Page 6 of The Awakening

“Arno told me something the other day.” I pinch my brows together, the sound of his name on her lips sparking a feeling inside me I’m unfamiliar with. The two of them have grown close over the past six months. Not only training together but also the rescue attempts they both carried out to get Dean, Colson, and myself out of Ireland. He was there for her when we couldn’t be. I was thankful for him, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of their new friendship. All I have to say is, that’s all it better be—a friendship and nothing more. The devil help him if he ever tried to do anything more.

“He told me birthdays are simply a celebration of an event that occurred, a date that someone deems special. He said you could make any date an event to be celebrated, such as birth, a wedding, or death. I didn’t understand at the time when he said celebrating someone’s death. Why would anyone want to celebrate a death?” Dean and I stare at one another, confused at what she’s trying to tell us. But then she continues, “I understand now what he was saying. I’m going to celebrate every year on the day I kill Cara. For Colson.”

I turn and look at her. She’s unflinching as she remains with her head down. The tension returns to her shoulders, and she speaks again. “I’m going to celebrate her death every fucking year as if it were Christmas or New Year’s. I’m going to celebrate the day I eliminate her from this earth for taking Colson from us.” She then stands from the bench and leaves the two of us in the sauna. Anger radiates from her perfect body as she walks between us, slamming the door behind her.

“She’s holding too much anger, mate. She’s going to get herself hurt if she doesn’t learn to control that better.” Dean is right; she needs to filter her anger more efficiently. Anger is one of the more dangerous emotions.

“She’ll learn soon enough, mate,” I retort, standing and exiting the sauna, Dean following close behind.

October 28th, 2021

Killing my last target had me thinking twice about my humanity. Usually, we are given a target along with a place and time to carry out the job. This particular job had me eliminating the target at a fucking family dinner! His three daughters had to witness his brains being splattered all over their spaghetti dinner. Fuck, seriously? I felt nothing as I pulled the trigger until I saw the expression on the youngest daughter’s face. Another image that will forever be burned in the back of my mind. Oh well, she’s better off without that slimy bastard, if I’m being completely honest.

Everett’s taken Colson’s journal, informing us that he would read through the contents to see if there are any clues as to why he brought the journal home with him. After I leave the sauna, I head upstairs to take a shower, my anger reaching a new level after learning that Colson and I share the same birth date. Cara stole him from me, stole a future, and I intend to end her life in the most brutal of ways.

Standing underneath the spray of the water, I let my hair fall over my face. Trying to calm myself down. I begin taking long, deep breaths and counting to ten—a trick Arno started making me do when he saw I couldn’t control my anger very well. I’ve never felt anger like this before. It’s new to me, and fuck, is it hard to manage. I feel it in my blood, a raging fire that spreads so rapidly I can’t distinguish it. Everett assured me his training will open my eyes to emotional control, and to be honest, I’m ready for it. I need to get a better hold on myself, I fear some days the anger will never leave, and I will forever be burning from the inside out.

After about eight deep breaths, I can feel my muscles relaxing and my jaw unclenching. Lifting my head to the water I let it rain down on my face, hoping it will wash away everything—every emotion, every feeling, all the bitter thoughts swirling in my head. I want to be numb; I don’t want to feel anything at all for the rest of the night. I want to feel like me. Whatever “me” feels like. Who was I before all this happened to me?

I slap my hands against the tile wall, making a loud splat that echoes against the walls.

“Fuck!” I whisper-yell, the hold on my emotions quickly slipping as more intrusive thoughts rapidly form in my head.

“Think of your happiest memory.” Everett’s voice startles me, and I jump back, looking at him through the shower’s glass door. “Hold on to the memory when your emotions start consuming you. Hold on to it and allow your mind to fill with only that one thought. This will redirect your mind away from the emotional chaos you’re feeling and focus solely on that one memory.” He opens the glass door, steam billowing out around him as he leans his forearm against the glass.

“Think of a memory, Sloan. Go on, tell me when you have it.” I do as he says, closing my eyes and trying to think of a moment when I’m truly happy and nothing else matters. Thoughts of my father immediately fill my head, his firm hand, his cigars, and his constant yelling. I then turn my mind to my mother, the blank stare always occupying her beautiful blue eyes, her body always slouched over from being entirely drugged out.

“Sloan, stop. Look at me.” His voice is firm, and when I open my eyes he’s right there, standing right in front of me. He’s fully clothed and quickly becoming soaked from the spray of the water. Placing his palm against my cheek he says again, “The happiest memory you have, even if it’s merely a dream or a vision you imagined in your head. Don’t allow anyone else in your head, this is your space.” I try again, closing my eyes and focusing on anything that brings me even the slightest bit of joy in my life. When I think it’s no use, I see him. Colson. Sitting at the edge of the pool with his legs dangling in the water. He’s smiling, his long blond hair tousled as it blows in the wind around him. His golden skin gleaming as the sun shines down on him, the hazel and gold flecks of color reflecting the sun’s rays. There he is, sitting there staring at me, and nothing else matters.

“Now, love, hold on to that memory. Whenever your anger begins to overflow, or your rage, sadness, confusion, or any other feeling becomes uncontrollable, think of that and only that.” I stay like this for a long moment, the warm water spraying down on me, my eyes closed, and Colson appears behind my eyelids. Calming my storm from within.

When I open my eyes, Everett is still there, but so is Dean. Leaning against the vanity, they both watch as I finally feel relaxed in my skin. Letting out a long sigh, I look at Everett.

“Thank you.” He truly is the master of emotional control. I haven’t felt this calm in a long while. For so long, I’ve felt as though I’ve been living in a straitjacket of emotions that’ve slowly begun to cripple me and my sanity. I push my wet hair back from my face and turn off the shower. Everett hands me my towel and I take it, wrapping it tight around my body. Stepping out of the shower, I pull all my hair to the side squeezing it to remove the excess water.

“Is that how your emotional training will go?” I ask Everett, as I continue to get the water out of my hair. I don’t miss the look he gives Dean before he answers me.

“Nothing I do here will prepare you for that. Whatever memory you chose, I hope it’s a strong one, baby girl.”

The next day, the three of us drive to headquarters without a single word spoken between us. The radio plays “This is War” by Thirty Seconds to Mars as we pull into the parking lot. If I wasn’t nervous before, I sure as shit am now. I am good at physical training, the beatings, bruises, and muscle aches, but there is something daunting about rummaging through someone’s mental trauma.

Everett pulls into his usual parking spot and turns off the G-Class before letting out a sigh and turning to face me. I remain still, his hot gaze on the side of my face burning a hole straight into my brain.

“Listen, everything that happens today and the coming week, I need you to know this is all training. Nothing is real—your mind is going to trick you—but you need to do as I said and focus on the one memory. Hold on to it and don’t let it go. No matter how long each scenario plays out.” Everett’s voice is full of pain, and it sounds like he’s just as nervous as I am, maybe even more so. I nod slowly, remembering my memory of Colson and replaying it over and over in my mind.

“How long is today going to be?” I ask, not entirely sure why because every other training day was just that, a full day. I’m not sure why I expect anything different. It isn’t until I turn my head to Everett that I notice he’s looking at Dean in the rearview mirror, concern etched across his face.

I’m about to turn around to Dean, a sharp prick crashes into the side of my shoulder, causing me to scream out. As I grab the place on my shoulder, a burning sensation begins creeping down my arm and up my neck. Opening my mouth, I realize I can’t speak, I can’t move—I’m paralyzed in the passenger seat. My vision quickly fades to black, the familiar ring of darkness consuming my eyes. The last thing I remember is someone saying, “We love you, baby girl. Remember to hold on.” My eyes close, and the sensation of being weightless and utterly alone has me slipping into the darkness.

September 2, 2021

I don’t feel like this journal shit is doing anything for me. I don’t see how my writing in this thing will somehow magically fix all the broken pieces of my insides. We’re all broken and will forever be broken—that’s the nature of the business. Plus, I think if we allow ourselves to be soft and one with our emotions all the time, it will ultimately get us killed. I get not wanting to become a zombie to our work, but fuck, when you kill people for a living, what the hell do you expect? You can’t get connected to people, you can’t put yourself in their shoes, or fall in love for that matter. This puts them at risk, as well as myself. So, yeah, I guess I am a fucking zombie. It’s not the life I chose willingly. I was created, so was every one of us. We were thrown into this life, and now we’re expected to still have a conscience. Not happening, mate.

My head feels like a sledgehammer has been thumping against my skull, the sharp ache making it hard to open my eyes. Forcing myself to peel my eyelids open, I have to blink several times before my hazy vision starts too slowly clear. When I finally manage to regain my eyesight, my breath hitches in my throat, and I can’t believe where I am.

Sitting straight up from the dirty carpet, the scent of cigarette smoke and alcohol invades my nose, causing me to choke. Coughing as I try to stand on shaking legs, I spin around, gaping at the sight before me. I’m in my room in my parent’s house. How the fuck did I get here? Was I sent back to the States? My chest tightens, and I feel as though I can’t catch my breath. I can feel my throat constricting, and I begin hyperventilating, panic grabbing my insides and squeezing the life out of me.

My bed, my dresser, the yellowish walls from smoke, my cracked window, and the fire escape stairs leading to the roof where I used to hide from this place. Everything is exactly how I left it the day I ran away on my eighteenth birthday. This can’t be happening; this can’t be real. How? Why?

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