Page 36 of I Will Break You
AMETHYST
I spend the rest of the day in my old bedroom, puzzling through a slew of unanswered questions:
One: What’s real and what am I hallucinating?
Answer: The letters are real, as confirmed by Officer Vayne. Both Myra and Mom saw photos of the naked picture. I called Gavin’s number, which went to voicemail, and he isn’t answering my texts. The red envelope containing the fingers is still in my overnight bag, which means they have to be real.
Jake was dead before I buried his corpse. I even checked his pulse. If someone had found him in that grave, then there would be an investigation, so he’s a hallucination. Can I say the same about the Grim Reaper in black robes? He’s everywhere. In my periphery, in my room at night, and in my dreams. I’m certain he’s Xero’s ghost.
Two: If Xero is a ghost, how did he amputate Gavin’s fingers and choke Kayla to death with that dildo?
Answer: He’s working with an accomplice. Whoever helped him mail gifts to Kayla’s address is probably helping him with his revenge. Maybe the answer is simpler, and it’s a copycat working alone, pretending to be his ghost?
Three: Who sent that naked photo? If it’s a fake as everyonekeeps saying, how does anyone know the exact locations of my scars?
Answer: All clues point to Uncle Clive. He’s fresh out of prison, mysterious, and is still being persecuted for the type of crime that attracts vigilantes. Mom admitted he was locked up during the time I forgot. What if he did this to me and took the photo as a trophy?
Four: How do I free myself from being tormented?
Answer: I need to find out who’s behind the photos and Xero’s ghost, lure them into a private spot, and make sure they never leave. Instead of burying the evidence, I’ll set it on fire.
The photo albums Mom and Dad used to make me review when I was younger still don’t jog any memories from the past. Everything is so carefully curated, as though there are missing friends and family they don’t want me to discover. The most prominent of them is Uncle Clive.
I went to Mom and Dad’s room to search for more albums, only to find Dad’s half of the closet filled with Mom’s clothes. It looks like they’re having marital problems. On her bookshelf, I found another album containing scanned images dating back from his childhood in the seventies and eighties, where he clearly has a younger brother who looks like Uncle Clive.
After searching through pictures of grandparents I thought were long dead and friends he never invited to the house, I return to my room where there’s a missed call and a voicemail. It’s Dr. Saint’s assistant, confirming the time of my emergency appointment: tomorrow at 7:30 AM.
Mom eventually gains a conscience and calls me down for dinner, but Uncle Clive is conveniently absent. According to her, he needed an early night. When I pluck up the courage to ask again what he went to prison for, she replies with a rehearsed answer that he embezzled money from a school.
I keep checking my phone for messages from Xero, but he’s suspiciously quiet. Is he satisfied with his revenge, or has he moved onto another victim? I’m tempted to write a heartfelt apology, along with the reason why I was late for the wedding, but think better of it. It’s stupid to provoke a vengeful spirit.
Apologizing for wrongs that can never be put right is moreabout relieving the wrongdoer’s guilt. All that does is re-traumatize the victim.
When I told Mr. Lawson we were finished, he kept wailing about being sorry. Sometimes in horrific detail. Each word was a hot poker to my heart that added a new dimension to the pain. He kept repeating his crime over and over until it sounded like gloating.
How did he expect me to move on with those constant reminders of the agony and blood? He never once bothered to explain why he got me pregnant just to kill the baby.
Sometimes, the only apology needed is the wrongdoer’s death.
Later that night, a strange sensation jolts me awake. My fingers throb and tingle, enclosed in something warm and wet. My heart pounds hard enough to burst. With a panicked gasp, I pull back my arm and stare at my glistening digits.
Why did that feel like someone was sucking my fingers?
I bring them to my nose and inhale, instantly recognizing the scent of spearmint, and I freeze.
Panic grabs my throat in a grip that cuts off my air. Someone was in my room. Under my fucking bed.
Realization hits like a cold shower, and shivers run down my spine. Some filthy bastard pulled my arm down the side of the mattress to molest my fingers.
Goosebumps break out across my skin, and adrenaline courses through my veins, making every nerve ending vibrate with terror. My body seizes, too scared to move or breathe or make the smallest sound.
Oh shit. He’s still here.
My pulse accelerates to a drumroll. Who the hell is lurking under my bed? My mind races with possibilities, all of them equally terrifying. It could be a ghost, a creepy uncle, an unknown human stalker, or a creature beyond imagination.
Even more sinister is the supposition that the sights and smells and sensations could be symptoms of a splintering psyche.
Should I scream for help? No. They’d either run away or attack. Should I ignore it and pretend I’ve fallen asleep again? Hell no. The finger sucking could be the prelude to something even more nefarious.