Page 88 of Colton
My vision blurs as memories flood back—bruised faces, broken cries, and the haunting echo of Sophia Watts’ name. Xavier’s obsession with her, with controlling her, with using her, it was so sickening. I felt it in my bones, the sickness of it all, the depravity.
My hands flex, and I find myself tracing the faint scars on my palm, remnants of self-inflicted wounds. The pain was a way to ground myself, to remind myself that I was still human amid the inhumanity I witnessed.
“I see. But now?” Dr. Hartley prods gently. “How are you coping now that he’s gone?”
“He’s gone, but he’s not,” I respond, a bitter laugh escaping me. “His voice is in my head, telling me to be ruthless, to control, to dominate. It’s a fucking battle every day.”
I look down, avoiding her gaze. My hands are shaking slightly, so I clench them into fists, hiding the tremor. The voices in my head grow louder, some urging me to let the darkness take over, to embrace the legacy, while others scream for freedom, for a chance to be something different. I can’t tell her about the fucking voices yet. She’d probably have me sectioned or something.
No thanks.
“You said his death set you free,” she continues, her voice steady despite my escalating emotions. “What does that freedom look like for you?”
“It looks like this,” I say, gesturing around the sterile room, the neutral space that should be soothing but feels more like a trap. “It looks like trying to figure out who I am without him.”
My mind flashes to Luella—to her fearless gaze, to the way she stood up to me, the way she resisted. She was a mirror to my own twisted reflection, showing me there was still a chance, still a way out.
She’s the real reason I’m here.
The longing for her is an ache, a throbbing pain that won’t let up. She’s not just a memory; she’s an echo, a constant presence in my thoughts. She left me because she had to, because I couldn’t be the man she deserved.
“Luella?” Dr. Hartley asks, catching me off guard. I must have mentioned her name without realizing it.
It doesn’t matter. Her name didn’t make the news, and why would it? She’s just another victim that the world knows nothing about. I hate calling her a victim because she’s not; she’s strong and fierce.
“Luella is...complicated,” I reply, my voice raw with emotion. “She’s everything I never knew I wanted and everything I can never have. She saw the darkness in me, and she wasn’t afraid. She saw the monster and chose to stay.”
Until she didn’t.
A silence hangs between us, thick with unspoken words and buried emotions. Dr. Hartley watches me intently, waiting for me to go on.
“But she left me,” I admit, the words tasting like defeat. “Because she had to. Because she deserves better than what I can offer.”
The therapist nods, her eyes reflecting a sadness that mirrors my own. “Sometimes, Ray, the hardest part of moving forward is accepting the pain of the past. It’s not about becoming someone else; it’s about accepting who you are, scars and all.”
Her words hang in the air, a harsh truth I can’t ignore. The battle within me rages on, the voices a constant reminder of the dark path I’ve walked. But in the quiet moments, in the fleeting seconds of peace, I see Luella’s face, and I know there’s still a chance, a way out of the darkness.
But for now, I’m here, in this sterile room, trying to find a way to accept the monster within. Trying to find a way to move forward, one step at a time.
“Tell me about your family home, Ray,” Dr. Hartley prompts, her voice cutting through the haunting memories.
A bitter smile tugs at my lips. “It’s not a home,” I state. “It’s a mausoleum. A prison I can’t escape.”
My mind flickers back to the estate. It’s a monument to everything I hate, its walls steeped in secrets I’d rather forget. The cold stone has witnessed the generations of Blackwood’s who have called it home—and the horrors they’ve inflicted within its walls.
I despise the place, yet I’m tethered to it. It’s a constant reminder of who I’m supposed to be, who I’m terrified of becoming. The estate is a physical manifestation of the power and control that defines the Blackwood name—and the expectations that come with it.
She nods, urging me to continue. I take a deep breath, steeling myself against the onslaught of images that flood my mind.
“After my father died, I knew I had to leave,” I explain. “I couldn’t just step into his shoes, take his place. I refused to become a puppet in his fucked-up empire.”
I recall the steps I took to cover my tracks. Using my wealth and influence, I erased my digital footprint, destroying records and severing ties. I set up trusts to temporarily handle my assets, ensuring that the Blackwood name wouldn’t crumble in my absence but also that it wouldn’t be traced back to me. I planted stories in the media, hinting at a breakdown, a grieving son retreating from the public eye.
“I needed a clean slate,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “But I still can’t escape it. My mind won’t let me.”
I’m proud of what I did to escape, though. How I slipped away unnoticed. The subtle hints I left, the rumors, all designed to paint a picture of a man on the edge, consumed by grief and madness. It was an incredible play, one that allowed me to fade away into the shadows, unseen and unnoticed.
But the estate remains, a hulking, silent witness to my past. It haunts me, a reminder of who I’m supposed to be, who I fear I might still become. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, a cold reminder of the darkness that lurks within me, the monster that threatens to consume me.
