A Hero in the Dark: 2nd Edition

Chapter 78: Darkest Nights

Days pass by in a blur. I hardly notice.

Most of my time is spent in bed. I refuse to talk—unless mom or dad ask a direct question—but even then, I'm as silent as I can be for as long as possible. I stay under the covers as long and as often as I can, only crawling out to use the bathroom—yes, that's all.

Occasionally, mom drops in to bring me food. Crackers. Cheese. Fruit. Sometimes even whole meals. I never eat much though. Every time she stops by, she always ends up taking a plate down with at least some leftovers. "Emi, you need to eat," she always says, but I just don't.

I don't deserve to eat. I don't deserve to be brought food like a princess, like royalty, like his associate. I only ever drink water because it's unbearable when my throat gets super sore, but even then, I just don't want to.

Every day dad yells at me. "Get out of bed! You should be doing things! You shouldn't be lying around like this! Get up, go outside, go for a walk, be active... do something! Stop being lazy." And that's on a good day... where it's easier to ignore him.

Other times, he forcibly pulls the covers off so the cool air bites me for my misdemeanors. Sometimes he'll splash cold water on me; sometimes it's a whole cup.

"Just leave me alone!" I scream when I get fed up with it. I never get up to retrieve my blanket; I always just use telekinesis. I merely curl into a ball, turn away from him, and wish for John, wish that he'd let me touch him again, be with him again... wish that I never fucked up.

But as much as I say that's the worst of it, it's not. There are times—usually late at night—times that I can't stop sobbing, can't stop pulling at my hair, shaking, rocking, thinking back further, regretting everything I've done all the way since I left home. It's during these late nights where I want to die, where I feel I should've died, where I think the Loric should've killed me. Worse still, I'll even think of ways where I should really do it. Pills. Cars. Buses. Knives. Hell, my ergokinesis even; that would be fitting, knowing that I've taken life with this Legacy. Why not my own?

I know it's not healthy. I know how dark these thoughts are. I promised Jeffrey I'd never resort to the same end as he did. I promised him that I'd live life for the both of us, but now... I don't know how I can. I don't see why I should.

My alarm clock rings sharp at 7:00. I turn it off, lying wide awake and unable to sleep, but sometimes I do sleep. Dad always says that I'm sleeping too long; that's why he wakes and yells at me. But I can't help it. Either I don't deserve to sleep, or I deserve to sleep forever; after every day that goes by, I still can't decide which it is.

Soon, days turn into weeks, and weeks, months. My birthday too is a fog, and that's the only thing I'm glad for. July. August. September. October. November. It's not until the first snowfall that dad throws open my door again. "Is this what your life will be?" he asks. I don't answer. "Are you going to stay in this room until you die? Is that what you want?" I don't answer. "Do you expect me to work, work, work every day for the rest of my life so you have a roof under your head so you can stay exactly like this year after year after year? Do you want me to die?" I don't answer, though his last question stirs me inside. I want to say no, but I know what comes after. He'll ask what I'm going to do, and I don't know! It's not like I can do anything. I'm essentially useless, to the Loric, to mom, to dad, to my brother; my friends don't care—I doubt any of them even know I still exist. I stay silent and do what I always do: try to get his voice out of my head. "Your sixteen, Emily! Everybody your age is already out there working, and what are you doing? You're in your room sleeping not doing anything with your life!" I grit my teeth. It's harder and harder to contain my ergokinesis with each reprimand he throws at me. I don't want to lash out. I know I'll end up spiting him if I do, and I don't want to spite him. I don't want to hurt him. "I want you to start school on Monday," he adds then. "If you don't go, that's it. I can't handle this."

"I can't," I mutter without turning. "I can't."

"I don't care! I've had enough. I'm tired of this; can't you see that?! Don't make me live with this much pressure in my head. Do you want me to get a heart attack and die? I'm not asking for a lot; just that you go to school, find a job, make a little bit of money, not a lot—that's it! Some parents are already having their children pay their own bills—their cell phone, for their clothes, gifts. I'm not asking for that. But they are making enough to go for coffees, outings, malls, to have fun with friends and buy their own things. Whereas you're getting nothing but free rides! Now I can't do this forever. I've had enough. So, Monday, you're going to school." He slams the door and that's it, and as he walks down the hall, I hear him, "Miserable girl, can't even do a simple task."