Burn Before Reading(43)

It hits me, then – why I read this essay so much. She is who I was, before Mark. Before the darkness, and the doubts. Before I convinced myself loving someone was impossible. The mere thought of liking someone again drove me to lash out at people, to drink. I don’t trust myself with love, not anymore. Not after what happened.

But Beatrix’s words shine, full of hope and innocence. I cling to them because I can’t cling to who I was before – because I’ve forgotten. And her words remind me, pulling off the old scabs over my wounds and letting them bleed fresh, for better or for worse. She’s reminded me of what I could be, if I left the bitterness and the past behind.

Her essay is a crutch, and I’d been using it to limp around for far too long.

The girl who wrote it is real. She breathes and thinks and smiles, she struggles through the life the same way I do. And at the very least, even though she hates me and I’ve done nothing but drive her away, she deserves my gratitude.

She deserves something.

Something better than a life of duty.





Chapter 11


BEATRIX


Dad didn’t come out of the bedroom the next day.

Mom made some excuse about buying groceries, and left early in the morning. I didn’t know where she went, but it got to five in the afternoon and she still wasn’t back. I knew she went to bars with her friends, so maybe she was there to blow off some steam. I couldn’t blame her. I couldn’t even work up the courage to call her phone to check – she needed space from Dad. From me. From her whole family. That’s what the textbooks said, anyway; when confronted with a stressful situation, most people required space to process the emotions connected with it. I couldn’t ruin her space. As much as I wanted her to come home, to make up with Dad and he with her, I couldn’t work up the guts to even text her and ask her about it. Getting involved might only ruin things even worse.

It was a four-day weekend, but it felt like a hundred days of nothing but silence and misery. Our duplex became a tomb; Mom stayed out pretty much all weekend, until Monday, and then she went right back to work. I tried to get Dad to come out, but he never did. I spent most of Monday and Tuesday sitting across from his door in the hall, my back pressed to the wall and a bowl of soup on a tray at my toes. If he did come out, I wanted him to at least eat. My own voice asking him if he was okay every few hours felt weak and useless. I knew – from when this happened before – that begging or threatening would only drive him further into his shell. It had happened before, but it was never this bad. Maybe a few hours, not a few days.

Half of me hated the fact Mom wasn’t here, but the other half felt ashamed. Of course she wasn’t here – she had to earn a living so we could keep staying in the duplex. I texted her once that Dad wasn’t coming out, and she told me to leave him be. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

Tuesday morning, I started to worry about dehydration – that’s faster than starvation. But then I remembered he had the small bathroom in there, with a faucet, and felt stupid. Just because he has depression doesn’t mean he’ll ignore his basic needs like drinking. My stomach twisted. Or would he? I felt my brain work furiously as it tried to recall if that was a thing with depression. All the textbooks I’d ever read mashed together into one lumpy haystack of information I was desperately trying to pull a needle from. Was that a thing? Was that a thing, and what should I do if it was?

I stood up, balling my fists. I had to make sure he was okay, or I’d go crazy. And if he wouldn’t open the door, I’d have to find another way in.

Months ago, I’d tried to pick the lock on his room. Turns out lockpicking is super hard and nothing like the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am method Hollywood makes it out to be. I knew I’d never get in through the bedroom door. Bashing through the door would be too violent, but a small voice in me knew if all else failed, I could get the fire axe from the garage and bust him out. It would be violent, and probably a bad idea, but I was desperate at that point.

I walked outside, rubbing my hands together in the cold as I stared up at Dad’s window. What if I was too late? What if, while I’d been wringing my hands together and worrying, he’d dehydrated? Or took too many pills? Or used the bedsheets to –

The roar of an engine barely registered in my ears. I had to get into that window. Maybe I could throw rocks at it – would that get him out of bed? My lungs burst into flame at the realization it wouldn’t do anything at all if he was already dea-

“Scholarshipper!”

I turned to see none other than Wolfgang Blackthorn himself striding across the lawn, his motorcycle parked at the curb. He had a black leather jacket and jeans on, a scowl marring his wind-flushed face. The gauze on his knuckles was gone, the flesh pink and healing, and his lip was almost healed, too.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “How did you know where I –“

“Your essay comes with an address,” He drawled. His green eyes moved from me to the window I’d been looking at. “What are you doing out here? In pajamas?”

I looked down at my legs. I’d come out wearing only pj pants and a big shirt. No wonder it felt so cold.

“I’m –” I swallowed my words. How could I explain? Did I even want to? He’d never understand, and he’d probably just ridicule me again. I stared up at the window, fighting back hot tears. I couldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t rely on anyone – not Mom, not Dad, not Wolf. Not even myself. I felt so helpless and small and ashamed. I wiped at my eyes and lifted my chin. “I’m fine. I just – just lost something out here, is all. Why did Your Highness drive all the way out here? Did you need something from moi?”