Page 7 of Creeping Lily

LINCOLN

I didn’t drink before that night. Didn’t need to.

Now the taste won’t leave me, cheap whiskey burned into the back of my throat, a slow self-destruction with every swallow. It’s the only thing strong enough to cut through the horror of what was done to her.

I stand outside her door too long. Long enough to feel like a coward.

My hand hovers near the frame like I could keep the air from moving, stop myself from breathing her in.

My chest aches with it—the sharp pull of her scent.

Soap. Linen. Something fragile that shouldn’t keep company with the likes of blood and alcohol.

I’m afraid. No—terrified. Of what I’ll see when I go in. Of what’s left of her.

When I finally step inside, the air shifts. Heavy. Still.

She’s in the bed, a pale shape in the half-light. Sheets twisted around her legs, her hair spread across the pillow like dark ink. Her eyes are open.

They find me, but it’s not her.

Not the girl who laughed so hard she snorted. Not the girl who yelled at me when I let go of her bike too soon. Not the girl who gave this house a heartbeat. What looks back at me now is hollow, scraped out, like someone stole her light and left nothing but shadows.

I can’t meet her eyes. My gaze drops to the floor, the walls, anywhere else. Guilt presses around my skull like iron, and I know if I move closer, if I see too much, I’ll break apart.

Her voice pulls me back.

“Lincoln.”

My name. Soft, torn at the edges. It cuts deeper than any blade.

I look up. Her voice is ruined, shredded, and when she says my name again, I can’t stop myself. The words slip out, weak and pitiful.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s nothing. Empty. But it’s all I’ve got.

Her lips move, slow but steady. “It’s not your fault.”

She says it like she believes it. Like she wants to hand me a rope to pull me out of this eternal pit of grief I’ve found myself in. But my hands won’t take it. They can’t. Because I know the truth.

I should’ve been here.

I should’ve been the wall they couldn’t break through.

His name rips out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Bentley…”

The way she flinches blows me apart. My vision goes white-hot, my fists clenching until my knuckles crack. The urge to smash the walls, to destroy everything in reach, takes me whole.

“Don’t,” she whispers, shaking her head, pain etched into every line of her face. “Don’t say his name again.”

I nod once. I won’t. Not because he doesn’t deserve to be cursed, but because I can’t stand seeing her recoil like that—not from me.

I breathe in, sharp and bitter. “I’m leaving in the morning. ”

Her face twists, hurt flashing across it. It’s a punishment I deserve.

“Just like that?” Her voice is soft, but the words hit hard.

“Yeah,” I rasp. “Just like that.”

The truth is heavier, uglier. I can’t stay here. Every wall of this house reeks of him. Of them. I can’t walk these halls without hearing her scream. Can’t sit at the Walker dinner table and play the good son while they cover for the monster who broke her.

If I stay, I’ll kill him.

And once I start, I won’t stop.

So I’ll walk out. Not because I don’t care.

But because I care too much.

I’ll leave because if I stay, I know I’ll kill someone.

Later, when the house is quiet, I pack a single duffel. Bentley’s already gone, but I still don’t trust anyone within these walls. Not even myself.

Before I leave, I stand outside her door one more time.

I almost knock.

Almost tell her I’ll come back for her.

But my chest feels like it’s caving in, and I know if I see her again tonight, I won’t go.

And if I stay, I won’t just be leaving this house in the morning.

I’ll be leaving it in handcuffs.

So I walk away, never once looking back.

My chest caves with the weight of it. Every inhale is a fight, every exhale ragged. The walls feel too close, the air too thin. I press a fist against my sternum as if I can hold myself together, but the ache only grows sharper, more unbearable.

So I do the only thing left .

I turn.

I force my legs to move, one step, then another, down the path that suddenly feels like it’s scattered with a mile of broken glass. Each step away from her door feels wrong, unnatural, like I’m ripping pieces of myself out of my own body and leaving them behind.

The urge to look back burns hotter than fire. My shoulders tense, my neck screams for it—for just one glance, one last glimpse of the door that holds everything I want but can’t have.

But I don’t.

I don’t look back.

Because if I do, if I give myself even half a second of weakness, I’ll turn around. I’ll knock. I’ll fall into her arms, and I won’t crawl out again.

So I keep walking.

Down the stairs. Through the shadows. Out the door.

The night air slams into me, cold and merciless, but it doesn’t clear my head. It only drives the truth deeper into my bones: I’ve left pieces of myself behind in that room, in her hands, in her heartbeat. Pieces I’ll never get back.

And all I can do now is pray that when the time comes, she’ll still be there to take me in.