Page 78 of Lust

“A little kiss before you go?” he asks.

I don’t give him a little one.

But despite his enthusiastic response, this isn’t like before we started this session. He stays tense, on edge.

I accept that my kiss isn’t enough to make that better, and when I pull away, he wears a solemn expression. “Go on. I’ll be okay,” he assures me, which only makes me feel like this is gonna be so much worse than I can imagine.

I grab my things and head upstairs, taking one of the desk chairs with me and setting it up on the other side of the door. I keep the room illuminated with my phone light, mentally prepping myself for whatever we’re about to experience.

It’s quiet for some time, giving me hope that maybe it won’t be as bad as Luke thought. But then I hear grunts, groans, and cursing before a wave of pain hits me, followed by an anguishedcry from the cellar. It shakes me to my core, and I clench my fists, starting to my feet.

As Luke screams again, there’s another jolt of pain. I grab the doorknob but stop myself. There’s an impulse in me to just say fuck what we agreed upon and get down there and end his pain, but then I remember what he said: I need to keep it together. He’ll do this on his own.

Over my dead body.

“Fuck,” he calls out, followed by another cry.

I clutch the doorknob and press up against the door, gritting my teeth, knowing instinctively that the worst is yet to come.

21

LUKE

Istand inthe atrium of the church, silent.

It’s not real. He’s not gone.

It’s a lie, I keep telling myself, as Mom thanks the attendees.

Wake up, Luke. Wake up, and you’ll find out none of this is real. Only a nightmare.

But the more people who talk to me, who say things like, “I’m so sorry for your loss, my poor boy,” the angrier I get that my eyes aren’t opening, pulling me from this horrible place.

When Brad touched me while I was enduring that horrible memory, a flash of awareness moved through me, and I knew what I had to do.

It’s not something I wanted to do. I wouldn’t think anyone would want to force themselves back through the worst memories of their lives. But I know like I know who I am that this is the only chance I have of having the Moment. It’s the only chance of saving people from the Slasher.

I’ve already been through the pain of being at the hospital with Mom, but my torment isn’t over. Not yet.

It’s after the service. We’re in the cemetery, watching as the coffin is lowered into the hole in the earth.

It’s not him, I assure myself, though I know better.

He wouldn’t leave me like this.

I turn to Mom, who puts a handkerchief to her face, unable to stifle her sobs.

Why does she keep crying when it isn’t even him?

“No!” I call out as I experience the pain I wouldn’t let myself feel the depths of that horrible day. It’s like nails driving into my chest, tearing me apart. I won’t survive this, I’m sure of it.

I should stop, but now that I’m in these memories, it’d take more effort to leave than to stay with them.

A flash between weeks, then months after the funeral, to a day when I’m sitting at the kitchen table in the afternoon.

He’s gonna come home. He has to. But why doesn’t he?

In my dreams he’s there, and he’s real, but then I wake and he’s not. Why?

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