Third Debt (Indebted #4)(90)

“How?” I breathed.

“She was a psych major. After a few days of me screaming and self-harming due to a busload of students slowly dying in the ward next to me, she gained permission to check me out and take me to a psychiatric facility instead.”

He laughed. “I know this isn’t helping my case when I said I wasn’t insane.”

I shook my head, willing him to continue.

Jethro looked off into the distance, seeing things I wasn’t privy to. “Once there, I was even worse. I started having seizures and developed heart arrhythmia. I screamed for no reason, spoke in tongues no one could understand. I self-harmed to the point of disfigurement—all to get the f*cking intensity out.”

With every glimpse into his past, his present made so much more sense.

“Did—did they diagnose you?”

Jethro nodded. “It took a year of being shuttled between my home and that mental hospital. A year of working with the young nurse who took it upon herself to rescue me from myself.”

I held my breath, waiting for a final answer.

But Jethro stayed silent.

I squeezed his fingers. “What was wrong with you?”

He snorted. “Wrong?” Shaking his head, he said condescendingly, “Everything. Everything was wrong.”

Untangling his fingers from mine, he traced the blue veins visible beneath my tanned skin. “One day, my father flew in a child psychology specialist. The doctor made me do a lot of tests. After a week of assessment, he was as clueless as the rest of them.

“But there’d been one saving grace. The entire time I’d spent with the doctor, having no contact with others, locked in a cool white room with only puzzles for company, my thoughts became calm, diligent, focused on facts and data. I wasn’t emotional or crazed. I found happiness and silence once again. And that’s what gave the answer away.”

“What answer?”

Jethro huffed. “The one that ensured Cut would never accept me, because there was no cure for what I am. Back then, it seemed like I was making this shit up. That I was rebelling and putting on a show. Nowadays, it’s one of the first things a doctor checks for.”

I needed a name—something to call what Jethro was. I leaned closer, waiting.

“I’m a VEP, Nila.”

I blinked. He’d announced it as if it were a foul, common disease that would make me hate him. I had no idea what it was.

He half-smiled. “Also known as an HSP.”

I frowned, racking my brain for any remembrance of such a thing. “What—what is that?”

He smirked. “Exactly. No one knows, even though approximately twenty percent of the population has it. Most people don’t understand when I say a touch is a blow or a noise is a f*cking bomb. People’s misfortune is a damn tragedy to me. Joy is ecstasy. Love is sublime. Failure is ruin. Unhappiness is absolute death.”

I shook my head. “I—I still don’t understand.”

Jethro laughed sadly. “You will. Basically…my senses are heightened. I feel what others do. I live their pain. I go insane living too close to people who exist in hate or revenge. It consumes me to the point where I can’t breathe without being influenced.”

“What does VEP stand for?”

Jethro sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It stands for Very Empathetic Person.”

My heart ran faster. “And HSP?”

“Highly Sensitive Person.”

“And that means…”

His eyes tore to mine. “Weren’t you listening? It means I’m screwed up. It means I’m more attuned to others’ personalities and emotions than most. Their moods overshadow mine. Their goals steal mine. Their hate corrupts my happiness. Their fear and rage eclipses everything. I can’t control it. Cut’s tried. Jasmine’s tried. Hell, I’ve tried. But every time we think we’ve found something that works…it fails. Not only am I doomed to always feel what others do, but I’m oversensitive to smell, noise, touch. My brain is too damn perceptive, and I suffer every f*cking second of every day.”

We sat in silence.

I digested everything he said, slowly piecing together what I knew about him: how he reacted in situations. How cold he was when he first came for me. He was the perfect image of Cut when he collected me—because that was all the influence he had.

Then I came along and made him feel. Made him live my fear, my lust, my never-ending fight.

It’s true. I did break him.

Jethro muttered, “Whenever I told you to be quiet. Whenever I couldn’t handle it and snapped—it wasn’t your voice I was trying to hush but your emotions. You’re the worst of them, Nila. You project everything you feel. You’re like a damn kaleidoscope with the range of emotions you go through. Falling for you, sleeping with you... Fuck, it was all I could do to stay standing and not cripple beneath the weight of it.”

Tears shot to my eyes. I hated that I’d hurt him. Unintentional or deliberate. How did I miss the warning signs? How did I not see the changes in him—the anger hiding pain and the commands cloaking calls for help?

I pictured Jethro as a young boy going through so much trauma. Of being poked and prodded and called insane. It physically hurt to think about what he’d gone through—surviving a family such as his.