Criminally Insane

Criminally Insane Sequel Sneak Peek

Hi guys! It has been awhile but I am back! As promised, the sequel to Criminally Insane is in the making. We can expect the first few chapters on January 1, 2023! Here is a sneak peek into the new life of Scarlett Keating! I hope you enjoy it!!!! ❤️

———

"There are days where I believe I have nothing to live for. I feel like a caterpillar in a cocoon. For me, the cocoon never opens. I never get to turn into something beautiful. In my dreams, I am a butterfly. I am something beautiful. The action of me fluttering away from darkness and despair is beautiful. The higher I fly, the brighter the light gets. Eventually, I have a companion to join me. When we reach the light, darkness consumes me again. My companion is gone. I wake up and I realize that even in my dreams, I can not truly be happy. Those are the days where I feel that I have nothing to live for."

"Do you not find your second job fulfilling?" the therapist asked me. Pity glistened in her eyes. I noticed she was near tears. Maybe now, she knew how I felt.

I shook my head, fiddling with my fingers. I knew it was wrong to say or even think, but I wanted to be open and honest. "Every time I look at them, I see their father. When I returned home, everyone was so sure my grief would kill them."

"It was that bad?" Dr. Samson asked me.

I nodded. "It was that bad." I released a shaky breath and cleared my throat.

"What is the best thing about your children?" she asked me. She squinted her eyes in confusion. I could tell she wanted to understand me. She was trying. She wanted to understand the choices I've been making up until this point. I didn't know how I could help her with that.

"Their best features." I looked at the wallpaper on my phone and smiled. "They are remarkably smart," I said through my smile. "They have their father's dimples; every last one of them. Even at such a young age, they are understanding. They are creative, disciplined, witty. I can see it in them now. And the boy..." I trailed off.

The lady cocked her head to the side. "The boy?" she asked.

"Rowan. I named him after his father," I responded with a humorless laugh. I looked at him on my wallpaper.

At the small age of three, there was mischievous darkness in his eyes. He was the more clever one. Like his father, he was the youngest. He learned his name, numbers, and alphabets first. That only intrigued his siblings to learn. Everything was a competition between the four.

"Do they know of their father's death?" she snapped me out of my thoughts.

"No," I responded quickly. "Only my friends and I."

"Why haven't you told them?" she asked. She knew the answer, but she wanted me to voice everything.

"They are too young."

"So, what age do you think it would be best to have the conversation?"

The "conversation."

People love using that quote as if I couldn't realize the father of my children was dead. Everyone in town tiptoed around me. Three years later, and I still get sympathetic glances and pity smiles.

If I took the children to the park, people would volunteer to babysit them. They would tell me I needed a break and send me a cautious glance.

At first, I was getting prank calls from teenagers all over the world. Newsletter clippings were still getting posted as if he died hours ago. The reminder was always there. Three years later, I should have healed from my depression. I shouldn't be in therapy. I shouldn't still have nightmares. Every time I wanted to move on, someone had another plan for me.