He’s not dying. I’m just being dramatic, right?
“Storm, please don't worry. I love you, Always,” he stammers with just a hint of smile as he looks up at me. The words are hard to make out, the damage to his jaw and cheek making it hard for him to speak
Tears begin to flood down my cheeks hearing those raspy words leave his bloodied mouth.Can I wake up from this nightmare now? I’ve had enough. Someone wake me up.
“Don’t you dare be saying goodbye to me. Don’t you dare. You promised me. Always. This isn’t always,” I scream the words at him as I close my eyes. I squeeze his hand harder, willing my life force to make his stronger. This can’t be it. We had so many plans. Future plans. Plans that don’t involve my husband lying on a cold floor with a gunshot through his neck.
He doesn’t respond to my hysteria. I open my eyes only to see the second the life fades from his. Gone in an instant. Seizing his body to mine, I no longer care who or what is happening around us. I pull him closer, clinging to him. I need to feel his body heat against mine. To know he’ll be okay. This is just a fucking nightmare, and I’ll wake up. I have to wake up.
Someone grabs me from behind, pinning my arms down, they drag me away from his lifeless body. His eyes are still on me, staring through me. He’s not really there anymore. I break free from my captor and fight my way back to his side only to be removed more forcibly. The police and EMTs have arrived, but they don’t understand that he promised me. He promised always and forever. He vowed it. We vowed together. This isn’t forever, it can’t be. They don’t understand. Someone is holding me back, people in various uniforms try to resuscitate him. I feel the increasing pressure on my arms as fingers dig into me, I know marks will be left in their wake.
They cut his shirt open. It’s one I made for him. I see the Flash's face cut to shreds as the shirt is removed. It’s fitting really. Gone in a flash. The words ricochet through my mind.
“Clear,” someone calls. Blaine’s body jolts. They shake their heads in unison after attempting several more times.
I’m stunned into silence. I’m in shock. Or am I asleep? Is this a dream? A nightmare?Can I fucking wake up now?
Blaine’s hoisted onto a gurney and rolled out of the house. I fight with all my strength to get to him, but I’m kept rooted to the spot. His brother is holding me back. His fingers still digging into my arms.
I look around the room at the disaster before me. Blood stains the floor where he laid. His mother is crying in his father’s arms. My sister-in-law is standing there as lifeless as Blaine was. She’s not moving a muscle, just staring off into space. Michael, Blaine’s brother, loosens his hold on me once the ambulance is gone. I fall to the floor and crawl to the spot where he was. Laying my head down in the cool sticky mess, I see my hands covered in blood. The thought occurs to me, this is the most beautiful but deadly shade of red. I curl into myself, and let sweet oblivion take me into the darkness.
Earlier that day…
“Come with us, Stormy. Don’t you want to try out your new Ruger?” Blaine pleads for me to come with him and his family to the shooting range. “It’s either that or my mom will take you out shopping,” he sing-songs, using the last arrow in his arsenal. He knows I’d hate to go shopping, not because Not because I dislike shopping itself, but the stores she would drag me to aren’t my cup of tea.
“Fine.” I say aggravatedly. “Let me get dressed. Make sure to pack me a pair of those noise canceling headphones,” I leave him to pack up the bags. Stepping into the room we’re using for our stay at his parents’ house, I cringe at the array of knickknacks in this ultra small room.
I slap on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then braid my hair into two sections to frame my face. I decide to clean up a bit, I clean up the thrown clothes and shoes, placing them back in our luggage, then make the bed. I look around and sigh with relief knowing we’ll be leaving here tomorrow. I head back to the living room where I see everyone getting ready to head to the range. There are several duffel bags loaded with guns, ammo, headphones, targets. Everything that anyone would need for a fun day.
Blaine, his father, brother, nephew, and I are all going. Everything gets loaded into two cars, and we make our way to our destination. Upon arrival, we set everything up and go through all the different weapons. We have a great time seeing who is the best shot using all the different pistols and rifles we brought. Blaine’s always impressed by how well I can shoot a pistol. I beam with pride when he goes around showing everyone my targets.
Once the Florida heat really starts to kick in, we pack the entirety of our equipment up and drive back to Blaine’s parents’ house. When Blaine and I are alone in the car, I decide to broach the same topic we seem to fight about constantly.
“Thanks for inviting me out here today. It was fun.” I begin the conversation as Blaine navigates through traffic.
“Of course. I want you wherever I am. It wouldn’t have been as fun had you not come,” he replies without taking his eyes off the road, his hand resting on my thigh. Nervous about what I’m going to say next, then just spit it out.
“I was thinking I could take some online courses while we are on tour. That way when it’s over I can go to school full-time. I think I found a good university that will work with our hectic schedule. I reached out to them, and they are eager to get me enrolled. What do you think?” I rush out, hands shaking in my lap, knowing we always fight about me going to school. He wants my focus to be one hundred percent on the band, and I want to do something else with my life. We started this band in high school, never dreaming it would go anywhere. I didn’t want to become an overnight sensation. I wanted to graduate and go to art school. Unfortunately, we were picked up by a talent agent at a small show one night, and the rest is history.
“Storm don’t start with this again. We signed with the record label. They would want all your attention on the band. Not to mention, that’s the only thingIwant you focused on. As the manager and lead guitarist, I won’t permit you to spread yourself to thin. This isn’t up for debate. You aren’t going to art school. We’ve all had to sacrifice things for this endeavor. It will pay off. End of discussion.”
I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my temper, “First off, how dare you talk to me like I’m just a member of the band. I am your fucking wife. Remember? Or has this instant fame gone to your head, and you forgot that tiny detail? Second, I didn’t want to be famous, but heaven forbid you consider anything I want out of life. You were so different in high school, Blaine. You actually cared about me and my wants. Now all you care about is Damaged Jacks. Maybe I should just quit, and you can find another lead vocalist,” I yell this last part as I cross my arms over my heaving chest. I look at the scenery passing us by as we drive down the road. I have so many thoughts running through my head, I don’t think I can voice them all. The most prominent thought is that Blaine has been treating me more and more like property rather than a wife lately.
Blaine slams his hand into the steering wheel and growls, “Of course, I know you’re my wife dammit. Don’t even start with that shit. Right now, the band comes first. Let’s get through this tour. Then we’ll see where we stand with you going to art school. And that’s all I’m going to say about it.” He turns onto the road where the house is located. I thought we were done talking, but Blaine has one more thing to add, “We aren’t continuing this conversation inside. I don’t want their opinions on the matter. How about you head to the room to read a book while we take care of cleaning the guns. We planned on sitting around the table and making a night of it.” He opens his door and slams it hard before stomping into the house.
