Page 4 of Cruel Charming Psychos (Necessary Evils 2)

She raises her head, locking her bloodshot eyes with mine. “Then you should fully understand why I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“Is this about Addison?”

She groans. “I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you and I don’t care. I’ve washed my hands of that. It’s time I move on, and you should do the same.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,” I say amusedly under my breath, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t hear me.

“You make your own choices and I’ll make mine.” She climbs to her feet and steps to the door to wave me out. “Have a good life, Nick.”

I let out a stifled laugh, not because I’m amused but because this was a waste of my time. She’s cold and she has every right to be, but she’s taking her anger out on the wrong person. There’s no point in sticking around though. If I know anything about being a Callaway, it’s that we all share the same stubbornness. Whether or not she ever comes around, that’s a decision only she can make. Trying to force her hand will only push her further away.

“I really do miss you, Emily,” I say as I walk out the door, closing the door behind me.

* * *

Eighty degrees feels like thirty in this graveyard. Feels colder than the last time I visited this place in the damp tundra month of December the year the world came crashing down. It’s been years since I’ve been back to this place and I wager it’ll be years before I return again, if ever.

Carter’s grave is empty. There are no flowers, not anymore. I remember back in the beginning of it, when the grave was fresh. Back then, it was overcrowded with flowers from family and friends, and people that didn’t even know him. It was an outpouring of support for a life gone too soon. If those same people knew the truth, I wonder if they would regret the unconditional support.

For the constant show my parents put on about Carter, it’s a little odd that there aren’t any flowers. They make it seem like losing him completely shattered their world and they are hardly able to live a day without honoring him in some way, and yet they don’t show that they miss him by visiting his grave. Like so many other things, it’s all smoke and mirrors. They say one thing and mean something else entirely.

It's no wonder I’ve found myself distancing myself from them. It’s not the first time, either. I got so fucking far from this place to escape the things I had done and to escape them. I fully understand why Emily chooses to cut them out of her life. They are toxic, capable of draining the life from even the best of people.

I take a look around at the tapestry of endless graves and wonder about the people buried here. What secrets did they take to the grave with them? They can’t all be perfect people with perfect lives with people that love them unconditionally. Carter can’t be the only monster that’s buried in this monstrosity of memorials.

Lately, I’ve found myself wondering why Carter did what he did. Was he born evil or was he simply a casualty of our parents’ cruel hand? The old nature versus nurture debate. I don’t know which side I find myself on, but I do know that he always had a mean streak. It makes me think about the child growing inside of Addison. Terrifies me to think that there’s no way in hell he will ever stand a chance with parents like her and me.

We are both awful fucking people.

I know it’d be better to flush it down the toilet, abort it before it has a chance to take his first breath, before he has the chance to break others the way we break people too. But I am selfish and want to prove a point, not just to myself, but to the world.

The point? That we are not bound by the sins our of lineage.

ChapterThree

ADDISON

My mother once told me that sometimes things don’t get worse, they get better. She’s never been a sage or a prophet, though. The only words of wisdom she has ever doled out were regurgitated from cheap wall décor that she spotted on her way to the wine aisle. That was back when her preferred drink was wine. At least she was a fun drunk back then. There’s something about the whiskey she prefers now that just makes her meaner and more stupid.

The thing about alcoholics is that they will always be drunks. Sure, some of them get better and find the strength to abstain. My mother doesn’t have a bone of strength left in her body, though. This is her life now. I naively believed that almost dying in the house fire would be enough for her to turn over a new leaf, but that lasted less than twenty-four hours after being released from the hospital.

I tried fighting her at first, tried making sure she stayed sober, but quickly realized it was a pointless endeavor that’d only bring about more heartbreak. I’m tired of heartbreak. I’m tired of this organ in my body hurting, the same organ that’s supposed to make me feel the highs and lows of love.

Love. What a stupid fucking emotion.

As I put the car into park, tires crunching over gravel, I say a silent prayer that my mother won’t be home. I pray that she’ll be at the bar down the street, drinking herself to death. Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll find a drug addict to fall in love with. The two of them will flee to the courthouse, get married, and then she can be someone else’s problem.

I couldn’t get so lucky.

She sits on the edge of her bed with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of beer between her legs. Clouds of smoke threaten to choke me as soon as I step into the door. If only the air conditioner worked, this place wouldn’t turn into a fucking trap house every time she lit a cancer stick, which happens at least ten times an hour. I’m surprised she even has a voice anymore.

I close the door behind me, hoping that since I can’t get my wish of her marrying John the crackhead that she will at least choose silence.

Nope. Can’t get that lucky. She starts as she always does, waving her lit cigarette around in the air as if to make a grand gesture before she speaks. “I know what you’re doing out there.”

I roll my eyes as I drop my purse onto the top of the dresser. “What am I doing, Mother?”

She points squarely at me. “You’re out galloping around with that Callaway boy. Hasn’t that family caused you enough grief?”

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