ON HOLD
"Everyone in New Orleans can't help but get involved with the Mikealsons...and once they get involved they can say goodbye to everything they loved."
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After receiving information that serial killer in New Orleans may be...
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For the first time in my life, I wanted nothing more than to be wrong.
I wanted to be told "No, Sean wasn't hexed."
Or that, "You did, indeed hate him because he deserved it.'
I was shaking as I was getting to Cami's apartment because the possibility of me getting those responses was less than one percent. If uncle Kieran acted the same way Sean did right before his death, then the witches had to play a role in it.
"And worst of all, it's always the innocent that pay the price."
Unwelcomed tears creeped, ready to spill out any moment. I stared at Cami ignoring how much she looked like Sean. I never gave it importance because, after all, they were twins. Now, every feature on her resembled our dead brother, hunting me with all the thoughts I didn't want to have.
"Just tell me the truth Cami," I weakly demanded, "I don't care, I just want to know."
She looked at me concerned, like I was a porcelain cup, ready to break at any moment. "Liv...maybe you should sit down."
"No!" I exclaimed, rather loudly, my hands moving to my hair in frustration. "I'm not going to sit down until you tell me exactly the cause of our brother's and uncle's deaths."
"I told you," Cami remained collected as she talked to me and I wished I could control my emotions as well as she did. "Diagnosed mental illness."
I shook my head, not believing a word she uttered, "Why are you lying to me?"
"I'm not lying to you," she claimed, "It's written in the police reports, you can check them yourself."
"No, I saw those reports. They don't make sense...Why can't you just tell me that they were hexed?" I whispered not trusting my own voice. Her expression suddenly changed and she looked at me cautiously, fearfully.
"Of course you would figure it out," she said, taking a seat herself. "I couldn't tell you," she started slowly, trying to think of the right words. "I couldn't tell you because the truth would break you apart."
A hot tear rolled down my left cheek. I quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of my sweater and gave out a forced chuckle, "Well I'm still standing, aren't I?"
She didn't respond and a part of me wished she would say some affirmative words she would tell her patients.
That it was fine to feel this way. That it would be okay. That it wasn't my fault. Instead, all she did was look at my eyes with her distant, somehow emotionless ones.
There were a thousand words I wanted to say to her. To explain myself. To apologize. To make up for this. I couldn't bring myself to. I backed away, like I was trying to get away from something horrifying and my feet brought me to the exit of the apartment. Without looking back, I descended down the quiet, empty stairs.
