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But it’s an unknown number instead.
Blocking my number isn’t wise, darling. Maybe this will make you finally listen to my proposition. Maxwell.
And the photos attached to that message change everything.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“You should be careful who you trust with your secrets.
Because no matter how much they love you, they are still human.
And as such, they will use them against you when you least expect it.”
Florian
Florian, five years old
The beeping sounds echo through the hospital room, the familiar scents twitching my nose as I stare at the huge window brightening up the space around me where the sun beams brightly and birds sit on the trees, chirping.
How interesting.
The outside world goes on while mine completely crumbles.
Dad’s voice booms in the air, snapping me out of my thoughts, but I don’t turn around to look at him. “What do you mean you don’t know why he’s not talking?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Price. We ran all the tests, and even though the wounds were severe…” The doctor’s voice shakes, and I can imagine her taking a moment to compose herself. She does that a lot whenever her gaze lands on my body wrapped in bandages and attached to various IV drips.
Concussion.
Broken right hand and fingers near the joints so they had to perform an extra surgery to put everything in order.
Broken ribs on both sides so I’m not allowed to move in the foreseeable future.
Broken left leg along with endless scars and open wounds on my body.
Not to mention other ripped flesh that they had to deal with, which made even the male doctors cry their eyes out when they thought I wasn’t looking.
The doctor clears her throat. “His vocal cords were damaged, and we did the necessary surgery to fix it. At this point, his lack of talking is psychological, not physiological. The therapist you invited here is amazing, but Florian refuses even to acknowledge her. He needs time, Mr. Price.”
“That’s all I’ve been hearing for the past month and a half. I lost a child. I cannot lose another.” I scrunch my eyes, fisting the blanket hard and breathing through my nose because they killed my twin.
They sent him home in a wooden box, all chopped up. Even detectives couldn’t handle the case without barfing.
They dumped me on some streets for the cops and ambulance to find when they showed up shortly after. My father waited for me at the hospital, and I can never forget his bloodshot eyes with complete sorrow etched on his features while Mother cried in the corner, screaming that God took away her child and left her with the one she never wanted.
My heart hurt from her words because they proved that Frederick was right. But also I was so angry with him for dying.
He got away so easily while I suffered for days in that basement, and I get to live?
Why is life so unfair?
I would have preferred to die than constantly see flashbacks play in my mind and hear voices inside my head that twist my stomach and awaken the deep urge to grab a knife and cut my throat.
That’s why I refuse to talk or look at my dad. I love him so much, and I hate myself for wanting to die as well and leaving him all alone.
Dad and Grandpa practically have been living with me in the hospital all this time. They paid huge amounts of money for our stay and monitored my health the whole time.
Grandpa would come in the morning and read the paper to me or show me his latest designs, drawing a lot and reminding me that once I’m all healed I can go back to my favorite activity.
