Page 8

ONE DAMNED ESSENCE

Isolde

Darkness meets the empty hallway as I make my way through the counseling center. Muscles tight with the nervousness pounding in my ears, the symphony of doom is all too clear, greeting me with damnation.

I can’t stop pacing back and forth.

After the events of the past week, I’ve realized I can’t skip my group therapy anymore, and I absolutely could not stay inside my apartment after what I found this morning.

Ever since my parents were murdered, I’ve been going to therapy, trying to process it all.

Trauma is funny like that—it sometimes hits you out of nowhere, making you lose a part of yourself, and a part of your mind.

I haven’t been able to tell them the whole truth—the part where I was involved. But it has helped.

A little.

Nausea rises in my esophagus at the mere thought of what I left behind in my apartment this morning. The gift they left. Her handwriting.

I swallow hard. I’m going to fucking vomit.

“Come on, Isa. You can do this,” I mutter to myself, shaking my body as if I can jolt the emotions loose.

Force them back down to the pit where they belong.

I’ve never been comfortable around other people, so why the hospital suggested group therapy is beyond me.

Days after the murder and the trial, they admitted me into care. They feared for my life, they said. As if I would kill myself after witnessing the worst moment in my life.

Might as well have.

Then, I wouldn’t be living this hell on earth now.

I enter the vast space, noticing people milling about while minding their own business. Some seem more nervous than others, while some are completely unaffected.

Anxiety claws at my throat like a swarm of butterflies armed with razors.

Deep breaths. Focus. I can do this.

I find the nearest empty chair and settle in quietly, avoiding eye contact with anyone. I’ve been here multiple times before. More often right after everything happened, less now that there’s no ‘risk to my life,’ as they put it.

Still, I don’t know anyone here. I recognize some, but most are unfamiliar.

“Hello, group. I’m Ada, and I will be your counselor for this session.”

She goes on, letting everyone introduce themselves one by one until it’s my turn.

My throat tightens at the same time as my mouth dries up, causing my tongue to feel like sandpaper.

Sweat beads along my hairline. But I manage to get the words out, and the session continues smoothly, talking about grief and trauma and different exercises to cope.

“Alright,” she says, calm and steady, while clasping her hands together. “I’m going to show you a breathing technique you can use when things get overwhelming. I need all of you to try this with me.”

But she’s quickly interrupted by the hall door barging open with a bang that resonates through the room, startling some. Everyone turns to the newcomer, who approaches with heavy, determined footsteps.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt.”

The voice is soft yet tinged with a hint of darkness. Oh fuck no. This can’t be happening.

I turn to look at the newcomer and am met with the officer’s uniform clinging to my boyfriend. A Kevlar vest and utility belt are completed with a sidearm, handcuffs, and a radio; his eyes turned directly at me.

The attention shifts to me in the room, embarrassment flushing my cheeks with the need to just sink underground and disappear. It’s so silent in the room, you would be able to hear a needle drop.

“Isolde. You need to come with me,” Casper says with an authoritative voice, eyes entirely too brooding as he stares down at me with accusations directed at me.

This cannot be good.

—————

I FOLLOW HIM OUT of the counseling center, settling into the police car standing in the parking lot.

As soon as I do, the car door locks. The sound echoes in the small, crumpled space of the car, making my heart pound a little harder as I turn to stare at Casper.

His eyes…they’re like two dark orbs I’ve never seen before, and it’s as if I’m suddenly afraid of my own boyfriend.

Swallowing harshly, I wait for him to speak.

He rakes a hand through his hair, unkempt, so he must have been asleep before he got here. And the fact that he’s here, during my therapy session, tells me a lot.

It only makes the lead in my stomach weigh even heavier.

“What?” I ask, referring to his interrupting. “Why did you have to disturb my session? I texted you I’d be here.”

His jaw clenches, dragging a hand through his hair once more. Staring back at me. Swallowing the lump in my throat, my impatience dwindles.

“We got a witness. A threat of some kind. The police are on their way to your apartment as we speak.”

The color drains from my face, but I control my breathing, keeping my face neutral. “What the fuck? Why?”

Anger—that’s what’s expected of me. Not the fear, the sheer panic, I feel filtering inside me. Because I know what’s in my fucking apartment. I should have called the cops when I saw the evidence of their twisted fucking games, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I just wanted to forget.

I still do.

“Evidence points to you having a part in these murders in town. It’s best if you come with me to your apartment and talk to the chief.”

“Do I have a fucking choice?” I retort, anger turning my face red. He locked the car, making me unable to leave even if I wanted to.

Then, he does something that surprises me, which really shouldn’t considering who I’m with.

His hand clamps around my throat, squeezing until my lungs burn with the need for oxygen.

His eyes are two angry holes taking me in, breathing heavily through his teeth as if he’s acting on pure emotions, not thinking clearly.

But he doesn’t let go of the grip, and despite knowing I can’t ward him off, my fingers try to claw through his skin so he can let me go.

“Watch your fucking tone with me, Isolde,” he spits in my face. “You’re on very thin ice, and one wrong move can send you to jail for a very long time.”

I think I’m losing my mind because that smirk on his lips shouldn’t be there. It’s gone in the next second, and as the oxygen disappears from my lungs and my body fights for air, I start hitting his arms with the last bit of energy I have left.

After what feels like forever, he finally lets me go, leaving me sputtering for breath. Unable to do anything. Tears gather in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall as he puts the key in the ignition and starts the car, swerving his way out of the parking lot.

My chest is heaving as I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror, blue bruises already forming with the hard grip in which he held me.

He’s just a conniving, manipulative bastard that I can’t find myself letting go of.

Because being with a cop gives me some semblance of protection if my past comes knocking at my door.

Coughing, I stare at myself, not recognizing who I am anymore. They fucked up so much for me when they left. When I made them leave.

“Stop fucking sulking,” Casper snaps as we drive up the driveway to my apartment building.

I only glare at him, feeling my hatred for him fueling .

He unlocks the car, and the first thought that hits me is how much I want to escape from him. Run away. But that would make me seem even more like a suspect.

I had no part in these twisted murders, but I think I know who does.

And the hand in my fireplace? The cops won’t listen to my reasoning about it magically appearing there.

Heart hammering hard in my chest, it feels as if I might faint as Casper grasps my shoulder and leads me inside. He’s more forceful than he has to be, and it only makes that weird feeling in my stomach settle deeper.

Why am I even with him?

I don’t fucking know anymore.

It seems I can’t be protected from them any longer.

As we arrive at my apartment door, I see that it’s already wide open with at least five police officers inside my apartment. Shoes on, dirtying my floor.

“What the fuck is going on, Casper?” I seethe, barely keeping the panic from cracking my voice.

It’s clawing at my chest like some rabid monster, desperate to cut me open and force out the truth with the spilling of blood. Like a snare, ready to break my neck the second I slip.

I watch them tear through my apartment, creating chaos as they turn over drawers and scatter everything I own like it’s worthless. There’s not a single thing I can do about it.

Act normal. Breathe.

But I fucking can’t. A bead of sweat trails down my temple, and my hands are slick with fear, bracing for the looming threat. Will they arrest me, right here, right now? Or will they let me explain myself?

“There’s nothing here,” the police officer tells Casper.

For a moment, relief washes over me. Like a tsunami wave that’s finally retreating after its destruction. Then, I watch Casper’s jaw harden, clench, his fingers digging deeper into my shoulder. I try not to flinch.

Try, and fail.

“Something needs to be!” he shouts, and the officer stares at him with an odd look.

I turn to Casper. If nothing is there, that means they haven’t found the blood or the hand in my fireplace. That means I’m safe, for now.

Until they decide to play these twisted games with me again.

What I don’t understand is how the police couldn’t find anything.

Minutes seem to pass in which Casper stares angrily at his men searching my apartment, violating my space, and causing chaos that will take hours to sort through.

“Do you even have permission to do this?” I growl at Casper.

He ignores me at first, sighing as if I’m an annoying little child he can’t wait to get rid of. Then he enters my hallway with his shoes on, leaving muddy footsteps on the wooden floor, before he shows me a piece of paper with their warrant order.

I roll my eyes, still feeling angry.

“We have secured the apartment. Nothing,” another officer states, his badge letting me know he’s in a higher order than Casper. So this is the chief of police, Casper’s boss. “I suggest you have concrete proof the next time you make any accusation. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, miss,” he nods.

It’s not long before they all have left the apartment. I stare at Casper with an open mouth. “You fucking accused me?”

“It’s not like that, baby. We received a witness. I needed to be sure you didn’t have anything to do with this,” he steps closer to me as if about to embrace me. I take a step back. “Please, baby.”

I glance at him, then at my apartment. “You’re going to help me clean this shit up,” I mutter.

“I will. I’m sorry. At least now I know you didn’t have anything to do with this. Now, we can focus on getting the culprit behind bars.”

“Should’ve just trusted me from the beginning,” I mutter, entering my bedroom only to notice that the fire in the stone hearth has been put down.

No evidence of there ever having been a dissected body part there. The note is gone from my bedside table as well. Confusion hits me like a bomb, making the room spin in a vortex of endless questions. I couldn’t have imagined it, could I?

No. I know it was there. Which begs the question, who cleaned up?

A feeling settles in my stomach, sour and raw, like acid traveling up my throat.

Casper looks at me, seeing the exhausted expression on my face. I grip hold of the doorframe, staring back at him with resignation. All I want to do is lash out at him, but it won’t lead to anything. And I’m too fucking exhausted. These past few days have left me fucking drained.

“Just…forget it. I don’t have the energy for this,” I mutter, grabbing a box lying on the floor and looking around at the mess, overwhelmed.

This whole place is a goddamn mess. I’m a mess, staring at the stone hearth and knowing what was there.

Casper lifts a hand, as if about to stroke my cheek, before stopping himself. I’m glad for it. I don’t think I could have handled his touch right now. Not with the twisted knot in my stomach lodging itself there.

“I’m really sorry, baby. I shouldn’t have—” he starts, but I shake my head, bending down to retrieve a few books from the floor to put in the box.

“Just stop. I don’t want to talk about it,” I mutter.

He nods. Licks his lips. “Okay. Let me at least help? I can cook dinner and stay the night?”

Even if I don’t want him to, even when all I want to be is alone, I still feel that sense of protection around him. Even when he bruised my throat.

God, this is so fucking messed up.

But I nod, agreeing.

Because having him here means a small semblance of protection against the bigger threats that loom ahead. And what they will do to me, if my suspicions are correct, will be far fucking worse than anything Casper has ever done to me.