Page 17 of Erik

And I had to keep her that way. As long as I did what I had to do, she could be free. Only three more years, and we could get legally emancipated and leave all of this behind us.

17

Erik

“What’s she talking about, Valerie?” Carlyle’s sharp question wasn’t enough to slash open the encasement of Natasha’s memories, and an intense sense of déjà vu hit me square the in the chest.This isn’t the first time she became delusional.

“I . . . it was right before we . . . right before our fourteenth birthday.” That must’ve had some significance I didn’t know, and the atmosphere became even more dreary as Natasha continued caressing her sister’s face. “What’s happening? She never did this before.”

“Um, actually . . . ” Holding up her hand, Illya drew attention but no eyes, and I clenched and released my fists by my sides. “This is at least time number three. That I know of.”

“How do we snap her out of this?” Tension prickled down my spine, and I shook my head sharply at the snap. No one knew what to do, but flashbacks weren’t something that could just break. Natasha mumbled to herself illegibly, and I reached to rub my hands up my face and over my head roughly. “What happened the last two times, Illya?”

“Uh, we went to CVS, and I said I’d pay when she didn’t bring her wallet, and Natasha went off about where’d I get the money and to never take anything from anyone. And the second time, we were hanging out, and she started telling me that if anything happened to her, to go to Mrs. Greer, and she’ll help me.”

“Mrs. Greer was our seventh grade teacher. She’s the one who called CPS anonymously on us.” Valerie’s voice wobbled, and emotions battered my chest as I watched the scene before me unfold. Very sluggishly, Natasha gripped Valerie by the hair with both her hands, and the tension in the room could be cut with a knife. I really doubted Natasha would hurt Valerie, considering these were memories, but anything was possible during a psychotic break.

And that, unfortunately, was what this was.

“You’ll be fine without me, Val.” Natasha huffed, pressing her forehead against Valerie’s even though she stood there, stiff in shock. “I know you’ll be okay without me.”

This has to stop.Closing the distance between us, I grabbed Natasha’s hand as I’d been doing a moment ago, and her fingers were ice cold. Buried in Valerie’s hair, they shivered and flexed, and I pried her fingers open as my chest tightened as the blank look on her face. Once free, Valerie scrambled into Carlyle’s arms, but I couldn’t think of anything but Natasha as she blinked for the first time. The cloudiness in her eyes slowly seeped away, and I held her hands firmly even as her head snapped back and her shoulders jerked.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Natasha’s face paled ghostly, her eyes widening in horror that brimmed her reddening lids. Tearing her gaze off me, her expression only deepened and darkened when she realized Valerie was right there. Chapped lips parted but nothing escaped, not even air, before Natasha walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to slam a door shut.

“What the fuck just happened?” My stalled mind jumpstarted at Theo’s question to no one and everyone, and I covered my mouth to exhale a shaky breath through flared nostrils. Emotions tore apart my chest. The desire to go after Natasha and make sure she wasn’t hurting herself warred with the knowledge that I might trigger her again. Everything was going great until Valerie showed up, and I had the nagging, sinking feeling that Natasha knew she wasn’t holding it together as well as she pretended.

“I’m gonna go check on her.” Leaving the kitchen and the dramatic atmosphere behind, I walked down the hallway to the only door that wasn’t slightly ajar. The dismal tendrils that seeped through the cracks and underneath wrapped around me in a vice, and I grabbed the handle with a droning buzz in my ears. Holding my breath, my heart thundered the same way it did before an engagement, and I clenched my jaw hard in preparation.

Natasha sat on her bed, head hung low, a thick comforter around her shoulders, but the stench of blood was absent, which was good. I think. Not shutting the barrier in case, I stood at the foot of her bed, and she sniffed hard as she choked back her cries. In this moment, she looked so pathetic— nothing at all like the person I’d seen so far. Even in what I thought was her worst moment, she wasn’t so wretched and pitiful.

“What do you want?” My mouth dried like the damn Sahara, but Natasha didn’t lift her head. Her hair didn’t so much as ruffle as she croaked the question. Carefully sitting on the edge of the bed, I rubbed my clammy palms on my jeans as my mind churned furiously.

“I just want to be here for you, Natasha.” A hoarse sob slipped out, and Natasha shook her head so sadly. I had never felt so helpless, not being able to touch her, not even sure if being in this room was a good idea. Uncertainty battered my ribs, but I couldn’t leave, now, and I cleared my throat roughly. “Were you ever properly diagnosed with PTSD?”

“Don’t be stupid, of course n-not.” Sputtering bitterly, Natasha sniffled hard, and my fingers itched painfully to take hers even as she sighed in defeat. “It’s getting worse.”

“Yeah, it tends to do that right when you think everything’s going good.” My gruff reply earned me a snotty gasp, and I glanced around before spying a box of heavily used tissues on the nightstand. Standing up to grab them, I flicked on the small lamp to have some light, and I set the box next to Natasha before sitting back down. “You know, when I was on my second deployment in the Navy, I shot someone for the first time. We spend a lot of time on ships, but we dock every once and a while. Everyone gets pretty wound up being in such tight quarters for so long, so we get a little wild. It’s a culture, sorta.”

That time seemed so long ago, and the reality of the situation was simple— twelve years ago, I shot someone. The traumatic part was that I didn’t feel bad about it.

“They say your first kill sticks with you, but we were in Yemen, and they were in the middle of a war. The first person I ever killed was a woman aiming a rocket launcher out of a blasted-out building’s window.” Finally, Natasha lifted her head, and her tear-stricken face burned bright red in the low light cutting through the gloom. My cheek twitched in agitation, and I inched my hand over the sheet palm up, just in case. “I lifted my rifle and shot her right in the head. I barely even registered that I did it at the time. The rocket exploded inside the house, and it went crumbling down. I think the noise of that building collapsing was worse than actually killing her.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Reaching my free hand to rub the back of my neck, I could only shrug half-heartedly, and Natasha’s raw expression turned scornful.

“It doesn’t. Not really. That’s the thing, though, Natasha. You’re right about no one doing anything for nothing. People do things for others for their own satisfaction, for blackmail, for control, for whatever reason. There’s millions of ways to rationalize it. Sometimes, though, there’s a few easy answers that aren’t so painful.” Her disgust darkened, the shadows playing off her profile when she shook her head in denial, and I nodded firmly. “Sometimes, helping people feels good. Sometimes, just being compassionate brings enough satisfaction. Pushing and shoving to feel power over someone else . . . that’s not me. I know words don’t matter, but I would never use your experiences against you, Natasha.”

“Everything I did, it was all for no reason . . . in the end.” Natasha fell forward, as if admitting that, whatever it was, was the final straw, and her cold cheek seared my palm. Wine-soaked breath wafted up my wrist, but she only sucked in a shuddering, unstable breath that ended in a hiccup. Rolling my jaw, I cupped my chin with my free hand to stroke my beard, and even in an emotionally dead sleep, her tears streamed between my fingers.

Now what was I going to do?

18

Natasha

Turning off the showerhead with a sharp twist, I leaned on the warm tile to heave a hot, wet breath. Forcing my eyes open, water dripped off my eyelashes, and I pushed open the curtain to step out of the shower. Steam billowed around my ankles, and my toes flexed against the mat as I grabbed my towel and wrapped it around myself. My headache ad dulled in the hour or so I spent being pounded by scalding water, and I inhaled deeply, steadily.

“I obviously didn’t drink enough.” My tongue stuck to the roof my mouth, and I frowned an ugly frown as despair clung to my insides like bad fried food. Stepping out of the bathroom, I headed to my room to change into clothes I’d already picked out for the day. The world turned around me in slow motion, matching my sluggish movements, and I closed the door behind me to start drying my hair.