Chasing the Storm (Chasing the Storm, #1) - PUBLISHED

Chapter Twenty-One - Chase's Point of View (final chapter)

Chase's Point of View

A loud crash of thunder pulls me out of sleep for the third time since twelve this morning. Just as I did the other three times, I glance up at the clock on my dresser in front of me. Twenty-eight minutes past three in the morning. Could it really be? I check the time on my iPhone, which confirms that it has been only three hours since the first time I checked. I feel wide awake now, unlike the other two times I was startled awake by the storm outside my window. But perhaps the blame doesn't fully belong to the storm on the outside.

The deep, throaty, roaring thunder brings back many memories of teasing laughter. The sky seems to be laughing at me for one reason or another. The lightning somehow makes me feel exposed as it brightens my entire room. My inner battles, exposed. My brokenness, exposed. Everything, exposed. It feels as if a curtain has been pulled back, revealing everything. Revealing my past... revealing what it has done to me. What it still does to me, even now.

Strangely, I feel startled by this imaginary exposure, and it takes a moment for me to understand why. It's because I've become accustomed to the darkness I was introduced to at such a young age. It's tried to pull me in, but has been unsuccessful, and all my thanks belongs to the loving family I'm a part of now. What it has managed to do, however, is surround me, like these four walls of my room. The door is closed; there is no way of escape for me. Wherever I turn, it is there. Unlike the God I occasionally still find myself praying to.

I find the darkness of my room comforting; the blinding flashes of light seem to only serve as a reminder of that which I can never be full member of.

My past seems to follow me everywhere I go. Many of my dreams are fresh reminders of what I try to forget, of what I try so desperately to leave behind. All of my attempts at freeing myself from the past have failed. I've tried everything, and I've run out of options.

This thought suddenly reminds me of an email I sent not too long ago, an email containing a lifelong question I've had. The type of question that I can't imagine has an answer. Not a truthful one, at least. When I open the email app, the first thing I see is a reply from Pastor David Richardson. The subject reads, "Re: Why am I different?"

I'm just about to open it when yet another earsplitting crash sounds. I decide to first check on my younger siblings, as I know at least Elena and Dylan sometimes have difficulty sleeping through storms. Two years ago, Dylan's parents died in an accident during a storm much like this one. Even the softest sound of thunder reminds him and is understandably enough to bring tears to his eyes.

I set my phone down on the nightstand beside my bed, the latter of which I slide off of after gathering enough energy to do so. I feel my body relaxing again; the white noise of the rain is soothing to me. The interrupting thunder, however, has a polar opposite effect. I'm startled by the next clap and am grateful I'm alone.

I attempt to be as noiseless as possible as I walk down the long hallway, all the while listening for signs of anyone awake. But the house is dead silent. The silence is almost eerie; fear creeps in slowly, bringing sadness along with it. Both are uninvited guests, yet they have had territory claimed inside me for ages. I am laughably defenseless against them.

My mind races back to the day before...

My parents — my birth parents — were having an argument... the first one I can remember. My father always had one-sided "conversations" because my mother hardly ever participated. It was rare when she answered him. But that one day, the day I will never forget, she did. The next day is when my father, her husband, decided that "she had too much of a mouth on her" and therefore had every right to do what he did.