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Twenty-Eight

Allegra

Rain falls outside, making uneven lines on the glass in the windows.

I’ve been in the library at home for the last few hours trying to sketch.

I have a new sketch pad, new pencils splashed across the table, along with a list of intriguing ideas but not even art can help me today.

I’m still reeling from my father’s cruel words and the horrid, hellish memories from my nightmare. I haven’t had one like that in nearly two years.

After the other night, I’m hardly surprised it happened.

My father told me he wished I’d died instead of my sister. That’s the kind of hurt that leaves a mark for good.

I just hope I don’t get any more nightmares. I didn’t have one last night, so here’s hoping. My sleep was restless but at least I didn’t dream.

Each time I stirred, Lev was there to soothe me back to sleep. That was probably how I got through it.

Lev surprised me. Really surprised me.

I’m not sure I should admit that hearing his heartbeat and being wrapped in his scent steadied me.

My mind chose to seek refuge in him.

And it helped.

How crazy is that?

Maybe I do have Stockholm syndrome after all.

No, it’s not that.

It’s him.

Lev makes me feel safe in a way I can’t explain. That might have started with the encounter with Danillo at the restaurant, the very thing that fueled the argument with Papa.

The last time the nightmares plagued me, it continued nightly for six months. That was two years after the incident. Right after the incident, I had nightmares and terrors so bad I had to be sedated.

Most of my nightmares were filled with a mash-up of watching Gabrielle die and the torture we experienced.

Whipping, near drowning, beating, strangling me. Those were only some of the things those monsters did to my sister and me.

Reliving the torture is always bad, but watching my sister die is always the thing that breaks me. That’s what causes the panic attacks and the nosebleeds that follow.

My guess is they come about because of my intense desire to save her, but not being able to.

That’s what one doctor said. I was also told I had post-traumatic stress. I agree.

But I know deep down that the horrors will never leave me because the man who killed my sister was never caught, and Papa forced me to assume her identity.

The latter is something I’ll never be able to tell anyone.

Over the years, the nightmares became manageable. Then they stopped one day. Therapy helped, but it didn’t cure me.

My phone buzzes on the table next to my pencils.

It’s Mama again.