Page 83 of Push My Buttons
I gradually become aware of the pattern I've fallen into—rocking, crying, pulling at my hair. The logical part of my brain recognizes this as a meltdown, something I haven't experienced with this intensity since college. My breathing is erratic, my senses overwhelmed, my ability to process information completely compromised.
Three quick taps, two slow, three quick. I force my fingers to maintain the rhythm against my skin, focusing on the pressure, the cadence. It's familiar. Predictable. Safe.
Breathe in for four counts. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
Dr. Levine taught me this breathing technique during our sessions. It's one of the few coping mechanisms that consistently works when I'm overwhelmed. I force myself to follow it now, even as my body wants to hyperventilate.
I need my control back. I need to be there for Wren when she wakes, even if she hates me now.
Chapter 31
Wren
I'mfloatingsomewherebetweenconsciousness and darkness. Voices drift in and out—unfamiliar, clinical. Something beeps rhythmically nearby. My head throbs with a dull, persistent ache. I try to open my eyes, but my lids are too heavy, weighted with sedation.
Sleep pulls me under again, but this time it's different. I'm not just sleeping; I'm sinking into memory. Not the fragmented flashes I've experienced before, but something complete. Something whole.
I know I'm dreaming, yet it feels more real than any nightmare I've had before. The colors are too vivid, the sounds too clear. It's like I'm watching myself from just behind my own eyes, powerless to change what happens but fully present to experience it.
I'm pushing through a crowd of reporters outside my family's home. Their questions hit me like physical blows.
"Is it true your brother is the Reaper?"
"When did you last see Lucien Cain?"
"Did you know what your brother was doing?"
Their microphones thrust toward my face, cameras flashing. I duck my head, shoving past them to reach the front door. My hands shake as I fumble with the key, relief washing over me when I finally stumble inside and slam the door behind me.
The sudden silence is jarring after the chaos outside. Our house feels different—too quiet, too still. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Everything looks exactly as it always has—the expensive furniture, the tasteful artwork, the family photos arranged just so—yet something feels fundamentally wrong.
"Mom? Dad?" I call out, my voice echoing through the empty foyer. My actual voice—strong, clear, unbroken. The sound of it sends a strange jolt through me, a reminder of what I've lost.
I drop my bag and keys on the marble-topped table by the door. The clatter seems too loud in the silence. I shrug off my jacket, draping it over the banister of the sweeping staircase.
"Hello? Anyone home?"
Nothing. Just the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall, marking seconds that feel strangely elongated.
I move deeper into the house, away from the windows where I can still see reporters lingering on the lawn. My footsteps echo on the hardwood floors as I head toward the back living room.
In my dream-state, I want to scream at myself to turn around, to run. I know what's coming, can feel the dread building with each step I take, but I'm powerless to change the course of this memory.
When I reach the living room doorway, I freeze. Levi is sitting on our couch, his posture tense, his eyes fixed on something I can't see. My brother's best friend. The boy who practically grew up in our house, who I've known since I was twelve.
"Levi?" I say, confusion evident in my voice. "What are you doing here? Have you seen Lucien? The police are looking for him."
He looks up, and something in his expression makes my skin crawl. His eyes are too bright, his smile too wide. His usually neat hair is disheveled, like he's been running his hands through it repeatedly.
"Lilliana," he says, rising from the couch, he reaches up and pushes his hair out of his eyes in a familiar gesture. "I was waiting for you."
I step into the room, maintaining distance between us. Something feels wrong. Dangerous. "Where is everyone? Where's Lucien?"
"Gone," Levi says, his smile never faltering. "Lucien ran. Of course he ran. He had to."
"What are you talking about?" I ask, my confusion growing. "Why would he run?"
Levi begins to pace, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. "Because they know now. I made sure they know. About what he is. What he's done."
