Page 65 of Cold Hard Truth

I can’t stop.

A tear slips free, and I hate it.

Sage takes the beer from my hand and sets it on the table.

Another tear falls, and I don’t know what he’s seeing when he looks at me. But he once thought I was beautiful, and now I’m a mess. Broken, ruined, scarred. I fucked us up, and he hates me for it.

I hate myself.

Losing Ellie. Losing him. Nothing has made sense since.

For a moment, I think he’s pulling away. But his hand slips behind my back and he pulls me to him. He lifts me onto his lap, and I bury my face in his chest. I breathe in his familiar leather scent and lose myself in his comfort.

I soak his shirt with my tears and hold on so tight the bones in my fingers hurt.

And I appreciate that he doesn’t ask any more questions. He’s quiet while I empty my soul over him. Sage laid my sister to rest for me.

Right now, I wish he could bring me that same sense of peace.

21

Sage

Some people compare rageto a spectrum of colors.

Seeing red.

Everything going black.

For me, it’s none of those things. It’s clarity.

It’s purpose.

After I decided not to patch in, I set a part of myself aside. I buried my past and pretended I could reincarnate myself. I made everything so blurry I wouldn’t have to look at it straight.

Drugs, booze, the revolving door of women. I drowned myself in things I didn’t give a shit about so I wouldn’t have to remember why I was doing it.

I was surviving, even if I was always just beneath the surface staring up at the sky through the murky lens of the water.

But as only Lyla can, she reached in and pulled me from the ocean. She cleared my vision and reminded me what I’ve been running from.

Seeing Ellie’s body didn’t mean I processed why Lyla walked out the door. I was selfish, and all I could think about was the fact that she didn’t trust me enough to let me protect her. I wanted to think Ellie was the only one affected in any tangible way.

Because I’m a fucking idiot.

I didn’t want to think about the fact that Lyla watched her sister die—watched her get tortured. That she probably wasn’t the only one. And it didn’t matter if I could protect her from future physical pain, I hadn’t saved her from that moment.

I couldn’t erase it from her mind.

I’ve been lying to myself because it’s easier that way. But those two jagged scars down Lyla’s back where theyremoved her wingswoke me the fuck up.

It turns out my rage wasn’t gone; I’d just buried it under enough dirt so I wouldn’t have to look at it. And now I’m seeing clearly.

I strike the punching bag with enough force that it splits my knuckle open. I should have wrapped my hands, but I need to feel anything right now that isn’t whatever is clawing around inside me.

Last night, Lyla cried herself to sleep in my arms on the couch.

She isn’t someone who cried often as a kid because she preferred pretending shit didn’t impact her. But something happened as she sat in front of me last night.She split down the middle. Those violet eyes of hers became puddles, and they leaked with everything she’s been holding back since the last time I saw her.

---