Willing Captive

Again.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The best place to be

Lily

If you could go back in time, what would you change?

I would change a lot about the life I was living.

I would stand up to my father. I would talk more openly to my mother. I would make friends. I would tell my sister how much I appreciate her love and support. Every. Single. Day.

I would be more outgoing and less passive. I would stand up for myself, and fight for my right to live the way I wanted to. I would take the reins on my life.

I would be brave.

It has been six months since the explosion. Six months since Nox was killed. Since he was taken from me.

You know that saying ‘time heals all wounds’? Time seems to be working against me for unknown reasons, because my wounds are still raw, gaping, and tender. But no one can see them. My heart and head are no longer separate entities. They are joined. And they work together to bully me. They both tell me the same thing.

Move on.

Tears fill my eyes, and I pick thin strands of dewy grass. Rolling them between my fingers, it’s a wonder I can feel the wetness on my fingertips. I don’t feel a thing anymore.

I’m numb. To my very core.

I haven’t seen my father in months. We talk on occasion, but a lot has changed. It’s not that I blame him for the position my family was put in, but I need space. I don’t really want to see anyone. I speak to Mom and Terah almost every day, but I haven’t seen Mom since I left the mansion.

My father begged me to come home, but now that the threat of being killed has been eliminated, I just want to be on my own.

I’m not a child. I’m a grownup, dammit.

There is a difference between living and existing. And mine was a dull existence.

No more.

But there is one dull and morbid thing I still like to do, and according to my therapist, it’s helping me a lot.

The cemetery seems to be a good place to go to mourn. I sit and watch other people visit the headstones of their loved ones. They must feel some form of co

Some chat. Some laugh. Some cry. Some remain silent.

I have nothing.

Nox…he was never found. I have no headstone to mourn at. People who don’t exist don’t get funerals or graves.

I read somewhere that some people are meant to fall in love but not be together. Anger surges through me. That’s just not fair. The bridge of my nose tingles and my eyes blur. I squeeze them shut and try to swallow past the lump in my throat.

I would give anything to see him again. Even for a moment.

I would tell him I love him once more. I would kiss his full lips again. I would put my heart and soul into our last meeting together.

If I had the ability to go back in time, I would not have left him. I wish I’d gone back for him and made him to come with me.

If I’d begged hard enough, would he have gone with me? Could I have saved his life somehow?

The uncertainty of what his answer might’ve been haunts me every day of my life.

So, here I sit, on a bench, under a tree in the middle of my local graveyard. I come every Sunday. I bring my eReader and I spend most of the day here. It does something to me. It makes me feel serene and respectful. I know I’m unlike the people who come to visit the graves of their loved ones, but I’m no longer a religious person, and if there were any place I could come to grieve, it would be a cemetery, right?

Mourning isn’t easy. The pain of grief doesn’t go away. You just find a place for it. Store it away somewhere only you have access to.

There are different stages of pain, all of which hurt like a hell. Mourning someone you love, though, is agony. I just wish the pain wasn’t so sharp and stabby.

Losing Nox has brought me so much clarity. I feel so ashamed that it took the loss of his life to make me see things I should’ve seen, what feels like a lifetime ago. He lifted the thick fog that was surrounding me, and sent it away.

Always protecting me, even in death.

I read somewhere that if you’re going through Hell, keep going. It’s the only way past it.

You have to face your pain, your guilt, and your sorrow. But when the strong hands of grief capture you, it is overwhelming, and completely devastating.

I fear I’ll never get past the stage of Hell I’m in.

The only way past grief is to grieve. It’s the high price you pay for a love so sweet.

I don’t think I’m ready to move on just yet.

Last Sunday, I was sitting at my regular bench, when I felt someone’s eyes on me. For a second, a note of panic went through me. I pretended to keep reading. A minute passed, and although I still felt eyes on me, the panic faded to nothing. Taking a chance, I looked up right in time to see Rock and Boo walk away from me. Boo’s back shook in what I’m sure were silent sobs, and Rock wrapped his arm around her waist. His hand came up to wipe at his own fallen tears. And somehow this made me feel content. A watery smile spread across my face and I stood, taking two small steps closer to them. When they reached the black SUV I’d travelled in many times during my stay at the safe house, they turned to face me. Holding my eReader to my chest, I lifted my free hand slightly, and extended my fingers in a motionless farewell.

Rock smiled, lifted his hand to his mouth, kissed his forefinger and middle finger and placed them over his heart. Boo smiled a shaky smile, and mouthed love you. Then I watched as they drove away.

So, of course, today I’ve been sneaking peeks all over the place, but sadly, they haven’t come.

I’m not very social, still. I’ve made a few friends at work. People around my age-group with similar interests, but I’m not forcing myself to get out there just yet. I’m comfortable in my loneliness.

There is one girl I’ve formed a bond with. Her name is Hailey and she’s a lot like Boo.

Badass with a hint of lady.

The second I spotted her at work, I knew she’d be a good friend to me. Hailey is my age, with dark hair, dark makeup, a petite body, and a great attitude. I call her Goth-chic.

She’s the only person who knows how I spend my Sundays. She told me if I needed her to come with, that she would. I explained it was something I like to do on my own. For a second, I thought about keeping my mouth shut and letting her come, but the new independent part of me opted against it. I was seriously surprised when she shot me a smile and replied, “Alrighty then, babe. You just let me know if you need me to come, and I’ll be there.”

This morning, I uploaded my eReader with the latest smuttiness and I’ve found a good one. I read and read and read, and before I know it, four hours have passed. Just when I stand and stretch, I hear someone move to sit at the opposite end of the bench. From my peripheral vision, I can see it’s a man with a large build. He wears jeans, a black tee and white sneakers. He also walks with a cane.

For a moment, I tell myself to face him with a greeting. But this really isn’t the place for nice conversation. I assume the man is here to do exactly what I am here to do.

Mourn.

I let him be. Sitting back down on the bench, I lift my eReader and pick up where I left off. The book has some serious fu

I make some odd choking, gurgling noises. The man turns his head to face me.

Avoiding his eyes, I turn my bright red face the opposite way and pretend to cough.

Lifting my eReader so high that I’m hiding behind it, from the corner of my eye, I see that man stifle his grin.

Busted.

The man clears his throat before he practically whispers, “Fu

Clearly mortified, I don’t look up from my book when I whisper back, “I’m sorry. That was rude. It won’t happen again.”