Page 68 of Little Liar
My eyes narrow. What kind of question is that? Olivia is one of the only people who has ever been patient with me. Even when we were kids and I was insanely obsessed with everything about her. She learned sign language for me. She struggled so fucking much—half the time, she signed wrong, but since she would say the words, I could correct her hand movements.
Mason’s family hired someone to teach him so he could talk to me.
Dad learned easily, but I think he just did that so he could see what I was saying to my little sister. He never liked me near her. Then my mom made sure the entire house was trained so I felt included.
What the fuck went wrong? I had a family who actually cared for me—did they notice the way I was with Olivia and decide I wasn’t good enough for them? Did I scare them? Did they only tolerate me because of Olivia? When I was a teenager, I was spoken to on multiple occasions about the way I looked at her, that I was stepping out of line as a big brother.
They wanted me to rein it in. They didn’t toss me away like the other families—they kept me regardless of my issues.
If I hadn’t nearly killed my dad, would I still be considered their son?
Did I choose my obsession with my sister over a loving family? I made them the way they are. Dad hates me because of me. Mom hates me because of me. We’re broken because of me. Olivia is going to leave me because of me.
I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. Stupid thoughts that’ll never get an answer. Even if I go to my parents, they’ll tell me to fuck off. Olivia wants me to try with them, but I think she forgets how much they despise me and deludes herself into thinking we can all go back to normal.
Mom and Dad will never accept the fact their son is fucking their daughter.
No, not fucking. We’re together. Olivia Vize is my girlfriend.
A smile tugs at my lips, and I wipe my hand down my mouth to hide it when I notice Dr. Preston is watching me with curiosity. “How are you finding the medication?”
I raise my shoulder. Everything is new. I feel the exact same.
Lie. I feel an unexplainable heaviness on my chest and a bomb inside me, ready to blow. Our parents won’t accept us and Olivia will leave. I’ll lose my speech again and she’ll leave. I’ll fuck something up and she’ll leave.
I don’t know how to make her stay. Maybe I should put her back in the basement?
“You’re on quite a high dosage. Do you have any side effects?”
Olivia might realize she can do way better than me—I’m an ex-convict, jobless, can barely speak, not to mention the backlash from our parents. Has she told her friends about us? Is she embarrassed by me?
Fuck, my head hurts thinking about this constantly.
“Your therapist’s notes indicate that he’s referred you for further diagnosis, specifically for non-catatonic schizophrenic syndrome. How does this make you feel?”
My eye twitches. He’s my speech therapist. That’s all. Why the fuck is he trying to talk to me about this shit?
Maybe I can put him in the basement without all the sexual shit—I’ll make him shut up by shoving his own dick in his mouth and forcehimto try to talk.
My hands fist. “I can’t do that.”
Did I just answer myself aloud? Fuck. Maybe I really am losing it.
He hums. “Can you tell me what it’s like when you feel yourself slipping away?”
Like I could kill someone without even blinking—I have, and I’ll do it again without hesitation.
The world fucked me over. My parents fucked me over. If my mom didn’t turn to drugs and my dad didn’t kill himself, I might not be the way I am now. I’d be good enough for myself, and for Olivia.
The therapist spoke to me about my childhood. He asked me when I had my first appointment, “What did they take from you?”
Everything.
They took everything.
My heart is fucking racing, and sweat starts to coat my forehead.
Typing again, he clicks his tongue and takes my silence as an answer. “There’s another note here about referring you to group therapy sessions. I’ll write down some places. It might be good to be around others with similar struggles. Maybe find a friend.”
