'Don't you dare say that.' The hurt in Sebastian's voice is palpable. 'Don't you fucking dare! I love you, angel. Don't you get that? I love you. I would never, ever hurt you. And yes, you were my prisoner. But that was before. Things have changed. You aren't my prisoner anymore. You're my lover. We're meant for each other, don't you see? You love me even for my flaws. You're my hero, my savior, and I'm just returning the favor.'
My eyes shoot open, and I stand up to face him, nostrils flaring. 'How is this returning the favor? How is locking me up doing me any good? Because it isn't, Sebastian. It's doing nothing. You're--you're running me.' My voice cracks. 'You're ruining me, your own lover.'
Sebastian face is totally red now, and he's in my face, making my blood boil. My heart keeps pounding and pounding but I'm not in the mood to back down. I'm never backing down, not to him. 'I am done taking risks with you, angel!' he shouts. 'The one time I let you out of my sight for just a few minutes today, you start acting like this. This is what I mean! This is why I keep you so close! I don’t want to fucking lose you, don't you get that? I want you to be mine. I'm not letting Marco or anyone get to you. So I'm done. I'm done giving you freedom. I'm done trusting you. You're getting your wish, angel. You are my prisoner now. You are mine. Now go the fuck to bed so I can lock you up here.'
I start to argue, to scream back at him, but I don't have the energy. My throat is too hoarse, and I feel so achingly tired, so much that I can only slump back in bed. So I just nod, biting back tears, and I lie down on the bed. I don't meet Sebastian's gaze as he handcuffs me to either part of the frame, the cool metal brushing against my skin. Then, just like that, he storms off into another room. 'Goodnight, angel,' he hisses behind him, and his voice sounds so broken it makes me want to scream.
Tears start pouring down my face, and the pain of losing Sebastian too is everywhere. My heart aches and my stomach hurts, and I am so confused, so freaking confused. I don't know who to trust anymore. I don't know what to do. All I know is that I'm miserable, and it’s all because of Sebastian and Marco.
I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking back to the night I first discovered my parents' bodies, to the cop cars and the sirens and the shock I felt. It's kind of like this shock: the shock of something ending.
It's interesting how that happens. How everything can be so good one moment, and then the next, all of the good is gone, whisked away, just like that.
And as I lie there, thinking back to the night my parents died, to the raw and empty pain I felt that night, to the two years of sorrow and loneliness it triggered, only one thought remains:
If Sebastian really is the killer, then I'm going to make him pay.
I never really liked Christmas. Something about it was always so depressing to me, because every Christmas morning I'd wake up and run to my parents' bedroom to pounce on them and open the presents Santa left me, but every morning, they wouldn't be there. My parents would be gone, with an apology note about how some work crap came up and they were sorry, but if Santa came, I could open the presents without them, as always.
I always knew the whole Santa thing was bullshit, but my parents didn't realize that. They never really realized that I didn't have a real childhood, and they especially never realized it was all thanks to them. When your parents leave you on your own for days at a time all the time, even when you're a kid, it's hard to remain innocent and naive. It's hard not to learn things you weren't so supposed to know, do things you weren't supposed to do.
And so, I guess you could call me rebellious. But I wasn't really. I just knew about things my parents wouldn't have wanted me to know. Like sex. I knew all about sex. I had it several times throughout high school--it wasn't like anyone else was around to keep me company. So I screwed a lot of boys, went to lots of parties, and did a lot of dancing. That was my life really. Dance, then parties, then sex. Dance was the major theme, the one thing that really kept me company, but random hookups were a strong second. It felt good, I guess, for a time, before my parents died. It felt good to be intimate with someone else. It made me feel like I wasn't so alone after all.
But as much as I disliked Christmas, this Christmas, this Christmas now I'm thirteen--a few years before all of the rebellion began--was supposed to be different. My parents were going to be home for once. They promised me, made sure to clear all of their work plans, and I begged them to please be sure, telling them I needed them, telling them I needed their company just this once. And Mom knelt down beside me, stroking my hair and said of course they'd be here, said that they were sorry they've always been so busy but this time, this year, things would be different.
This Christmas, they would be here.
And I believed them. Or at least, I kind of did. I kept checking on them, though. Throughout the night on Christmas Eve, I kept making sure they were still here, because I didn't want them to leave again. And through the night, each time I checked, I found them in their bed: sound asleep, waiting until morning. I started to feel giddy, going to bed with a spring in my step because for once, I realized, they would be here on Christmas. They would dedicate a whole morning just to me, and I'd feel happy again. I'd feel like I had a real family.
And I couldn't wait. I couldn't wait for that oh-so-distant warmth of knowing I'm loved, knowing there are still people out there who care deeply about me, to replace the growing pit in my stomach.
So come Christmas morning, when my eyes snapped open for the first time and morning sunlight peeked in through the windows, I leapt out of bed and raced toward my parents' bedroom, so thrilled to be able to see them again, just imagining the kinds of things we'd do this morning. I tried to picture what presents they'd give me, what things they'd say, whether they'd make me hot chocolate and rub my back and tell me they loved me like people did in movies. I tried to imagine everything that would happen that morning--everything with them.
I raced into their bedroom and pounced on their bed, waiting for them to pop up and bring me into a warm embrace, waiting for them to make my Christmas amazing.
But the bed was empty.
My heart threatened to plummet at that, but I tried to keep calm. Okay, I thought. Maybe they're surprising me. Yeah. That's got to be it. They're surprising me.
So, giddiness returning, I raced around the house and checked every room, eyes darting about to find them, heart pounding in anticipation.
But no one was there.
Bathroom? Nothing.
Family room? Nothing.
Kitchen? Nothing.
My heart kept sinking and sinking with each room I checked as I realized that, as it turned out, they'd left me again. But it wasn't until I checked my own room that my heart totally plummeted. Because left on my pillow was a note in Mom's rushed handwriting, reading:
Sorry honey. Work got in the way. I know you must be disappointed. But I saw Santa left you some presents. Maybe next year?
And I didn't know what was wrong with me, but as soon as I read the note, I closed my eyes and started crying. I just crumpled against my wall, crying and crying, crying because it felt good to cry, because I didn't know what else to do but let the tears pour out of me. I missed my parents. I missed having them close. I missed spending time with them. And for Christmas, I'd only asked for one thing. Not a toy or a game system or whatever. No. All I'd ask for was for my parents to spend a morning with me, and they couldn't even do that.
They couldn't even stay with me for that long.
They couldn't even be bothered to make sure I was okay.
