Through Glass (The Glass Series Book 1) (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

I feel so lost

I messed up gravely, and now I pay the cost

I lost my mind the second I saw my mother staring at me with a bullet hole in her head. It was a downward spiral after that. I got mixed up with the wrong people and started down my own difficult path of drugs and alcohol that lasted long into my teenage years.

Sebastien, my ex-husband, saved me from all of that—or so I thought. We met through mutual friends, who then warned me to stay away from him. They told me he was trouble, but I thought I knew him better than they did. He swooped in and pulled me away from the messy life I was leading, and took me into his home. He gave me food and a place to live. In exchange, I allowed him to control and abuse me for years. I thought it was a normal relationship, living in constant fear and having to ask his permission to do anything, even breathe.

I became completely obsessed with him. I loved him with everything I had. He led me to believe I could never do any better than him and no one else would ever want me. The second he showed any interest in anyone else, I became upset. I got increasingly jealous throughout the years and I couldn’t stomach the thought of him even speaking to anyone. He was all I had, and if he left me, I’d have no one.

And then I really did have no one. A few years into our relationship, I found out he was sleeping around on me with one of his co-workers. The evidence I found proved that it had been going on for at least a year.

After years of abuse, I decided I was done. One night, he came home well after midnight, smelling of alcohol and other women’s perfume. I had been waiting up for him and when he stumbled in, I gave him the chance to explain. When he could not come up with an excuse as to where he had spent the hours since he had left work, we began to fight. I yelled and screamed, and tears poured down my face. He finally confessed to the affair and told me everything.

I stabbed him repeatedly. Years of built-up anger were released in every swift motion with the knife.

I killed my ex-husband.

It was the most amazing and relieving feeling in the entire world.

I pled insanity and my case never even went to trial. It wasn’t technically self-defense, considering he hadn’t actually hit me yet that night—but I’m sure, if provoked further, he would have hit me. He always did. I didn’t have to worry about that anymore, though. He was dead.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I’ll stop hurting myself

But I need your help to change

“Doctor, are you requesting that we adjust Lauren’s medication?” Shay, the head nurse assigned to the psych ward, asks.

“Let’s just wait for now,” Doctor Oliver Fallon explains. “I’d like to see if I can work with her a little bit more. She has full conversations with me as though she believes we’re friends. I want to see if I can explore that further and have her explain to me exactly what was going on in her head the night she murdered Sebastien.”

“Okay, Doctor.” Shay nods. She pops open a pill bottle and dispenses several tiny pink capsules. Some of them are for Lauren, but the others are for Mia Clarke, who is also a resident of Aldona Mental Hospital. She is a bulimic woman in her twenties who has problems with her family and childhood that she still won’t tell anyone about. The doctors feel as though they are never going to get through to her. Mia thinks that the way her boyfriend, Elliot, treated her had been completely normal. When they had met in high school, Elliot told her he’d only sleep with her if she wore makeup more often. If she lost a couple pounds. If she had work done on her nose. He openly admitted to sleeping with her sister, and even took her sister on a vacation in Cancun without her. He justified that by telling her that her sister was far prettier than she was. It made so much sense in Mia’s head. He promised her that once they chose a date for their wedding, he would change his ways and be faithful only to her, but he refused to agree to any date Mia suggested.

Even now that she’s institutionalized, Mia is still waiting for him to finally commit. She talks about her hopes that he will settle down with only her and start a family. She writes letters to him every day, and he replies once every few weeks. He doesn’t usually have much to say, but he is always sure to tell her that whatever girl he is currently ‘banging’ is skinnier than she is, and knows how to give a great blow job. Several of the letters he has sent her have been so degrading that Aldona Mental Hospital has chosen to intercept them and will not allow Mia to read them. They are working on getting a judge involved, and are hoping to press charges on her behalf.

Mia is currently being monitored during every meal to ensure she is not binging and purging. She has been known to refuse meals for days, forcing doctors to step in and force feed her, hooking her up to tubes against her wishes, but with the permission of her mother—who is horrified at all of this.

Some of the nurses are half serious when they say they believe Mrs. Clarke, the mother, will finally snap and kill Mia’s boyfriend. She will probably plead insanity and end up at Aldona, too.

“Chase” also calls this place home. No one knows very much about him. The doctors haven’t even been able to confirm his identity, and he will not speak a single word to anyone. The police brought him in after they dragged him off of a man he’d nearly beaten to death. They know who the assault victim is, but he is still in a coma, so they are unable to determine the motive. They are assuming it is drug-related. After a brief trial where they could determine nothing, it was decided that this man would remain here until new information became available.

Chase isn’t allowed to interact with any of the other patients or attend group therapy. Several of the other residents are scared of Chase, and some even believe he is the devil. Others, such as Lauren, spend most of their time staring at him; whether it be from across the hall through the tiny window in the door, or at the cafeteria. She looks him straight in the eyes and wonders if he’ll talk to her someday. Sometimes, though, she is wary of him and can sense that something just isn’t right. The nurses ensure that he does not approach anyone when all of the patients are in the common living area.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Who exactly do you need me to be?

I am lying in bed and I can see my unfinished canvas propped up against the wall in the study. I sit up and throw my feet over the side of the bed. Walking proves to be a daunting task, and my legs feel heavy, almost like I’m walking through cement. I’m groggy. This flu has hit me hard and I dread having to go to work tomorrow, if it hasn’t passed by then. Although, I won’t mind seeing Oliver—it’s definitely one of the perks that working at Bean There has to offer.

NyQuil runs across the study and I call out to him. He scurries back this way and allows me to scratch behind his ears.

“Hi kitty,” I purr.

Oliver is in the apartment. I didn’t know he was coming, or I would have gotten dressed and put makeup on.

“Oliver.” I smile. “Did you want something to eat?”

I’m hoping I can convince him to stay for a couple hours. If I throw together a quick supper and offer him a few glasses of wine, perhaps we’ll have a chance to discuss today’s events. I am angry, but not nearly as upset as I was immediately after it happened. I understand that we all make mistakes and end up in situations we don’t want to be in, with people we don’t want to share them with. Like his wife.

He nods, accepting my invitation. I will make him mine.

“How about pasta?” I ask. I know he’s not a fan, since he much prefers steak or pork chops, but it’s the only thing I can make that is easy enough without actually having to defrost anything from the freezer.

“Pasta is fine,” he replies. What a relief. I definitely don’t want him walking out at this point, solely because of my meal choice.

I pour him a glass of wine and he doesn’t object as I place it in his hand. Our skin touches once again, and I can’t take my eyes away from his.

The water is boiling. It’s about to boil over.

Goddammit, water, you ruined that moment.

NyQuil is back at my feet, demanding my attention, and I push him away firmly.

“Oh, no.” Oliver stops me. “Let him be. He needs you; you’ve been away from the house all day.”

“No. He’s not allowed in the kitchen. I’ll spend time with him later.” I push him away once again with my foot, only a little bit harder this time. He is startled and runs for cover underneath the couch in the study. Oliver nods and smiles awkwardly.

As we wait for the pasta to cook, I throw together a quick sauce. I am definitely trying to show off my skills as a chef. I know Oliver speaks so highly of Frederick’s cooking skills, and I must prove that I have my own—and that I’ll make an excellent housewife someday.

Oliver makes small talk.

“I want to own a Boston Terrier someday, just so I can name him ‘Wayward,’ get it?” He laughs.

“Uh, actually, “Carry On My Wayward Son” is a song by Kansas.” I giggle. I wonder if he made that mistake on purpose. It shocks me that he’s speaking of plans for the future already. I knew he would come around eventually. I am going to be a big part of his future.

I caress the knife in my hand as I chop up tiny pieces of green pepper and onion for our pasta sauce. The knife feels comfortable in my hand, like it’s meant to be. Thoughts of my ex-husband pop into my head but they’re gone almost as fast as they came. I’m unsure why I’m thinking of my ex when I’m spending time with such a handsome, caring man.

The knife is laying on the cutting board.

“Should we talk about what happened today?” I ask. I desperately want to avoid the subject but I know that it’s something we need to discuss and get out of the way. Then we can carry on with the rest of the night and just focus on each other—not that stupid bitch who is so clearly trying to ruin my life and my plans of starting a family.

“I don’t think we should talk about that yet, Laur,” he stops me. He kisses my forehead and puts his hand around my waist. I want to scream and tell him that he needs to get rid of her, but the time will come. I need to be patient so as not to scare him away. Besides, I’m confident that I am the one he truly wants to be with. She’s just a casualty that we need to deal with in due time. Right now, however, it is “us” time.

I serve the pasta into bowls and top it with a quick but delicious vegetable and meat sauce. I used a recipe that my grandmother had shared with me, passed down to her from my great-great-grandfather in Sicily. Ground beef, ground sausage, and mushrooms, with a few herbs and spices. After asking Oliver if he’d like some parmesan cheese, I sprinkle a good amount on his bowl. I skip out on the parmesan for myself. The smell of it literally makes me gag lately.

This flu better not ruin our dinner.

We sit down to eat and I light a candle. It sets the mood perfectly.

Gazing at me from across the table, Oliver tells me how much he has missed me. “I’m sorry I wasn’t feeling well and I apologize for not having let you know I was going to be absent from work, Laur. I should have texted you back, but I was really under the weather. I hope you don’t end up coming down with the flu I had.”

“I hope I don’t, either, but I think it might be too late. I’m really beginning to feel like crap. Ever since this morning, I’ve been nauseated, and certain smells have been bothering me,” I explain.

“Well, gets lots of rest, and hopefully you won’t get it nearly as bad as I did.” He reaches across and touches my hand gently.

After supper, Oliver gets a phone call from one of his employees and they tell him that the till is off by a couple hundred dollars. He needs to leave so that he can investigate the discrepancy. I am disappointed that we were unable to discuss any of our pressing issues tonight, but there is always tomorrow. He’s agreed to meet up for breakfast in the morning.

I text Shay to see what she’s up to. I tell her about things with Oliver and explain that I think he might be the one. She calls me crazy for falling in love with him so quickly, but she’s happy that I am finally interested in someone who seems to be a decent person. I neglect to tell her that he’s with someone, but that’s a minor detail.

Be careful he doesn’t break your heart, Lauren.

I won’t let him.

We are going to fall in love, and we’ll do everything to make each other happy. We’ll love each other with every single breath. It’ll be the type of love that lasts always and forever—the leave-the-door-open-to-pee kind of love that means you’re fully and completely comfortable with the other person. The type of love that means brushing your teeth and wandering off into your own thoughts while terrible things happen on a toilet three feet behind you. True love. He’ll even eventually offer to clean NyQuil’s litter box. I’ve always longed for this.

It’s not all that late, but it’s already dark. The air is crisp and the few snowflakes remind me that Christmas is just around the corner. I’m feeling a sense of nostalgia and memories of opening presents from my grandmother by the fire come rushing back.

I grab my scarf and go for a walk. It’s chilly, but it’s not unbearable. Or perhaps my love for Oliver is keeping me a bit warmer lately.

Suddenly, I feel like I’ve eaten way too much. I should have only had half a bowl of pasta. I don’t normally cook a lot, seeing as how I live alone, and I’m used to much smaller portions. I need to hit the gym soon. I can’t believe how much of a slacker I’ve become in the last couple months. There is no excuse for my laziness.

I feel light headed and I turn into an alley when I realize I might actually vomit. I’ve eaten so much that my body feels betrayed and suddenly wishes to divorce my insides.

I throw up violently all over the side of the building I am leaning against and I may actually pass out. I drop to my knees and hang my head down. I take large gulps of the winter air in hopes that this will pass soon.

It does.

I sit cross-legged for a couple minutes, trying to figure out whether or not it’s safe to stand. Before I am able to come to a decision, there is a figure standing over me. I open my eyes and look up. I still cannot see his face in the darkness of the alleyway, but I can see the cross tattoo on his arm. My instinct is to run, screaming, from this place. He’s been following me for weeks, and it can’t simply be a coincidence. However, I saw no one else on this street and fear that if I attempt to escape, he’ll catch me—my legs feel weak and I know they cannot carry me very far.

“What do you want?” I manage. I’m trying to sound confident, but my words come out as a whisper.

“Are you okay?” he asks. He reaches down and offers his hand to help me up. I hesitate, but I take it and he pulls me to my feet. I step away from him and back out onto the street. He follows me and stops a couple feet away from me. We stand, staring at each other.

“Have you been following me?” I am straightforward, because I desperately want an answer at this point. I need to know if I should be afraid of him.

“Yes.”

His answer shocks me, and I step back further.
What kind of person follows someone around and fully admits to it?

“Why are you following me?” I ask.

“I want to help you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know you’re troubled, and I want to help,” he explains. He takes a step towards me.

“How do you know I’m troubled?”

“I can see it in your eyes.” His eyes meet mine, like they did at the restaurant weeks ago. They are cold.

I turn and begin to walk away. There’s no reason I need to listen to any of this. He is crazy. Perhaps I should consider calling the police, too. He’s been following me for a long time, and he’s obviously the one with problems.

“Don’t go,” he pleads. He jogs up beside me and grabs my arm. I pull away and quicken my pace considerably. “You need to listen to me. I don’t want to hurt you. Not today. Not ever.”

I look back and I can see him still standing in the distance. This is way too creepy for my liking. I run back to my apartment. Once inside, I lock the door behind me and lean against it. I slide downwards and sit on the floor with my head between my legs. Shaking, I dial “911” on my cell phone. I explain my situation to the dispatcher and she assures me that she will send an officer over within the next two minutes. Three hours later, the police have still not shown up. My shirt is wet with tears, and I fall asleep with a knife in my hand.