Page 89 of Law Of Love

I stiffened at his question. I avoided talking about her, and when my mom would bring her up, I’d cut the conversation short. Even just hearing her name sent my thoughts into a spiral of bleakness and despair.

“Nothing,” I said, my tone sharp.

Brent sighed. “Listen, Kaleb, I love the girl. She’s great, but is she worth this? I just want to make sure you’re making the right decision for you.”

My tongue skated across the front of my teeth. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. “She’s worth it.”

“Okay, that’s all I needed to hear.”

I hummed in response, scanning the crowd for any sign of danger. Nothing—unless overpriced shooters and confetti were threatening.

Brent and I talked for about five minutes, and we planned to meet sometime soon. I’d been so used to seeing him every day that it felt alien to have him in another state, hours away and not easily accessible.

My chest felt hollow, my gun poking into my ribcage. It wasn’t painful—more uncomfortable—but I didn’t bother to adjust it. The ache was distracting me from her. Somewhat.

Running my hands through my hair, I yanked out my wallet, deciding I was going to torture myself for the hundredth time tonight. Pulling out the crumpled piece of paper, I unfolded it, huffing.

It’d been wrong of me to do so, but I'd stolen the sketch from Freya’s pad a while ago. It was my favourite piece she’d ever done.

A striking bluebird—its wings drawn as it soared through the sky, feathering so detailed it looked like it could be a photograph. Each stroke of the pencil was done with passion and love, shading so detailed I noticed something new about the creature every time I looked at it. My stomach lurched whenever I did so, but it also filled me with comfort, remembering what I used to have.

I’d had the honour of meeting Freya Henderson. Not only that, but loving her.

It was something I wanted to remember for the rest of my life, even if she didn’t.

Forty: Freya

“Do you want to get out of bed today, honey?” my mom asked me, and I yanked the sheets further up my body, shaking my head. It was the weekend.

So what if it was four in the afternoon and I hadn’t left my room yet? Not even to brush my teeth or use the bathroom. It wasn’t a huge deal.

My new room wasn’t finished yet. I didn’t possess the motivation to finish painting it. I’d stopped halfway the other day, looking down to see I was splattered with paint. Only, I didn’t see it as paint.

The light cream colour had morphed into a crimson shade of red, and a scream had escaped my mouth as memories of the incident that had occurred two months ago flashed before my eyes.

Murderer.

Killer.

“Please, mom,” I sighed, squeezing my eyes shut painfully. “I just want to sleep.”

“Freya, don’t you think we should talk about—“

“No,” I interjected. “I want to sleep.”

My mom’s eyes grew teary, and guilt slammed into me. She’d been trying to get me to talk to her about what had happened, but I just couldn’t bring myself to relive it.

She'd been forcing me to see a therapist regularly. I hated crying in front of people, but my first conversation with the trained professional had caused me to break down. However, she reminded me she was no stranger to traumatised people.

“Alright, I’m going on a hike with Jackie. Call me if you need anything.” The name caused my heart to skip a beat. “I’ll be gone for a couple of hours. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I didn’t want to think about Jackie because when I did, I also thought about him. That was dangerous. It caused my emotions to whirl around me like a tornado, pricking at me, taunting me.

Most of my happy memories involving him felt like they were overpowered by despair, the fear creating a thick film over my mind and altering my way of thinking. A trauma response—something that I was going to have to work through eventually, but the idea of doing so was frightening.

My gloomy bubble was comfortable because the moment I allowed happiness in, I was hit full force with the idea that I didn’t deserve it. I’d taken somebody’s life, and whether or not they deserved it, matter-of-factly, I was a killer and was struggling to come to terms with it.

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