Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) (29 page)

I SOMEHOW MANAGE TO
stay awake through the influx of family that gathers at our house after we lay Uncle Alan to rest. I ignore the openly aghast stares and accusatory glares, as though I should be of sound mind and body to help my father through this difficult time.

Right.

So I continue my binge, content in my numbness, thankful for the blur of vaguely familiar faces. My father’s liquor cabinet is pretty decimated by dinnertime, the only traces of alcohol remaining a bottle of Scotch and a liter of vodka, which I totally would have downed as well, could I stomach either.

The thing about being completely wasted for hours on end is that sleep is inevitable. I fight it as long as I can but it eventually overpowers me.

I trudge to my room with weighty legs and even heavier lids, my cumbersome body uncooperative as I attempt to guide myself to bed. As soon as I hit the side, exhaustion claims me. My strength wanes, my body succumbs, and my eyes seal shut before my head even hits the pillow.

What’s also inevitable is the fact that I have no control over my dreams. I can successfully numb the pain and tame the fear while awake, but in sleep, it’s open season for my nightmares.

One after another they find me: the image of Uncle Alan’s face, the feel of his trembling hands on my body, the sound of my stifled sobs as they echo around my darkened room. My eyes remain sealed shut, locking me inside my terror-filled dreams with no available escape. For hours, his menacing whispers invade my mind. Only when the feel of his touch along my skin becomes painfully distinctive am I able to break free. As it travels along my inner thigh, I cry out, startling myself awake.

And as I enter my realm of consciousness, I am no longer a twenty-three-year-old woman, but a terrified eight-year-old little girl. My hands are curled into my sheets, fisting them tightly as they tremble uncontrollably, and the familiar scent of fresh urine assaults my nostrils.

“God,” I sob into the air. “Why? Why me?”

My throat is constricted with such agony; I can barely breathe. Sorrow and shame blanket me as I continue trying to catch my breath between cries. I begin to quake underneath the sheets cooling rapidly against my skin. I throw off my comforter and another sob wracks my entire body when the stench wafts through the air.

Quietly, I set my feet on the ground then scurry to the dresser, my fingers working frantically as they search for dry clothing. I pull out a pair of recently unpacked shorts and a shirt, peel the drenched dress from my body, and tug on its replacements before turning and yanking the sheets off my bed.

Gathering them against my chest, tears leak from my eyes as I exit my room, crossing the now soundless house as quietly and quickly as I can. In the dark, my fingers find the knob to the door leading to the basement, and I inhale my courage before opening it and stepping onto the first step.

One.

Two.

Three.

I count each one silently to fill my mind, and once at the bottom, I race to the washer and throw the sheets in with a cup of detergent. Lowering the lid, I turn, repeating the counting sequence with each upward step, then make a mad dash to the bathroom. Stripping the shorts and shirt from my body, I step out of them and place a clean towel on the side of the bathtub’s cold porcelain before taking a seat. I lean, turning the water and running my fingers underneath the stream until it’s warm.

As soon as it hits the right level, I turn it off and step in, sliding my legs just under the surface of the water. Reaching for the bar of soap, I scrub furiously. My nails scrape the skin of my stomach, my chest, my arms, my thighs—everywhere the disgust of his touch remains—shame-filled tears running along my cheeks the entire time.

I hate this.

I hate him.

I hate this.

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

The water cools quickly and goosebumps line my reddened skin when I finally stand. Grabbing the towel, I wrap it carefully around my sensitive body before opening the door. Making my escape into the hallway, the balls of my feet are quiet as I pad back to my room.

The window catches my eye and I tiptoe over, seeking the solace of Spencer’s light across the street. Only then does my mind snap back to the present.

Darkness.

No light.

Of course she’s not there.

I’m alone.

In the darkness.

She’s on her new path now.

Content and happy.

In the light.

And I’m alone
.

Achingly alone.

In the darkness.

I shake my head, exhausted and defeated.

The dulling sensation of alcohol in my blood has long since been absorbed during my sleep. With no barrier to protect me, pain and humiliation have been allowed free rein, of which they take full advantage with their continuous slaps to my face.

I’m twenty-three years old and I just fucking pissed my own bed.

Mortification squeezes my chest as I dress myself. I glance over my shoulder in the direction of the living room, anger rising as it overshadows embarrassment.

Fuck.

You.

No longer caring to hide being awake, I stomp my bare feet out of my bedroom and follow the trail to my father’s cabinet. Flinging the door open, I grab the bottle of Scotch, fisting it so tightly I’m surprised the glass doesn’t fracture in my hand.

Snaking my keys off the kitchen table, I head to the front door and throw it open.

Ten minutes later, in a pair of sleeping shorts, a thin cami, and no shoes covering my feet, I navigate my way through the cemetery. The sun is rising just above the horizon, providing me the light I need to find my destination.

I find his headstone in a matter of minutes, the freshly dug soil darkened as it lines his grave. I glance down at the bottle still clenched in my hand, grinding my teeth before I unscrew the top and tip it upward, the smell alone causing my mouth to clamp and my face to pinch tightly. As soon as it hits my throat, my body rejects it, vomiting it onto the ground. It leeches into the unearthed soil, as though trying to find its way to the body underneath where it belongs.

“There you go, you sick motherfucker!” I scream at the ground. “You like that?”

I raise the bottle again and try to force the liquid down my throat, attempting to punish myself for what I’ve become. This pitiful creature who allows the fear of a dead man to rule her life. But again, it’s immediately spewed and seeps into the ground. I shake my head and relent, pouring some more onto the grave while focusing my attention instead on the corpse within it.

“I fucking hate you,” I cry through clenched teeth. My tortured throat closes, but I force my voice through its constriction. “Why?” A cry breaks free. “Why me, Uncle Alan? What did I do to deserve what you did to me? I was such a happy little girl. A strong and fierce child, who knew nothing about the horrors that existed in the world. I was innocent and naïve. I was brave. I was . . .
happy
. . .”

The word steals my breath.

I was happy. I loved my parents. I loved life. The world was mine to be had. I could have been anything I wanted to be. Anything I wanted to do, I knew I could have done it.

“But you stole my happiness.” Another sob. “You stole it and I want it back!”

I drop the bottle and fall to the ground, exhausted. “I’m so tired of hating myself for what you did to me. I’m so tired of feeling empty inside. I’m so tired of being ashamed. I’m so tired. So
tired
, Uncle Alan. Why can’t you just leave me alone? Please . . .”

I rise to my knees and fold my hands, crying, pleading. “Please just leave me alone. I paid the price for your sins. I lived with the consequences of your actions. I kept your secrets. I was a good girl.”

I press my trembling lips to my knitted fingers, tears overflowing as I mutter, “Please, please, please . . . just leave me alone and let me have my happiness.”

I don’t know what I expect to happen. I don’t know if I expect the tremendous weight of the burden carried to be lifted in this pleading moment, or if I expect the clouds to miraculously part and allow a ray of sun to shine down, filling my empty soul with peace and comfort, or if I expect happiness to suddenly rain down upon me, soothing the open wounds exposed by this conversation. But
none
of that happens.

There is no ray of sunshine.
I’ll forever be in darkness.

There is no peace and comfort.
I’ll forever be empty.

There is no happiness.
I’ll forever know sadness.

In the end, there is just silence.

Just as I was silent for him,
his
silence seals my fate among the shadows.

Reaching to the side, I grip the bottle and throw it as hard as I can against the granite headstone. The bottle explodes upon impact, the amber liquid coating the surface as it trails to where it belongs.
With him. Fucking with him.

“I hope you rot in hell.”

I wipe my swollen eyes and rise to my feet, frigid and deadened from the cold dew lining the grass. The sensation rises and spreads through my body.

I feel absolutely nothing as I turn and walk away.

Just empty.

Always empty.

I DON’T BOTHER GOING
back to my parents’ house after that.

I continue right on past, driving for a long while before finally arriving at my apartment. I’m chilled to the bone as I trudge to the front door. My shorts are still damp from sitting on the ground and my toes still reddened as they continue to thaw.

The apartment is as I left it: a blanket haphazardly thrown over the back of the couch and my cereal bowl still on the kitchen counter. Both of which tell me Spencer has not been home since my departure, or if she has, she didn’t stay long.

I trek sluggishly across the living room, nudging my bedroom door open with the tips of my fingers. As it swings open, my eyes land on a pair of navy-blue irises staring right back at me.

I don’t even experience a jolt of surprise seeing Grady sitting on my bed, waiting patiently with his elbows on his knees, hands interlaced and dangling toward the floor. Not a shed of remorse passes through my heart at the sight of his tightened expression, brows furrowed and channels of worry etched into his forehead.

I feel absolutely nothing.

I’m just . . . empty. Void of emotion. Deflated and exhausted.

“Where have you been?” Grady’s tone is clipped, his voice firm.

I disengage from his confronting stare and enter the room fully with no answer. I head to the dresser, pulling out a pair of yoga pants, a pullover, and a pair of socks. The sight of his sister’s borrowed clothes catches my eye, washed and folded for their safekeeping. I grab them and set them on top of the wooden surface, my fingers gently brushing along the fabrics in apology for ever wearing them.

My back remains to Grady and when I refuse to meet the scrutiny of his stare or answer his question, he clears his throat, demanding to be heard. I turn, my gaze rising from the floor to narrow on his face, but still say nothing. His demeanor changes with my continued silence. His features harden and the anger in his voice surpasses his attempt to restrain it. “Family emergency, was it?”