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"Hey, you okay?"
The amount of times I've heard that in my entire lifespan almost seemed like a never-ending joke.
What was I supposed to say?
Yeah, I'm great. The boy that raped me broke into our home, nearly killed my family, demanded us for the keys, and then was murdered by a woman who can't die waltzed in like it was nothing.
I should've felt happy that the one problem in my entire life was gone for good. The boy who made my life a miserable envoy and proceeded to evoke all the buried memories I promised would never ever be brought up again. I promised myself that I would forget—forget about all the pain, the misery, the blood, the death.
But all that anger and hatred I had built up in the last year did nothing to me. In fact, I was more angry by the fact he got away with everything by cheating death. That didn't do him any justice for all the wrongs he did—for all the wrongs he did against all of us.
And at the same time, I felt disgusting that even for a second I pitied the boy. I understood the effects of mental disorders, but I couldn't discard all the horrible things he did to me—the fact he killed my dad.
The only parent I felt truly close to.
I loved my dad, and I loved my family.
Nothing was the same the moment I heard the gut-wrenching gun shot echo through the whole house.
A part of me just wanted to die because it was too much to relive—I felt like my brain was hardwired to every single scene, like clockwork, replaying over and over again in my head.
Sam threatens my family, Sam touches me, Sam fights Tyler, Sam cries like a victim, Sam gets stabbed and falls into a pool of his own blood.
Again and again this just kept occurring in my brain, tormenting me to no ends. Was I supposed to be relieved he was gone? Was I supposed to feel better? Was I supposed to just let go of all my resentment and disgust and hatred for one psychopath just because he was dead? Was everything that happened supposed to just be a new phase of our lives—smile and move and pretend nothing happened?
That was the thing—that was the one fucking thing I wished I could do.
Mom forgot all that happened except that Sam broke in and threatened us—she didn't remember how he died or what he said or how much he tried to cry for our forgiveness.
She just remembered what the keys told her to forget.
I, on the other hand, couldn't forget.
And I hated every second of it because any time my mind became silent, the scenes would start playing again and they wouldn't stop until I saw him get killed.
Again and again and again and a—
"Max?"
I blinked and then looked up numbly at the one person who had no idea what I went through—only what the cover story was.
