After 3

Chapter 273.

"Stop it." I snap, my voice doesn't sound like my voice and I begin to wonder if I'm even awake right now or if this is another nightmare.

"I just want to know that you're not afraid of me. You aren't, are you?"

"This isn't about you." I manage to answer him. It's true, this is about my father's death and the fact that I can't take anymore heartache.

"Fuck," he sighs and I just know that he's running his hands over his hair. "I know it's not. That's not what I meant. I'm worried about you."

I close my eyes and I don't respond. He's worried about me? If he was so worried about me maybe he shouldn't have sent me back to America alone. I wish I wouldn't have made it home, I wish something would have happened to me on my way so he could deal with the loss of me, then again, he probably wouldn't want to be bothered. He would be too busy getting high.

He continues, "you aren't yourself, baby." I begin to shake at the use of the sick nickname. "You need to talk about this, everything with your dad. It will make you feel better." His voice is too loud and the rain is pounding against the old roof. I wish it would just cave in and sweep me away with the rain.

Who is this man sitting here with me? I sure as hell don't know him and he doesn't know what he's talking about. I should talk about my father? Who the hell is he to sit here and act like he cares about me, like he could help me? I don't need help, I need silence.

"I don't want you here."

"Yes you do, you're just pissed at me right now because I acted like an asshole and I fucked up," he tries to explain himself.

The pain I should feel isn't there, nothing is. Not even when my mind flashes with the images of his hand on my thigh as we drive in his car, his lips gently sliding over mine, my fingers threading through his thick hair. Nothing.

I feel nothing as the pleasant memories are replaced with ones of fists flying through drywall and the woman he slept with only days ago. Nothing. I feel nothing and it feels so good to finally feel nothing, to finally have control over my own emotions. I'm realizing, as I stare at the wall, that I don't have to feel anything I don't want to feel. I don't have to remember anything if I don't want to, I can forget it all and never allow the memories to cripple me again.

"I'm not." I don't clarify the words and he tries to touch me again. I don't move, I bite my cheek, wanting to scream again but not wanting to give him the satisfaction. The calming ease that sweeps over me from his fingers on mine proves just how weak I am when it comes to him.

"I'm sorry about Richard, I know how-" he begins.

"No." I cut him off and pull my hand away. "No, you don't get to do this. You don't get to come here and pretend like you're here to help me when you're the one who has hurt me the most. I won't tell you again," my voice is flat, unconvincing and as empty as I feel inside. "Get out."

My throat hurts from speaking so much, I don't want to talk anymore. I just want him to go away and I want to be left alone. I focus on the wall again, not allowing my mind to taunt me with images of my father's dead body. Everything is messing with me, fucking with my mind and threatening the tiny bit of reason left inside of me. I'm grieving two deaths now, and it's tearing me apart piece by tiny piece.

Pain isn't remotely kind in that way, pain wants it's promised pound of flesh, ounce for ounce. It won't settle until you're left with nothing but a flaky shell of who you were. The burn of betrayal and the sting of rejection hurt, but nothing compares to the pain of being empty. Nothing hurts worse than not hurting at all and it makes no sense and perfect sense at the same time and I'm convinced I'm going fucking crazy and I'm actually okay with that.