Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 143453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 717(@200wpm)___ 574(@250wpm)___ 478(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 143453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 717(@200wpm)___ 574(@250wpm)___ 478(@300wpm)
Remington: I thought you should know that Creighton woke up. He’s disoriented, but the doctors said he’ll get better with time :)
32
CREIGHTON
It’s been two weeks since I woke up from the coma.
The first week was spent in the hospital and passed in a blur of tests, rehab, and a lot of fucking noise.
It was filled with pitiful looks from the friends I grew up with all my life and with meaningless, needless sympathy.
There was a jumble of motion, words, and sensations. I barely remember anything aside from Mum’s tears and the innate need to put a stop to them.
She was both happy and sad, and I still have no clue why she was sad.
Was it the fact that I was hurt or did she see the look in my eyes?
Did she peek beneath the surface and uncover the façade I used as camouflage?
I didn’t get to ask that question after I was discharged a few days ago. My parents brought me home with them and I didn’t protest. At least this way, I can escape the faces dripping with pity.
I can stay away from their mine-filled conversations that always somehow lead back to how I got shot.
Or more like the person who shot me.
Her.
My nemesis and my damnation.
I’ve successfully avoided the subject by pretending to be tired or sleepy. A privilege I’ll soon lose since my wound is healing—the stitches have almost all dissolved into my skin, leaving a hole near my upper chest.
“A few centimeters to the right and the bullet would’ve gotten his heart,” is what I heard the doctor tell my father.
And I’m left here wondering why those centimeters didn’t happen.
I wanted to die.
I should’ve fucking died, so how come I’m still breathing?
That question has been living in my head rent-free ever since I woke up and I still can’t find an answer.
Which is why I’m ‘recuperating.’ Though I’m not sure that’s the right word with the world war atmosphere I find myself in.
As the rain hammers down outside, I sit in the playroom downstairs, my fingers patting a surprisingly docile Tiger. I brought him with me from the island, despite Brandon’s protests.
He FaceTimes me every day and I just show him the cat because that’s what he’s interested in.
It’s mind-boggling how Tiger remains soundlessly asleep in the current situation.
My grandparents from my mother's and father's sides have come to visit. At the same time.
And to make things worse, Grandpa Jonathan, Dad’s father, thought it was a marvelous idea to play a game of chess against Grandpa Ethan, Mum’s father.
They’re supposed to be friends, or were some sort of friends, but that’s not the current atmosphere. Probably because Grandpa Agnus, Grandpa Ethan’s husband, can’t and won’t stand Grandpa Jonathan. A known fact since I was a kid.
I sit across from them, sipping some herbal drink Mum gave me and choosing to be engrossed in the scene in front of me instead of getting lost in my fucked-up head.
Grandpa Jonathan pushes his rook a few rows forward. He’s an older version of Dad and Eli with his black hair that’s streaked with white and his merciless gray eyes. “You were never able to win against me, Ethan. Give it up.”
“At your funeral.” Grandpa Ethan blocks his move with his rook and grins. He looks the youngest of the three, despite being the same age as them.
It’s probably due to his blond hair, which he passed down to Mum, and the generally pleasant expression he wears at all times.
Grandpa Agnus is the most silent and absolutely unapproachable out of the three. He has a generally grim expression, never smiles, jokes around, or allows anyone to get close to his husband unless they’re ready to suffer a severed limb.
He’s always been my favorite. Probably because we silently understand one another.
While everyone was fawning over me, he methodically kicked them out so I could rest. Grandpa Ethan still manipulated him to let him and Mum come see me, though.
“That was a rookie mistake.” Grandpa Jonathan grins with pure mischief as he eats the white knight.
Grandpa Agnus, who’s sitting on the armrest of Grandpa Ethan’s chair, leans over and whispers something in his ear.
“No cheating, Agnus,” Grandpa Jonathan says. “Two to one is not happening.”
“Who says it’s two?” Grandpa Ethan interlinks his fingers with his husband’s and smiles with mischief. “We’re one.”
A rare smile twitches Grandpa Agnus’s lips and Grandpa Jonathan’s expression pulls downward. “Such a revolting sight.”
“Someone is jealous. Maybe you should join your wife outside.”
“You might want to wipe that, Jonathan,” Grandpa Agnus says with a neutral expression. “It’s dripping all over the floor.”
“Are you sure it’s not your jealousy that’s messing up the floor, Agnus?”
“Mine?”
“If I remember correctly, I received a bunch of drunken texts from you not too long ago.”
“Texts?” Grandpa Ethan stares between them. “What type of texts?”