Page 4 of The Awakening

Arriving at the house, I make my way upstairs to get into more comfortable clothes, and by comfortable, I mean a pair of Colson’s sweatpants and his t-shirt. I frequently gravitate to his room since losing him—we all do. The three of us have now permanently made Colson’s bed ours. Everett, Dean, and I have slept in his bed for the past six months. It’s the closest we can get to him without physically crawling into his grave.

Walking into his room, I head to his dresser and pull out my favorite pair of his gray sweatpants and white v-cut t-shirt. Stripping down my clothes, I bring them to the hamper in the bathroom, discarding them and begin stepping into the sweats.

Standing in the bathroom alone, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. “Hey, babe. How’d I do today with training?” I talk to him when I’m alone, as if he’s still with me. “I got Arno good—I could’ve slit his throat even. You’d be proud of me.” I pull my long blond hair back into a messy top bun, grabbing the seafoam hair tie from my wrist, and securing my hair with it.

Looking at my body as I start pulling his shirt over my head, I can see my muscles have become more prominent and fuller since starting six months ago. My arms are no longer stick thin, and my legs have become more defined. Glancing away from the mirror, I catch a glimpse of Dean leaning against the door frame. His arms resting against the top of the frame as his long torso leans forward. His eyes are on me as he gives me a small smile.

Dean has also changed into a pair of sweats, but he has chosen to go shirtless—my favorite outfit. I walk over to him, wrap my arms around his waist, and squeeze him tight. Long arms drape over my shoulders as he rests his head on me, hugging me back.

“Damn, baby girl, I miss the fuck out of him.” His voice is a mere whisper as he breathes into my hair, his voice laced with sadness.

“I do too.” My voice shakes as I respond, his hold on me tightening. We stay in each other’s arms for a moment, the feeling of pain and loss filling the room around us.

The sound of a phone chiming breaks me from Dean’s hold as he reaches into his pocket to grab his cell.

“Sorry, love, its headquarters. I need to take this.” Dean kisses the top of my forehead and leaves the room as he answers the call. I watch his back as he leaves the room and turns to head down the hallway. Standing in the doorway to the bathroom, I let my eyes wander around Colson’s room. My eyes roam from his dresser to his wall posters to his nightstand. Everything remains untouched, unchanged, except for his bed, of course. We’ve left his room exactly how it was the last time he was here. My chest tightens and aches as I make my way over to his bed and sit beside his nightstand.

A lone picture frame sits atop his nightstand, and I lean over to pick it up. I’ve seen this picture before. Colson is standing in the middle between Dean and Everett after what looks to be a training day when they were younger. Colson’s hair was shorter then. I rub my fingers along his face, a smile stretching across his plump lips as the three of them embrace in the typical bro hug, arms draped over one another. I smile down at him, a single tear falling from my cheek and landing on the glass.

I lift the photo to my lips and kiss his face, a small sob escaping me before I return the frame to the nightstand. I quickly wipe the wetness from my face, internally scolding myself for crying again. Just as I collect myself, I go to stand up from the bed, but something peeking out from his nightstand catches my eye. I pull the drawer open, and I’m met with a small brown notebook. The edges are worn, and it looks like someone tried to destroy it at one point but decided against it.

Picking up the small book, I hold it in my fingers, turning it over but finding no writing on the outside. Opening the cover, I see the word journal in small print on the first page. Is this Colson’s private journal? I hadn’t known he kept a journal. I hesitate a moment, wondering if I should be reading his personal thoughts. I can’t—this is an invasion of privacy even though he’s gone.

I go to put the journal back in the nightstand, but a quick gust of cool air has my hair on the back of my neck standing straight up. I sit up straighter, looking around and noticing the windows are all shut, and the central air hasn’t kicked on yet.

I take a deep breath before whispering to myself, “Colson, is that you?” Suddenly, the picture frame falls face down on the nightstand, making me gasp at the sudden noise. I’ve never believed in the paranormal or the supernatural, but what happens next is unexplainable.

“Do you want me to read your journal, babe?” I scan the room awaiting his response, and when his bathroom door slams shut, I instantly stand from where I’m sitting, a small scream escaping me. He’s here. Colson’s with me right now as I clutch his journal in my hands. A light sheen of sweat layers my skin, and my throat instantly becomes dry as I nod my head.

“Okay, I’ll read it,” I breathe out before sitting back down on his bed and opening Colson’s journal to the first page.

October 21, 2021

I’ve been told I need to start writing in this journal by Janice, The Shadows’ therapist. She thinks this will help clear my mind. I’ve been tasked with a rising number of child abduction cases, and she thinks this is slowly getting to me. I can’t say it’s not, but I don’t necessarily think writing in this journal will help anything. Whatever to keep the organization happy, I guess. Plus, they said if I don’t cooperate with the therapist, I’ll be suspended from further missions until she deems me mentally fit enough to continue. Let me put this on paper and say I think this is bullshit. I guess this is entry one. Fuck.

After reading Colson’s first entry, I slam the journal close, grasping it to my chest as the sting of tears builds behind my eyes. I take a few deep breaths, calming myself and focusing on not allowing more tears to fall.

“Are you alright, doll?” Dean’s voice fills the room. Standing from the bed, I make my way over to Dean, stretching out my arm and handing him the small journal. Dean then glances at the journal, then back up at me before taking it from my fingers and flipping through the pages one by one. It takes him a moment to respond. Before he looks up from the pages, his eyes begin turning a shade of red.

“Is this Colson’s journal? Where did you find it?” I don’t speak, I point to the nightstand. His eyes dart to the nightstand, then back to me. “I don’t understand,” he says to me, confusion etched across his face.

“What do you mean?” What could he possibly be confused about? This is Colson’s journal; from the sounds of it, no one knew he was keeping a diary.

“When we see the organization’s therapist, she tells us to keep journals for our thoughts.” I stare at Dean, furrowing my eyebrows, trying to understand his confusion.

“When we start keeping journals, we have to keep them at headquarters. Under no circumstance are we allowed to take the journals home with us. If this were to end up in the wrong hands, it could reveal top secret information exposing our whole operation.”

I look back down at the journal; every page has been written on. More than one hundred entries, all kept hidden in his nightstand. What secrets had he kept within those pages? Why had he taken it home if it were deemed dangerous to take from the confines of headquarters? The tension in the room was becoming thick, both mine and Dean’s minds racing with theories as to why Colson brought this home, putting both Dean and Everett in possible danger.

Just then, the sound of the front door slamming echoes throughout the foyer.

“We should show this to Everett.” His voice is above a whisper, and I nod my head in agreement. We both make our way downstairs, heading towards the kitchen, where I hear the fridge open and close. Walking into the kitchen, I see Everett leaning his back against the counter, taking a long sip from his freshly opened beer. His face appears flustered as he brushes his hair back from his face.

Out of his peripherals, he sees Dean and I step through the arched doorway, Dean holding the journal close to his side. As I come into view from behind Dean, Everett’s eyes are on me. A small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, the stress he was holding visibly easing from between his eyebrows. Setting his beer on the island, he steps towards me, hooks his hands underneath my arms, and hoists me onto the island, where he nestles into me between my legs. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I hold him close to my breasts, his muscular frame melting into mine as the tension of a long day slowly evaporates off him.

“I need you tonight, baby girl. I need you so fucking bad.” His voice is muffled as he presses his face into my body, tightening his hold. There is something off about his voice. He’s holding something back, an emotion he doesn’t want to show. Although Everett is the master at controlling emotions, he always appears to be fighting an internal battle with allowing any of his feelings to show. As Dean said earlier, there is a switch within us, and we control when and if we turn it off. At this moment, Everett’s emotional switch is turned off, but it’s apparent he’s struggling with allowing it to turn back on. What is he hiding from?

“Listen, mate, we need to show you something,” Dean chimes in, causing Everett to rise from beneath the comfort of my arms. Straightening his posture, he turns around facing Dean, but still leans back between my legs and rests his arms on the top of my thighs. Draping my arms around his chest, I let Dean take the lead with this, since the two of them know the policies of the organization. Letting out a deep sigh, Dean lifts the journal and hands it to Everett.

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