Chapter 18: Little Liar: Chapter 18

I don’t want to be here.

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to fucking be here.

I should be at home with Olivia. She shouldn’t be at work, and I shouldn’t be here. What the fuck am I doing? Why am I here?

I don’t want to be here.

They’re the only words running through my head while Dr. Preston talks me through our last few speech therapy sessions. He’s been showing me my progress pyramid, and that I’m halfway from the top. Considering I was near the bottom when I first came to him a few weeks ago, I’m making progress, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.

“Okay, so when you first came in, we went through what you struggled most with and set some small targets, and since we haven’t quite reached them, let’s take another approach.

We’ve covered shorter sentences and more straightforward pronunciations. Instead of longer sentences, I think we should add in words with more syllables, some trickier words that don’t necessarily roll off the tongue, and work on your confidence. I can hear your nerves. Try not to focus on the fact I’m sitting in front of you.”

The voice in my head wants to tell him to stop telling me what to do—it’s an immature knee-jerk response I won’t let out. He’s helping me and, in turn, helping my relationship with not only Olivia but the outside world.

Dr. Preston is around my dad’s age. His voice is soft, and for some reason, I don’t feel the need to strangle him when I fuck up my words. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even seem fazed by my fuck-ups. He takes notes and gets excited when he talks about different approaches we’ll be taking.

Yet he sees me as an experiment.

A bit like Olivia. She encourages me every step of the way, but I know she’s trying different things. Different routines for my meds, and she even wants us to eat at certain times. I still don’t know why she’s become so focused on my mental state.

I’m fine.

I stare at the words on the table in front of me. We’ve been working on five-worded sentences and words with two syllables. He tries to encourage me to read, to try to sound out the words I know will be difficult, but sometimes I overthink and fall over the way they sound. I can hear them in my fucking head so clearly, but I can never actually speak them clearly.

Frustrated doesn’t even describe the way I feel right now.

He types on his laptop then looks at me. Too bad for my short-fused temper and hating the way he stares at me—I kind of need him to fix me. “Can you read the first line?”

My gaze drops to the paper again, and I lick my lips, but I can’t. Something is stopping me. Like my voice box has vanished and my mouth forms no sound. I look up at the guy, feeling heat crawl up my cheeks. I shouldn’t be embarrassed, but when he hums and types again, I grow anxious.

He’s probably writing about how much of an idiot I am—what twenty-eight-year-old struggles to fucking talk? I know how to. I can read, write, and I can fucking speak, but for some reason, sometimes I can’t.

“You’re more nervous than your last appointment. Has anything changed?”

Yes. Everything. My entire life.

I stare at him—I want to tell him that I fucking won, that I got the girl and she finally chose me, but not only can I not form the damn words, I also don’t fully believe them.

Olivia’s smile is in my head. Then sadness takes over her eyes and snuffs away the happiness—she’s not fully mine. Not yet. I can feel it.

She’s biding her time before she can leave again.

My heart is thrashing, and my fingers cramp up, so I drop the paper on the speech therapist’s desk and lean back in the chair. The need to call Olivia has me very aware of my phone in my pocket, but I need to try to do this myself.

I did well when I first came in this morning, but it lasted all of ten minutes before things got tricky, and everything within me has crawled under the fucking bed and is staying hidden.

“Do you have someone you could read to?” He puts on his glasses and checks his paperwork. “Any children you could read a bedtime story to?”

Frowning, I stare at him unblinking—he knows I don’t have any kids. I shake my head anyway. The poor kid wouldn’t last a week if I was their father.

“A partner?”

Pausing my breaths, I stare at him for a long second more before I slowly nod.

“Great. That must be what has you more perked up. What I’d like you to do at home is sit down with your partner and read. Or you can record yourself reading and listen back. You’ll know which words are harder, and you can work on those too. Look at it as minor homework.”

I nod again and lean my elbow on the arm of the chair, my fist to my temple. He talks me through a few other exercises while printing off sheets of paper, and I sign in response.

“Does your partner sign?” he asks, typing on his laptop again.

For a few beats, I blink, but then I take a deep breath. “Yes,” I say quietly.

“She’s patient with you?”

My eyes narrow. What kind of question is that? Olivia is one of the only people who has ever been patient with me. Even when we were kids and I was insanely obsessed with everything about her. She learned sign language for me. She struggled so fucking much—half the time, she signed wrong, but since she would say the words, I could correct her hand movements.

Mason’s family hired someone to teach him so he could talk to me.

Dad learned easily, but I think he just did that so he could see what I was saying to my little sister. He never liked me near her. Then my mom made sure the entire house was trained so I felt included.

What the fuck went wrong? I had a family who actually cared for me—did they notice the way I was with Olivia and decide I wasn’t good enough for them? Did I scare them? Did they only tolerate me because of Olivia? When I was a teenager, I was spoken to on multiple occasions about the way I looked at her, that I was stepping out of line as a big brother.

They wanted me to rein it in. They didn’t toss me away like the other families—they kept me regardless of my issues.

If I hadn’t nearly killed my dad, would I still be considered their son?

Did I choose my obsession with my sister over a loving family? I made them the way they are. Dad hates me because of me. Mom hates me because of me. We’re broken because of me. Olivia is going to leave me because of me.

I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. Stupid thoughts that’ll never get an answer. Even if I go to my parents, they’ll tell me to fuck off. Olivia wants me to try with them, but I think she forgets how much they despise me and deludes herself into thinking we can all go back to normal.

Mom and Dad will never accept the fact their son is fucking their daughter.

No, not fucking. We’re together. Olivia Vize is my girlfriend.

A smile tugs at my lips, and I wipe my hand down my mouth to hide it when I notice Dr. Preston is watching me with curiosity. “How are you finding the medication?”

I raise my shoulder. Everything is new. I feel the exact same.

Lie. I feel an unexplainable heaviness on my chest and a bomb inside me, ready to blow. Our parents won’t accept us and Olivia will leave. I’ll lose my speech again and she’ll leave. I’ll fuck something up and she’ll leave.

I don’t know how to make her stay. Maybe I should put her back in the basement?

“You’re on quite a high dosage. Do you have any side effects?”

Olivia might realize she can do way better than me—I’m an ex-convict, jobless, can barely speak, not to mention the backlash from our parents. Has she told her friends about us? Is she embarrassed by me?

Fuck, my head hurts thinking about this constantly.

“Your therapist’s notes indicate that he’s referred you for further diagnosis, specifically for non-catatonic schizophrenic syndrome. How does this make you feel?”

My eye twitches. He’s my speech therapist. That’s all. Why the fuck is he trying to talk to me about this shit?

Maybe I can put him in the basement without all the sexual shit—I’ll make him shut up by shoving his own dick in his mouth and force him to try to talk.

My hands fist. “I can’t do that.”

Did I just answer myself aloud? Fuck. Maybe I really am losing it.

He hums. “Can you tell me what it’s like when you feel yourself slipping away?”

Like I could kill someone without even blinking—I have, and I’ll do it again without hesitation.

The world fucked me over. My parents fucked me over. If my mom didn’t turn to drugs and my dad didn’t kill himself, I might not be the way I am now. I’d be good enough for myself, and for Olivia.

The therapist spoke to me about my childhood. He asked me when I had my first appointment, “What did they take from you?”

Everything.

They took everything.

My heart is fucking racing, and sweat starts to coat my forehead.

Typing again, he clicks his tongue and takes my silence as an answer. “There’s another note here about referring you to group therapy sessions. I’ll write down some places. It might be good to be around others with similar struggles. Maybe find a friend.”

What? A friend? Is this asshole for real right now?

I don’t need a fucking friend. I have Olivia. I used to have friends, and they vanished when I was arrested—they didn’t even attempt to stick around, so what the fuck is the point in finding a friend? I’m not some kid with baggage and a need for socialization.

I had someone I considered a best friend. I still haven’t found the courage to see where he is or what he’s doing out of pure shame for blocking him out of my memory.

“Okay,” he says, knowing I’m no longer going to reply to anything. “I think it would be very helpful to do the reading I suggested. Even just for ten minutes a day. I’ll see you back here in three days. Go to one of those meetings.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I’m itching for this to be over already so I can message Olivia and take her home. Lying in bed with her is my safe place, and I really fucking need it right now.

Before I dropped her off at work this morning, she asked me again to take her on a date—I said no obviously. There’s no need for us to pretend we’re teenagers again and act like our worlds don’t revolve around one another.

Once our next session is booked, I grab the homework and fold it into my pocket, then pick up my helmet. I unlock my phone and see the message isn’t from Olivia; it’s an alert that some of my meds are ready. It takes me five minutes to ride to the pharmacy. It’s just down the road from the courthouse where Olivia works with Mom.

I’m surprised I’ve not had any messages from her, complaining about Mom or whatever bullshit she throws her way for not only ditching the wedding she planned but also for being off work for the last week.

Mom won’t like that we’re together, but fuck her.

If Xander has anything to say, I’ll fuck him up too.

I park the bike up outside the pharmacy, open my seat, and hunt for the list of meds I’ve to pick up. Olivia told me to mark off the ones I have to make sure I don’t forget any.

Once inside and waiting, my fingers fidget, alternating between tapping the arms of the chair then twisting together in my lap while I wait for my name to be called by the pharmacist. It’s just after three, and Olivia finishes work in an hour.

An old lady keeps looking at me. Her gaze trails down my arms, grimacing at my ink, then moves to my neck and the red mark from Olivia claiming me last night. She whispers something to her little friend, and both of them stare like I’m some disgusting piece of shit they’ve never come across before.

Why do they keep looking at me? It’s not as if I’m any different from half the population. I don’t have ink on my forehead saying “fuck you”. I’m not scowling or giving anyone attitude. I’m silent, like I always am, and they’re still watching me like I’m going to stab them or steal their purses.

They shake their heads, and I fist my hands.

Would Olivia care if I killed two grandmas? Maybe I can make it look like an accident, or they just disappear altogether without a trace of evidence leading investigators back to me.

“Vize,” a voice calls, grabbing my attention. She asks me to confirm my date of birth and address. I struggle to get the words out, and the grandmas behind me huff at how slow I’m being. I want to drive my fist into their faces, but I hold back and take the plastic bag filled with a number of different pill bottles.

I don’t know what half of them are, but Olivia does. She has a contraption with the days of the week on it, each section filled with different tablets. Certain ones need to be taken at certain times of the day, and she has a whiteboard in one of our side rooms that she marks off whenever I swallow a pill. She’s organized and obsessed, and me being the big brother who wants to please his sister, I do as I’m told and take the damn things.

Olivia hasn’t responded to my last message. I stare down at my phone as I toss the pills into the storage under the seat.

I type out another.

She’ll argue with me that she isn’t getting on my bike, but I’ll force her on, even if I need to knock her out and sit her in front of me, my hand traveling between her legs while she’s unconscious to feel her bare pussy.

I shake my head—I don’t need to do that anymore.

Shoving my phone into my pocket, I make my way to the courthouse. She hasn’t finished yet, but I always used to wait to get a glimpse of her face, even though she didn’t know I was there. We’d walk to work together, home together, and then I’d sneak into her house at night and…

I sigh to myself. I enjoyed doing all those things. They gave me a thrill, mixing with control and fucking power. I kind of miss hiding and hunting and watching her when she didn’t know I was there. But having her by my side is way better. The lost part of me isn’t lost anymore when I’m with my little sister.

I pull out a smoke then settle my helmet between my legs while balancing my bike. I light it up and take a draw. The sun beats down on me while I wait across the street.

Ten minutes pass, and the sun sets behind the buildings.

Thirty minutes.

An hour. She should be out by now.

Two hours, and it’s night—the moon settles between rooftops in the far distance, and the clouds open to a little rainfall. It soaks my hair, my clothes, but I keep waiting.

I frown when most of the workers leave. She usually walks out with two older women, smiles at them, then heads to her apartment. Yet, the two older women have left, and there’s no sign of my sister. She wouldn’t go to her apartment either—she lives with me now.

Lighting another smoke and sheltering it from the rain by angling my hand, I impatiently tap my finger on my handle, checking my phone for any new messages. I try to call, but all I’m met with is her voicemail.

I drop my helmet and cigarette on the ground and walk across the street, nearly getting struck by a car, but they sound their horn and swerve just in time while I fully focus on the main door.

There’s no reason for her to be late, unless she’s trying to catch up on emails. But what if that asshole she was supposed to marry is there?

What if he took her?

I thought he was still in Canada on a business trip? I’ve tried to keep tabs on him without Olivia noticing my newest obsessive trait of following his every move. He’s still fucking around despite waiting to get married.

Palpitations push me forward until I reach the entrance, but before I can yank the door open, it nearly smacks me in the face, and my mom freezes like a deer in headlights, eyes wide and in total shock.

She’s as tall as me in her heeled shoes, her lips parting, her graying hair flying around her face. Her glasses hold her bangs off her forehead.

The woman who raised me.