Echoes (Dance with My Demons #2)

33. Chapter 33

Avery

I wake up, a storming cloud lingering over my head that rivals the one outside.

Last night was surreal. There's no other words to describe it.

I saw a side of Grey that I've never seen before—but I guess always knew was there.

Is that what Sam saw before his life was cut short? Is that the beast that lurks below the playful, flirty man I've grown to love?

The reason question is— why am I unfazed by it?

I'm no stranger to death. I've taken a life before, even if it was by accident. But to physically witness someone being murdered—no, tortured—is a sight I'll never forget.

It's conflicting, terrifying… yet at the same time, he was protecting me… protecting us.

Normal people would run screaming in the other direction, but I think it's become apparent that I'm not normal. Maybe I was in the past, before my life was subject to hatred and harm. I don't know who I was back then, I don't even remember it.

The few fleeting memories I have of better times were solely experienced with my mother and Paige. Any other happy times have been here at Lilydale, with people like Grey.

My Grey.

My monster and protector.

I was so terrified that he was going to leave when I told him about Damon. I was scared that I was going to rip them apart, disintegrating a brotherly bond. But I couldn't keep this from him. I've worked so hard to regain his trust. In return, he's made a huge effort to include Theo—like in the library.

A relationship has to go both ways, and I owed him the truth.

I just never expected that reaction from him.

By the time he dropped me back to my room, he was his usual happy self again. If he wasn't covered in blood, you'd never know that he had just brutally ended a life.

He fucked me in blood.

I wish I knew where the term cold-blooded came from because it's certainly not relatable to humans, no matter what people joke. It's warm, thick… and staining.

My bloodied clothes are shoved under my mattress, the evidence of our late night adventure. I have to figure out how to get rid of them, but I'm sure Grey will know what to do.

There's a knock on my door as a guard pushes it open, looking at me lazily as he gestures for me to follow him.

It's time for my appointments, and I follow suit, the guard leading me to Dr. Markel's office.

"Good morning, Ms. White!" he says happily, bouncing around.

I'll never get over how someone can be so energetic and carefree in the mornings, so content with life despite their surroundings.

I pop myself up on the examination table, muffling a yawn. "Morning."

Dr. Markel gives me a quick look-over before ducking into his office. I hear the key turn in the medicine cabinet, before he returns with a clear plastic bag, a white pill inside. I spot my name on a label, fixed to the front of it.

"Here's your slow release painkiller," he says, plucking open the bag to dump it into my palm.

I quickly throw it back into my mouth, taking a cup of water from him. Swallowing, I chuck the empty cup into the bin in the corner, wondering if I still have blood in my hair. I supposed even if I did, it wouldn't be overly noticeable, my jet-black hair hiding all my secrets.

The doctor scribbles some notes on a piece of paper, shoving them into a manila folder with my name on it. "As usual, let me know if you have any issues with pain," he says, waving me off as he hums 'Ring Around the Rosie' to himself.

"Ring around the rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes… Ashes… We all fall down…"

I give him a brief nod, meeting the guard in the hallway as we head down to Dr. Elsher's room. I'm not keen on seeing that quack again, but I have little choice.

His doorway is open when we arrive, his stern face looking up from his desk, uninterested, as I walk in.

"Ms. White," he sighs. "Are we going to make any progress today?"

"You tell me," I mumble, flinging myself into the chair across from his desk.

Dr. Elsher shakes his head, making a note in my file. "Uncooperative, as usual."

"Maybe you could try being less of an asshole," I suggest. "I don't really vibe well with that."

He ignores me, raising an eyebrow as he makes another note.

We sit in silence, my arms folded as I wait for him to speak. Finally, he looks up, putting his pen down.

"Frankly, Ms. White, I don't believe you have the capabilities for successful therapy."

"So, you're saying I'm incurable."

"I'm saying," he says a little louder. "That until you want to be helped, you're going to remain as you are."

My eyes narrow on him. "What's wrong with who I am?"

"Tell me—do you have any remorse for your father's death?" he asks, blindsiding me.

"Of course I do," I sputter. "I think that was made clear in my notes with Dr. Smith and from the court documents."

Dr. Elsher leans back in his chair. "Dr. Smith didn't make excessive notes about your sessions. Most of your initial sessions very little was discussed. It appears he only really targeted your mental health, not the actions that led you here."

I raise an eyebrow, annoyed. " Obviously I'm here because I accidentally killed my father while attempting to take my own life. The whole event is the reason for my mental health."

"Is it?" he snorts. "I'm going to assume because of your childhood you already had these mental illnesses. I'd say they very much contributed to your father's death."

I clench my teeth, trying my best to remain composed. "That's a very clever observation, Doctor. Of course it was linked—did you not just hear me? I was trying to kill myself."

"With a fire though?" he questions, scoffing at me. "What made you decide on that? Because surely a reasonable person would expect that a fire would have the possibility of inflicting harm upon others. Most people who commit suicide opt for different methods such as asphyxiation, exsanguination, or unloading a bullet into a main organ. Most of these methods would be far quicker, less painful, and without the risk of harming others."

I stare at him, angry at his audacity. He's known me for a short amount of time, and already he thinks he knows me better than I know myself.

He's trying to insinuate that I intentionally killed my father.

Nothing to do with the fact that my house—the same one I found my dead mother in, the same one I received all my abuse and torture—was the catalyst. I wanted to escape, I wanted to leave.

And most of all, I wanted to burn those memories to ash. If the house was gone, then no one would ever have to suffer abuse inside those walls again.

Once I was dead, my father would just find someone else to torment and hurt. He'd lure someone in, repeating the cycle like he did with my mother and I.

My father had no job, very little money. His biggest asset was that house, and I wanted to take that away from him so he couldn't use it as a weapon.

Those walls were painted with my screams, embedded into the gyprock like muscle memory. I deserved to have the final say in what happened with that house.

I knew I was going to suffer. I knew that the fire would burn me alive. But at the time, I didn't care. Whatever pain I suffer at the end, I was ready to accept, because it was no match for the mental torture I was living with. It would end eventually, returning me to the earth from which I came.

"Some people kill others before they kill themselves," I point out. "I didn't plan to do that."

Dr. Elsher lifts an eyebrow. "Why didn't you seek help? According to the court documents, there is no reference to you seeking help from any professionals."

"What professionals?" I argue. "I wasn't allowed to go to the doctor because we didn't have insurance. The few times I was taken to the emergency room, it was obvious that I was being abused. What sane person would pull shards of glass out of someone's back and assume it was there by accident? What sick and twisted person would look at my bleeding intimate parts, surmising that I'd had normal intercourse? They all had their chance to report it, but if they did, nothing was ever done. The people with authority had opportunities to pull me out of that house, but no one ever came."

"But did you seek help?" he asks again. "No—you left people to assume. In fact, one of the hospital reports indicated that you stated you fell and injured yourself."

I gawk at him, bewildered. "What about women in domestic violent relationships? They often lie too, terrified that their abuser will hurt them more for trying to tell the truth. Sometimes they get murdered trying to escape."

"I think the truth is you kept it to yourself because you thought you deserved it—so you accepted it."

For once, he's not completely far from the truth. I was so beaten down, my soul broken and crushed, that I did often believe I deserved the abuse. But I know now that I was wrong—no one deserves that.

"I was trained to believe that," I say quietly. "But I deserved better. I deserve to be happy and loved."

He looks at me with a bored expression. "While you might believe that now, you still don't want to heal yourself. From what I'm told, you're too focused on having others heal you. I assume that's why you are dating multiple people. Do you think you're too much for any one person to handle on their own?"

It's like a slap in the face. He might as well have gut punched me, painting a picture in my head that can't be unseen.

Is that why I want to love them both? Is that why I let Damon kiss me?

The more people that want me, the more I will believe that I'm worthy?

I didn't kiss Damon back at first, but I didn't stop him straight away either. And while the whole situation had shocked me, sending me into a moment of frozen confusion, I think I kissed him back for a split second.

Damon would be the ultimate validation. He hated me so much that I wanted him to like me. I told myself it was because of Grey—I wanted his best friend to like me. But now… I'm not so sure.

If I could make someone who hates me change their mind about me, it would start to undo all the words and damage my father did. It would prove that I was likable—loveable—after all.

I go to open my mouth to speak, trying to figure out words to respond, but my head starts to spin. I rub my temple, closing my eyes to get a grip on myself, but when I open them again, the room is still fuzzy.

There's two Dr. Elshers sitting at the desk, swaying from left to right. I can't see straight, things quickly losing focus.

Sounds start to muffle like underwater noises, and I faintly register a knock.

"Is she ready?" a voice asks.

Someone walks in front of me, kneeling down to look at me face-to-face.

"Ms. White, how are you feeling?" Mr. Whittingham asks coldly.

"It's… woozy," I slur. "What's happening?"

His blue eyes scan my face before he turns away, nodding to someone by the door.

"Take Ms. White to the lab. The doctors are waiting for her."