Snare (Delirious book 1) (25 page)

I can’t watch this any longer. Annoyed, I put my own drink down on the table behind me and attempt to march toward her. I need to take her out of the spotlight before she does something she may regret. It’s not the first time she’s attempted to cheat on my father. One kiss was enough; I’m not allowing her to inflict more pain. No way in hell will I let her ruin her chance with him again. Alcohol was never a wise choice for my mother.

As I make my way through the crowd, someone grabs my hand. I turn around, ready to snarl and jerk myself loose, but I’m caught off guard by his beautiful blue eyes. My lips part, but nothing comes out. I can’t talk, mesmerized by the way he holds his gaze solely on me. His blond hair is tucked back into a ponytail, his face rigid, but his smile endearing. In a way, he seems both creepy as well as charming. I’m not sure what to think.

“Don’t interrupt,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t want to be caught in the middle.” The way he speaks has a dizzying effect on me, like he’s controlling me with words alone.

“Caught in the middle of what?”

He leans in. “Danger.”

The way his eyes flash makes the hairs in the back of my neck stand up.

“Run …” he whispers. “Get out of here. Get away from her as fast as you can and don’t look back. Whatever you do … don’t return home.”

Fear settles in my eyes as I pry my hand loose and turn my head back toward my mother. I don’t know what he means, but it’s enough to make me want to go in there and bring her home with me right now. What did he mean? And who is he?

When I look around for him, he’s gone. Disappeared in the crowd.

Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. Even if he’s right, I wouldn’t listen. I love my mother … I would never leave her or my father. Ignoring his advice is the easiest choice, because I can’t imagine not going home.

It was the first of a series of bad choices.

The walls flicker and the ground shakes underneath my feet. Everything disappears and I fall and fall into an endless gap in the earth. However, I don’t land flat on the ground. Instead, I find myself in the master bedroom of my house. My father lies ill in bed. The moment I spot him my heart sinks into my shoes. His face is pale; his red hair has fallen onto the sheets and pillow. A bucket filled with vomit is shoved under his bed. On his nightstand is a whole box full of anti-inflammatory drugs, along with a couple of bottles filled with water. He can barely open his eyes. The headaches are too much for him to bear. I can see it from the strained look on his face. Still, he finds the energy to look at me and mouth
‘I love you’
. Tears spring into my eyes at the sight of him. His last days. I want to hug him, but my feet are cemented to the ground. I can’t move.

The bedroom spins and spins, until the walls are dark and the light is off. Suddenly, I’m in the living room. The television is on, blocking out the excruciating noises my father makes. I walk in on my mother watching a movie with a fat, bearded man. One of the men from the charity event. Her fingers are curled around his knee, his hands on her waist, sliding underneath her shirt. The fake smile plastered on her face makes me want to scream.

In fact, I do. My lungs hurt from the sound emanating from my body. I scream and scream until my ears feel like they are starting to bleed. My eyes open wide. I sit straight up, my heart beating so hard I feel like it’s about to burst from my chest. I’m covered in sweat, the blankets sticking to my body. Someone enters my room and runs toward me, placing his hand on my forehead. “Are you okay?”

I’m still too shaken up to talk. My breathing is shallow as I look around and tell myself to remember where I am. My throat muscles tighten, and I find it hard to breathe. The mere memory of my father brings me to tears. And just the thought of my mother … it makes my heart stop.

Voices come into my head. Whispers in the darkness, calling me.

“Come closer, child. Come see how beautiful she is now.”

All I see in front of me is blood staining the ground and reddened fur whirling through the air. Blood. Tissue. Flesh. My breath catches in my throat. I try to swallow but choke on my own saliva. In panic, I scream again, pushing the blankets and the man away. “No!” I yell.

I’m grabbed and pushed into the pillow, up against the wall. “Stop.”

“No!” I scream fighting to get out.

Arms smother me, wrapping all around my body. I smell a familiar scent and focus on that as my only means to escape insanity. I can’t. I can’t deal with it …

Hiccups escape my mouth as I try to breathe. Tears run down my cheeks, and I feel the warmth emanating from us both. It’s him—Sebastian. Only now do I realize where I am. In his house.

His hands are stroking my back, gently patting me while he shushes me. “Calm down.” His voice is calm and soothing. I relax my muscles and let myself go in his arms. My face presses into his shirt, my nose inhaling his scent, trying to remember the man who saved me from it all. He’s here, he must be. This has to be him. There’s no other way, and I won’t accept no for an answer. I wouldn’t be able to cope if it weren’t true.

So I let him hug me and comfort me. I wrap my arms around him, sobbing into his shirt, letting every bit of emotion flow out of me. He doesn’t talk, and I don’t feel the need to do so either. All I need is his warm hands caressing me, his body pressed to mine. His breathing regulating mine. His strong muscles tranquilizing mine. His soft lips relieving the stress in my heart. Intimacy.

I calm down in his vicinity. At this moment, it’s needed. I didn’t forget what he did to me last night. I remember the fucked-up way he claimed my body as his. And yet, it doesn’t faze me right now. I’ve moved past the point of disgust and into a place where I can accept his shortcomings.

No matter how he twists my words, how he conjures up one lie after another, how he debases me for his own pleasure … I still need him. I need his love to mend the broken pieces of my soul.

When I’m done crying, he moves back and grabs my arm, one hand cupping my face. “It was only a dream.”

I try to believe him. I wish it were only a dream. Too bad, that’s not the case. His words from before repeat over and over in my head, until I start believing it myself.
“Didn’t the doctors tell you not to believe in fairytales?”

That’s because they don’t exist.

Accompanying Song:
“Running Up That Hill” by Placebo

Providence, Rhode Island – May 1
st
, 2013, morning

Sebastian stands up, fishing his ringing cell phone from his pocket.

“Yes, this is Sebastian Brand. You want to come over today? Sure. Okay, thanks.” He puts it back in his pocket and turns around to me.

“Stay in bed. I’ll be right back.” He leaves the room.

I don’t feel the need to disobey. I think it’s a safer option right now. To pass the time, I watch the giant clock hanging from the wall. This guest room is rather large, now that I actually have time to look around. Like the rest of the condo, there are windows everywhere, and the dark wooden floors bring out a beautiful contrast with the white walls. Even in here, the furniture consists of solely black and white. There is almost zero color in this house, to the point that it’s frightening.

When Sebastian steps back into the room, I’m surprised to find him with a tray in his hands. It smells like freshly ground coffee and I can spot the waffles from the bed, causing my mouth to water. With a smile, he brings it to me, places it on the bed in front of me, and sets the coffee on the table beside the bed.

“I figured breakfast in bed would make you feel better.”

I try to form a smile with my lips. “Thank you, Mister Brand.”

“Sebastian is fine.” He looks at me and clears his throat. “For now.”

“Sebastian,” I repeat.

For a moment, we just stare at each other and an uncomfortable moment of silence passes between us.

His eyes dart around like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “When you’ve finished your plate, you can come out and wander around the house. I have to get to work. But please don’t try to escape. Like I said, it won’t work.”

“Wait,” I say, grabbing his hand as he gets up. “Work?”

“I’ll still be here, don’t worry about it. I’m just going to clean up a little.”

“Don’t you have a housekeeper?”

He shrugs. “I sent her home, for the time being.”

“Why?” I frown, curious for his answer.

“Because I thought it’d be nice to spend some time alone with you.”

And then he gets up and walks out the door, just like that. No other words, just a door clicking shut and then silence. I’m baffled. That a man who could do such heinous things to a woman suddenly cares about spending time with her, and wanting her to feel okay, and eating a nice breakfast … it blows my mind. This man is truly a mystery to me.

I realize there is no point in contemplating the reasons for his actions, though. I suppose the logic will come in time. For the moment, satisfying my growling stomach is more important so I start eating and am impressed, much to my dismay. His cooking is fantastic. I don’t know whether Conchita did this before she left, or if he actually spent time in the kitchen, but it sure beats the hell out of the food they had in the institution.

The more I eat, the better I feel, and soon I’ve forgotten all about the nightmare. That’s what always happens when something bad occurs; I block it out and pretend it never existed.

When I’m done, I put everything back on the tray and get out of bed. My naked body confronting me in the mirror almost makes me drop the tray, but I steady it in time. The bruises I find on my neck and between my legs are as frightening as they are empowering. For some reason, I feel strong looking at them. Like I survived something important, capable of enduring the worst. Like some sort of trophy. I shouldn’t stare at it for too long, because I’m almost starting to feel proud of them. Flushed, I grab the bathrobe hanging from the wall beside it and put it on. The soft texture feels cozy against my skin as I walk out the door with the tray.

In the middle of the room, right in front of the table, at the exact spot my chair stood yesterday, Sebastian is cleaning. On his hands and knees, he scrubs the carpet rigorously. Soap froths underneath the brush he pushes deep into the white carpet, stained with what I believe are spills from last night. Bodily fluids that have left a permanent mark in his home. He doesn’t seem too happy about it. His eyebrows almost touch each other as he works tirelessly, sweat running down his forehead. When he spots me, he looks up, wiping it off.

I clear my throat. “Thank you … for this.”

“I hope it tasted well.”

“Yes. Did you make it?”

“I did, actually. I cook sometimes, but not often. Only for special guests.” The small smile he gives me makes my skin tingle. It shouldn’t happen, but it does. I almost feel ashamed to admit it to myself.

He stops cleaning for a second and points at the door behind me. “You can put the tray on the table; I’ll bring it to the kitchen later. Go take a shower.”

I nod, treading softly to the table, light as a feather so as not to anger him. After watching me for a second, he continues scrubbing the floor. The way he shoves the brush across the carpet makes me think he’s trying to dig a hole through the floor. Even the tiniest spots get a rough treatment. He sure does love to clean things.