Page 91 of A Stop in Time
As if my skin has singed his, he drops my arm and backs away. Surprise flickers to wariness before finally settling on hardened suspicion. “Explain.”
Shit. Only now do I realize how my words could be interpreted. That I’m a murderer who killed his sister.
Frantically, I rush on. “I’ve had these gaps in my memory for a while now, and I read about how self-guided hypnotic meditation could maybe reveal buried traumatic memories.”
I unlace my boots for something to do with my hands in lieu of outright fidgeting and set them aside.
“Well, it turns out I was in an abusive relationship. And the things he’d do to me—” My voice cracks and I hurriedly clear my throat, wrapping my arms around my middle protectively.
“He’d hurt me over and over again and enjoy it.” I suck in a breath, forcing aside my apprehension at revealing the truth. “And I’m pretty certain I…” I trail off, swallowing past the thick lump of trepidation in my throat. “I eventually killed him.”
Daniel’s jaw turns to granite, his features stamped with a grim ruthlessness. “You killed him.” He repeats this with a lethal calmness.
I release a slow breath before nodding and stare down at my hands as if they’re foreign to me. “Yeah. I keep uncovering memories where he’s threatening me and hurting me so badly.
“And then I remember washing off so much blood, but being almost…happy that I’d killed him. Like it was a monumental achievement.” I lift my gaze to his. “And I guess, after all the horrors he put me through, it was.”
He tips his head to the side, spearing me with an assessing gaze. “Where’d you leave his body?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “I don’t remember.” Pressing my fingers to my temples, I pinch my eyes closed. “It’s still disjointed when I try to sift through everything. It was only today that I actually saw his face in a flashback.”
“How’d you kill him?”
His words are encased with steel, possessing an edginess I don’t quite understand.
“I don’t know.” I stare down at my palms. “I just remember washing off so much of his blood.”
A shiver rolls through me and I shudder, my voice diluting to a barely audible whisper. “I’m not that kind of person. But now, finding out that I am, is just…” I trail off, shaking my head.
My words emerge with a slight hysterical edge to them. “I don’t even know what to think anymore.”
“You just remind yourself that you’re a survivor.”
His quick response has my eyes snapping up to him. Green eyes blaze, spearing me with intensity while a muscle in his jaw works. “I killed my abuser when I was eleven years old.”
Shock reverberates through me, but it’s quickly overshadowed by abject horror that eleven-year-old Daniel Madrano had endured abuse so badly, he’d had to resort to taking someone’s life.
My jaw slackens, but no words emerge. Daniel’s eyes go blank, his expression impassive. “He was my father but sure as fuck never acted like it. He starved and beat me, until one day, I finally had enough.”
A mercurial flicker in his eyes is the only indication of emotion as he relays this in monotone. “I killed him with a meat cleaver and buried his body in the woods.”
“Daniel…” That’s all I can manage to eke out. The center of my chest aches for the little boy who’d suffered so badly.
He watches me carefully, gauging my reaction. “I know what it’s like to take a life, Mac. You’ll never erase those kinds of memories. But the relief and sense of accomplishment when it’s over? Nobody can understand it except somebody who’s been in that same position.”
There’s a raw quality to Daniel’s voice, shrouded with anguish, that unravels me. Because he’s right. Relief and accomplishment are visceral every single time I relive the moment where I’m washing the man’s blood from my hands.
My eyes travel over the sharp edges of his cheekbones sitting above the dark scruff lining his jaw. A unique sensation envelops me, giving way to a strange sense of peace and kinship. Because he gets it.
He’s not running away to have me committed to a mental institute. He’s not rushing to the cops to have me arrested for murder. He’s not attempting to placate me in any way, either.
He’s experienced what it’s like to have made the ultimate decision to eliminate another human’s life. We both chose ourselves—we each decided that we were worth more than to be a punching bag for a piece-of-shit excuse for a human.
He simply understands. And, sure, I’m not going to become an expert on the ins and outs of gangs, but it makes more sense now that he would gravitate to joining one after that kind of childhood. I’m sure having others who always have your back is comforting. It provides a sense of security.
A stinging pang of envy radiates through my chest, because while I don’t see myself ever joining a gang, I’m kind of jealous of him. He’ll always have someone—multiple someones—in his corner.
But me? Never. It’s not in the cards. It’s too dangerous. If I were normal, then…maybe. But that’s a moot point since I’m sure as hell the furthest thing from normal.