Page 57 of Peep
“Fuck you, Anders,” he bites back.
I shake my head at him in disgust. Turning on my heels, I head for the door, but he chases after me, stumbling over the corner of the rug.
“You’re not going to tell anyone? I’m your brother for fuck’s sake. I love you.” He grabs my shoulder, trying to hinder my retreat.
Swinging around to face him, I push him back until he falls on his arse. Chris’ body trembles. He’s never looked more pathetic.
“Don’t you dare fucking touch me!”
“Are you going to tell anyone?”
I stare down at his battered face, feeling nothing but hate. It’s not my story to tell, it’s Jahmar’s. Chris doesn’t need to know that, though.
“If I ever find out you’ve preyed on anyone else, I won’t hesitate to go straight to the police and tell them what you’ve done.”
He looks up at me, bloody and broken, just like he deserves. I know for sure in this moment, we’re done. I no longer have a brother. They say blood is thicker than water, but what if the blood is laced with poison?
“Stay the fuck away from me, don’t call, don’t message. You’re dead to me, Chris.”
Chapter 25
Jahmar
Salt-rich air prickles my cheeks as I perch on the doorstep of my family’s holiday home in Robin Hood’s Bay.
It’s a quaint cottage with a bright yellow door and all the charm you’d expect from a seaside cottage: large bay windows, a crackling log burner, and thick woolen throws draped across every cushioned surface. It’s my happy place—well, it used to be.
I’ve been breaking my own heart for fifteen days, ten hours and approximately forty-five minutes, but who’s counting?
I could stop this suffering; all I’d need to do is reach out. Anders has been insistently calling and messaging, but the utter disgust and shame I feel about the sinister turn our last encounter took is almost paralysing. And his messages are a mind fuck. They’re a mix of ‘please come back, I miss you’ or ‘I’m going to fucking kill you, arsehole’—he always knew how to keep me on my toes.
Even if he were willing to forgive me, the way he defended his brother told me where his loyalties lie. How could I ever be with someone knowing they’re related to the man who raped me? The very thought makes my skin crawl. Why would he even want to be with me again, knowing that’s where his brother has been in such a brutal way.
I’d convinced myself I’d feel better after I sought revenge on Chris, yet I’m still hollow inside. The closest I got to feeling normal again was with Anders and look how we fucked that up.
I’m still incredibly angry at him but ashamed of my own actions. It’s a toxic cocktail of anger, disgust, shame and sorrow—I’ve been drinking it down since the day I left him, and I’m slowly being poisoned. It’s only a matter of time before my heart stops beating.
A shiver runs through me. It’s late October now, so the beach is deserted. The cottage looks out over the bay on top of a cliff. Dark clouds swarm overhead, signaling a predestined storm. The waves beat against the rocks and shoreline, creating a somber tune. It’s all very depressing and dramatic, which is fitting, I guess.
I step back inside, slamming the door and flicking the latch.
Sitting in front of the log burner, I toss another piece of wood onto the pile and watch the flames dance through the thick glass. The embers pulse like they have a heartbeat of their own; they’re mesmerising. I get lost in melancholy thoughts of what I’ve done and what could’ve been.
The only sound filling the small space is the crackle of the fire and an ugly, ancient wooden clock my mum refuses to get rid of. Once my brain latches on to the tick tock, it feels like someone’s hammering a nail into my skull, despite that I make no move to stop it.
I’m not sure how much time passes. My face starts to sting from the heat emanating from the fire. I snag a half-empty bottle of wine off the coffee table, scanning my immediate surroundings for a wine glass. It’s a whole four meters away on the kitchen counter.
“Ugh, fuck it,” I mumble to myself before unscrewing the lid and downing a considerable amount of red wine.
I’m pathetic.
My stomach screams at me for not keeping it well-fed. You’d think I’d be better at keeping myself healthy and alive, considering I’m a doctor, but all bets are off. I wonder how long it would take for me to wither away if I only ate cheese and crackers, and drank wine.
I finish off the bottle and continue the important task of staring at the fire. Slipping into a fuzzy state of drunkenness. Sweet moments between Anders and I drift in and out of my consciousness.
My phone rings, I know it’s not him because I changed his ringtone to some horrendous screamo song, so I wouldn’t accidentally answer it. The song pretty much reflects my internal anguish.
I could block him. Why haven’t I done that already? It’s like I want us both to suffer.
