Not Broken: The Happily Ever After(5)

Malcolm. There were three hundred and sixty-five days in the year, and he’d picked today. I was angry that he’d done it in general, but especially since he’d chosen today. The anniversary of Seth’s death. The one day I allowed myself to grieve for the life I took. Even though Dr. Carr didn’t think I had a reason to feel guilty for killing him. She said I’d done what I needed to do in order to protect myself and my child. But I needed one damn day of regret. So many bad choices led me to that point. How could I not carry guilt and remorse? Without it, I was no better than Seth.

I needed a drink. Turning off the light, I headed downstairs. I pulled out a Moscato from the wine fridge, popped the cork, and poured myself a glassful.

I held my glass up toward the lady on the cliff. “Cheers.” I’d spent hours sitting on the couch staring at that painting, wishing I could be her—free and away from it all.

I drank down the wine without even tasting the flavor, and then I quickly refilled the glass. As I brought it to my lips, my gaze wandered down the darkened hallway, which led to our bedroom. After finishing the second glass just as fast as the first, I sat it down on the marble bar top and picked up the bottle. Drinking from it directly, I found myself heading toward the master bedroom. A room I hadn’t entered since I’d moved upstairs.

My hand shook when I placed it on the doorknob. I’d kept the door shut, hoping to keep the ghosts locked inside, but it didn’t work. They were always with me. He was always with me. I took another drink before turning the knob. The full moon illuminated the space thanks to the large floor-to-ceiling bay windows. I didn’t turn on the lights; I didn’t need to. I didn’t need to cast more light on the horrible memories contained within these walls.

The bed, like much of the room, remained untouched. Every decorative pillow was in place. It looked inviting, but it was a lie. Turning the bottle up, I took another drink as my legs carried me, seemingly of their own free will, farther into the room. I stood in front of his closet door. A door that had remained closed since I came back to this place. I opened it, and flipped the light switch. All of Seth’s clothes still hung neatly organized, just as he’d left them. I hadn’t touched a thing. My mind played tricks on me, because it smelled like him, as if he’d just been in there getting dressed for the day. Goosebumps popped up on my arms.

My fingers touched his shirts as I walked down the neatly color-coordinated rows, stopping in the white section. I placed the bottle of wine down on the built-in mahogany dresser that sat in the center of the space, and then I pulled out the shirt he’d worn the day we’d met. I put it on, brought the fabric to my nose, and inhaled deeply. It did smell like him, as if his essence was fused into each strand of the cotton. Wrapping the shirt tighter around my body, I grabbed the bottle and guzzled more of the wine.

I slid down to the floor, staring up at the color coordinated neatness. Everything always had to be perfect. Including me. I was the puppet, and he was the puppeteer. He controlled every aspect of my life with fear. The fear he’d hurt someone I loved and the fear he’d kill me.

I’d played my part well.

I took another drink. Mal was right about one thing: Seth remained in control. Fear never went away. It only changed and morphed into something new. Seth had me so well trained that I still played the part.

I laid down on the plush carpet and curled my body, hugging myself until I drifted off into what I hoped would be a dreamless sleep.

I awoke the next morning confused and with a pounding headache. I quickly covered my eyes to block out the light. As I attempted to get up, my leg hit something. Slowly, I lifted my fingers to see an empty wine bottle roll and come to rest against a black shoe—his shoe. Why did I come in here? My chest constricted and my breathing turned to rapid pants. I fought to get his shirt off, feeling suffocated with it on. I fled from the confined space, and slammed the door behind me.

I struggled to get air into my lungs. My heart pounded. The room spun. Dropping to my knees, I took deep, slow breaths, trying to stave off the impending panic attack. My limbs shook. Tears leaked from my eyes. I watched as one dropped from the path it had taken down the bridge of my nose, onto the plush carpet below.

My hands balled into fists as more tears followed that same path. The hot, pulsating throbbing of my head magnified the ringing in my ears. I swallowed hard, trying to fight against the growing urge to vomit. These things were supposed to be getting better. I was supposed to be getting better.

I am better. I am better. I am better. I repeated the mantra, willing myself to believe it. I’d been managing without the pills for nearly nine months now; I didn’t want to go back on them. I stayed on my hands and knees, trying to get control over my body.

Time ticked by slowly, but eventually my breathing slowed, my gag reflex dissipated, and my body no longer trembled. My heart rate lowered to a normal beat. I unclenched my fists, allowing my muscles to relax and oxygen to flow through me in a steady rhythm. Six months. It had been six months since my last panic attack. Mentally, I reset the counter, like one of those accident-free posters seen in workplaces. Using the doorknob for support, I pulled myself up, then stumbled from the master bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

After taking a shower, getting dressed, and taking a couple of aspirin, I called Dr. Carr. Once I got off the phone with her, I called my parents to check on Shawn and to see if they could keep him for a little while longer. My father made it a point to let me know that last question was never needed. They spoiled him rotten, especially since Dorian wasn’t going to be giving them grandchildren anytime soon.