Page 61 of The Devil's Saint

She turns on her side, eyes closed. Her face is damp with tears. Gently, I wipe them away with my thumb.

“You ruined everything,” she moans, already half asleep.

“I know, Angel. I wish I could take it all back.”

“Too late. You didn’t fight for us. You…” She yawns sleepily.

“You didn’t.” She rolls away from me onto her side. “You killed us. You killed the three of us.”

The three of us? Does she blame me for my grandfather’s death?

I run my hand down her soft cheek. “I know how much I’ve let you down. How much that must have hurt you, and I promise it will never happen again. Ever.”

“Baby,” she painfully groans. “It’s all your fault. I lost.”

“Ssshh,” I soothe her tears, stroking my thumb across her face. “You need to rest.”

It doesn’t take long before the room echoes with her gentle snores as I sit beside her, watching her sleep for the longest time, wracking my brain as to how I will fix this. Fix us.

By the time the sun has come up, there’s only one thing I can think of. One thing that they say heals all.

Time.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Mrs.Watsonsitsonmy bed, scowling at me. I swallow hard, my mouth as dry as the sand I slept on and a pounding headache from hell to go with it.

“What time is it?” I ask, yawning.

“What were you thinking, Lexy? You know you can’t drink alcohol when you are taking antibiotics. Didn’t the doctor tell you how dangerous it is?” she scolds.

I honestly forgot. All I cared about was drowning out the visions of people lying on the ground dead. Every time I close my eyes at night, it’s all I can see.

When I say nothing, Mrs. Watson hands me a glass of water and two Advil.

“Saint thought you might need these.”

Sitting up, I give her a warm smile and take them from her hands. The cool, fresh water feels refreshing on my dry throat.

“Better?” she asks.

Nodding, I reach for my phone to check the time for myself. There are several missed texts from Jordin and Colton, which is strange because why would Colton, of all people, be texting me? How did he even get my number? My stomach swims with nerves, and I think I’m going to be sick, but I hold it down.

“Does my mom know about what I did?”

Mrs. Watson pins me with a severe look. “No. Saint thought it would be best not to say anything. He didn’t want you to get into trouble.”

“Thank you.”

Sitting beside me, she takes the empty glass from my hands.

“I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through. Trauma is different for everyone who experiences it.”

She sets the glass on the table, looking into the distance as if remembering something.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see it happen all over again. I can hear the screams.” I admit.

“I’m so sorry you had to see that, sweetheart. But drinking the memories and pain of it away is not the answer. Trust me, I know from experience that it only makes things worse in the long run. Because at the end of every bottle, the same problems are there.”

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