Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) (27 page)

Past—Eight Years Old

MY SHEETS ARE WARM
and clean, fresh from the dryer. I turn my head and breathe deeply, smiling into my pillow because I love the smell when Mommy washes them. I feel loved. I feel happy.

My long brown hair falls into my eyes when I rest my cheek on my pillow, and I giggle because it tickles. I quietly watch the lights from the box turning on my nightstand move slowly across my white wall. I imagine them as little fairies sent here to protect me while I sleep. Sometimes I have bad dreams about the monsters from Sesame Street and Mommy says my fairies are there to protect me when I feel scared. I love my fairies. My mouth curves into another happy smile, and as I watch my fairies dance all around me, my eyelids slowly begin to shut.

Sometime during the night, I hear my door opening.

Did Mommy want to give me another kiss goodnight?

I love her kisses.

I open my eyes, but the box on my table is no longer spinning, and my fairies are no longer dancing. I squint when a tiny bit of light enters my room, then disappears just as quickly. I can see nothing but darkness as I listen to the sound of footsteps crossing my room.

“Mommy?” I ask. My voice sounds rough as I rub my eyes and start to sit up.

A hand softly touches my shoulder before it presses me back down. My eyebrows dip down, confused when fingertips brush lightly down my cheek, then across my lips. I open my mouth to ask again but stop when I hear him whisper, “Shh, Cassandra.”

Uncle Alan.

I love my Uncle Alan. He makes me laugh when he makes the girly voices for my stuffed animals.

Uncle Alan doesn’t say anything. He kisses my forehead, then slowly tugs down my sheets, leaving my legs cold because my nightgown isn’t long enough to cover them. I begin to pull them back up, but he takes hold of both my wrists with his much bigger hand. His other one is clammy, shaking as it touches the skin of my neck. It lowers to my chest then runs down my stomach. I keep hoping he’ll stop there, but he keeps going. His fingers touch me lightly through my nightgown, tracing over my panties. I bite my lip, trying not to scream, and begin to cry softly to myself. Then suddenly, I turn cold and begin to shake when he lifts my gown.

I’m so scared.

What do I do?

What am I supposed to do?

The tips of his fingers feel like ice on the inside of my leg. I open my mouth to speak, but Uncle Alan leans in closer, whispering, “Shh, Cassandra. It’s our little secret. You trust me, don’t you?”

I think so?

I don’t know.

I know I don’t like this.

I feel scared.

But I do as I’m told. I say nothing.

I say nothing as warm tears fall down my cheek.

I say nothing as I look helplessly to the walls for my dancing fairies and their protection.

I say nothing when he tells me he’s sorry and that he loves me, then asks me not to cry.

And I say nothing when he’s finally through and leaves me alone in the darkness.

I keep our secret. I have no choice because he tells me good little girls do what they’re told, and if I tell our secret, that means I’m bad. And if I’m bad, Mommy and Daddy won’t love me anymore.

He tells me the same thing the next time.

And the next time.

And the next.

And each time, I’m a good girl . . .

Because I never say a word.

HONESTLY, I DON’T REMEMBER
much of what happened after my mother’s call. I don’t remember grabbing my keys or my phone off the ground. I don’t remember climbing into my Jeep and driving away. I don’t even remember in which direction I traveled, how long I drove, or how I actually ended up at
my
apartment, bypassing Grady’s completely.

I do, however, remember what my mother said just before I dropped the phone.

Uncle Alan is dead.

Found dead from a drug overdose, his body has been brought back to Fuller to be buried with the remainder of his deceased family and the funeral is tomorrow. I’ve been ordered home to attend and instructed to be on my best behavior as I am to greet various family members who have come to pay their condolences.

I inhale at length. I guess I should feel some sort of relief with the news of his death, the ability for him to hurt me further no longer a possibility. Physically, anyway.

But the emotional pain and scarring will always be there. Just like him.

It’s a sad reality, I admit. I will never be rid of him or his revolting existence. Disgust will forever remain, hollowing me from the inside out. His presence will always loom, a blackened, overbearing figure of cold and darkness whose strength will forever surpass my own.

So no, I don’t feel any respite or reprieve.

I feel nothing, because I
am
nothing.

That’s right, Cassie.

You are nothing.

You were a stupid girl to think you would ever escape us.

You will never be free.

The voices are right. I will forever remain his prisoner.

From the first night he entered my bedroom, Uncle Alan stole everything. He took my innocence, suffocated my spirit, and drained me of every ounce of strength that had once so vigorously flowed through my veins. I was no longer the same Cassie after Uncle Alan’s brief stay. I was forever changed, weak and pitiful, drifting through life with absolutely no direction or goal other than numbing the constant pain.

It’s who I am. What I do.

I was a fool to believe otherwise.

I was stupid.

A naïve creature to allow Grady Bennett anywhere near me, with his promises of love and happily ever afters. His ridiculous beliefs that I ever possessed any strength or resolve. His false sparks of hope and courage, since replaced with the coldness accompanying my surrender.

Because once Grady Bennett placed me on that extremely high, undeserving pedestal, it was inevitable I would eventually face my reality and be thrown off.
To fall.
I know now it was completely unavoidable that he would break his promise, and not in the way I thought.

Because now I’m falling.

Really falling.

And when I land, all I have done to protect myself, every single one of my walls and barriers that I foolishly gave up to be with him, will be long gone.

I will shatter.

And it is exactly what I deserve.

My phone rings.
Grady.

I don’t answer. I can’t bring myself to. I’m too exhausted to pretend, and honestly, I can’t have anything to do with him anymore.

How could I?

His voice, his eyes, his smile—all serve as reminders of what will never be.

I can no longer live in a fabricated, fairy-tale world, where love blossoms and hope heals. Those things don’t exist in my realm. In my reality.

I decline the call, then my fingers fire off a responding text, letting him know that I had a family emergency. And when he asks if I need him, I tell him no, then advise I’ll be out of contact for a while.

With that done, I also text Spencer, apologizing for my departure and letting her know I’ll call her in a couple days. Her worry is evident with her response, but as with Grady, I decline the invitation for help, telling her to focus on Dalton and repeating that I will call her soon.

Would I?

Spencer was finally living her happily ever after. Our paths are going in different directions.

She doesn’t need my darkness.

I stare at my phone when I’m done, sadness clawing my throat. Because I always knew the fork in our road would come, and although it has in a way and she has started traveling down her own path, I had no idea I would be the one to forever sever the conduit between the two.

Tears begin to form but I quickly toss my phone onto my bed, cementing my decision. Turning away, I approach my closet and grab an overnight bag. After stuffing some clothes into it, I peruse my wardrobe, picking out the perfect outfit to attend the funeral. I throw in a pair of heels, then head to the bathroom to grab my necessities. Once I’m packed, I grab the bag and turn to give a long glance at my room. I don’t know why really. It feels as though I’m saying goodbye, but how can I be, because I was never really here.

A cold, foreboding sensation washes over me as I flick off the light, then exit my apartment. With my mind detached, I head to my car, fling the bag inside, and wearily slide into the driver’s seat, suddenly so tired. Defeated. Numb.

On my way, I make a quick call to have my appointments rescheduled for the next few days, briefly explaining there was a death in the family, before assuring them I would be back next week. The rest of the drive to my parents’ house is a blur and my arrival on their doorstep awkward as usual.

“Cassie.” My mother’s tone is stern. Her hair, the same shade of brown as mine, is perfectly coiffed on top of her head, and her style is much the same as I remember. Conservative trouser slacks with a perfectly pressed light-blue poplin tucked in at the waist. Her blue eyes narrow on my appearance, still dressed in what I wore to the hospital.

I lift my brows, challenging her to say something. When she says nothing, I mutter my hello, my tone just as unforgiving as hers. “Mother.”

My father trudges behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. His face has aged since I’ve last seen him. His brown eyes are no longer warm, but tired as he offers me a small smile. “Your room is as we left it.”

I snicker. “Right. And fully armed, I assume.”

Both bodies stiffen at the mention of the alarm, but they say nothing. I brush past them without another word, heading down the hall until I find my room. My fingers graze the knob, sudden unease and anxiety overwhelming me. Twenty-three years old, and I’m still scared to death to sleep in this room.

Whirling on my heel, I dash into the living room and rummage through my father’s liquor cabinet. I spy a bottle of Scotch, Uncle Alan’s favorite. The smell of it filled my room the nights he would visit me. To this day, I cannot smell its stench without feeling as though I’m going to vomit. Just thinking about it makes me ill. My gag reflex kicks in, and my eyes water in response. I blink rapidly, clearing the tears before I find what I’m looking for. An unopened bottle of Patron hidden in the back, screaming my name.

I clear a path, then whisk it out of the cabinet, feeling my parents’ disapproving eyes follow me as I make my exit. Now equipped with my weapon of choice, I fling open my door and enter my room, fear controlled.

My bag hits the floor and I grip the bottle with both hands, unsealing the it and popping the rounded cork free from its neck. Lifting it to my mouth, I take a long draw and attempt to avoid the urge to throw it back up.

I force the contents into my stomach and close my eyes, allowing the soothing burn to work its way into my system. With the bottle still gripped tightly in my hand, I toss the cork into the trashcan on my way to closing my door as I seal myself inside my own tomb.

Landing on my bed, I reach for the remote and turn on my TV for distraction. I don’t really pay attention to what’s on, but the noise is nice. It lulls me with each draw I take from the bottle. On my third drink, my phone rings and I decline Grady’s call. Then take a shot.