Page 3 of Bristol

I swallow hard, fake a smile, and nod, still feeling a little unsteady. “I’m good.”

Maurice simply nods and waits a beat before letting go of my arm.

“Guys, this is Bristol. Bristol, this is Slim and Sebastian.”

Slim is the tall man, which means pretty boy must be Sebastian. Even his name is sexy.

“We got a roast cooking if you’re hungry, brother,” Slim says, looking at Maurice.

Maurice looks at me as if to ask if I’m hungry.

“Food sounds perfect,” I say, hoping I don’t sound like an idiot. I hardly remember what it was like to socialize or interact with another human being, much less actually having to participate in simple things like conversation and dinner.

Maurice beams at me. “Thanks, Slim. Where’s Joey? Got a few things I need to run by him.”

“He went home earlier. Loretta needed some help with some function she has going on this weekend, and he had been here all day working on getting the house cleaned up for the run next week.”

“Shit. Okay. I’ll shoot him a text and see if he can talk. Need him to do some digging.”

Sebastian raises a brow at him. “For your friend here?”

“Yeah. I’ll bring it to the table tomorrow. Till then, let’s eat.”

Sebastian looks like he wants to comment but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders and exits the room.

Maurice fixes a plate of food from the stove and urges me to do the same, handing me a bowl. He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I pile roast, rice, and gravy into a bowl and sit down next to Maurice to scarf it down.

We eat in silence; everyone having left the room aside from me and Maurice. When I’ve eaten everything on my plate, I set it in the sink and begin washing it to put it in the dish drain.

“Hey, what do you think is the best way for me to find my family?” I ask.

“Probably social media. Do you remember your parents or your brother having a Facebook page?”

“Yeah, my mom and dad both had one!”

“Here. See if you can search them,” he says, handing me his cell phone. Facebook is already loaded on the screen, and I quickly type in Mayra Tullier. Mom’s page is the third one down. Her main picture is the same as I remember. I read the name thoroughly and the words hardly register. Remembering Mayra Tullier is how her name appears and as that sinks in, I scroll viciously through her timeline.

I can’t seem to grasp the concept as I go through all the posts that are before my eyes. Tons of friends and family have posted on her page. ‘RIP Mayra. We miss you.’ ‘Can’t believe it’s been six years. We’re still searching for Bristol. #BringBristolHome #JusticeForTulliers.’

I scroll through so many posts and old photos of our family until I’m sobbing.

“Whoa, what’s wrong?” Maurice asks.

“They’re dead! They’re all dead! My whole family! They were murdered the day I was abducted.” I barely get the words out before sobs wrack my body so hard that it’s difficult to focus on anything. The immensity of the pain that is shattering my heart is too much. It’s unbearable.

No amount of pain that I’ve experienced in the company of Patrick can compare to the shards that my heart is torn into right this minute. He killed my family. Took their lives. And I’ve been fucking him for the last six years. I’ve been complacent and done everything he’s asked. And for what? For who? I have no one. Nothing! I have nothing left. He took everything from me!

A wail sounds from my throat, and everything becomes a blur. Someone’s arms circle around me, trying to console me. My eyes are squeezed shut. I don’t have the will to open them. Whoever is holding me takes my arms and wraps them around their neck then scoops me up in their arms. I don’t care at this point what happens to me. Sobs shake me still, images of my family replaying over and over in my mind. I’m carried around then placed in a cold, soft, comfy place. A blanket that smells of laundry detergent is placed over me. I lie there, breathing in this scent and crying every bit of sadness that I have in me out.

I cry so hard for so long that I eventually cry myself to sleep. I’m succumbed to a dreamless slumber for hours before I finally awake. When my eyes open and my brain begins to wake up, I sit up in a hurry, trying to figure out where I am. I go through the last things I remember and the hole inside my chest opens back up with a vengeance. Trying not to burst into tears again, I scan my surroundings. I’m in a small room, only large enough for a full-size bed and chest of drawers with a small pathway barely wide enough for one person to pass through at a time. There’s a closet at the foot of the bed that doesn’t fully open, blocked partially by the footboard of the bed.

There’s a small window next to the bed with a window unit in it. No wonder it was so cold in here. Despite the circumstances, I slept well. This was the first night in six years that I didn’t dream, and I’m not sure how to feel about that. I want to go out of this room, to go and see Maurice and to find out more about what happened and maybe even go home to let everyone know that I’m alive. So many thoughts and emotions pass through my mind at once and it’s overwhelming. I have to remind myself to breathe. That it’s okay, that it’s all going to be okay now that I’m away from Patrick.

I am in a house full of strangers, though. The thought mortifies me. Terrifies me. This feeling, the one I have that I don’t know how to define, it’s deafening. I don’t understand how I can feel deafening, but that’s the best way I can explain it. I fight the panic that tries to engulf me and take slow, deep breaths.

“Breathe, Bristol. Breathe,” I whisper to myself.

After a few minutes of calming myself down and preparing to walk out of this room and greet these strangers, to thank them for taking care of me when I lost my mind and senses, I force myself out of the bed. It’s time to face the people that saved my life.

---