Flee by Keely James Read Free Book Online

scream barely audible over its ominous din? I dropped to my knees and crawled toward my parents’ bodies, where they lay awkwardly on the ground between the sofa and the coffee table, their left arms extended up. Vaguely I could hear soft music coming from the stereo system, in sharp contrast to the sound of the alarm. Two half-empty wine glasses sat on the coffee table next to them. I could picture them together on the sofa, Dad’s arm across Mom’s shoulder, talking and laughing.
    â€œI don’t understand, I don’t understand.” Who was talking? Was someone here, or was that me? I couldn’t think, couldn’t come to any conclusions. I could only crawl to my parents slowly and carefully, afraid of what I knew I would have to conclude when I got there. I didn’t see any wounds, but blood was everywhere beneath their heads. I grabbed my Dad’s wrist and felt frantically for a pulse. Nothing. I couldn’t grab Mom’s wrist. She couldn’t be gone if he was. How would I survive? As long as I didn’t check, it couldn’t be true. She was okay. She had to be. My mind would accept no other option. I cuddled up between their bodies, the same way I had when I was little and had a nightmare. That was it. This was a nightmare. I would wake up soon. I shivered as cold wind blew in from the open patio door and was instantly afraid. I looked at the door, but my eyes, blurry with tears and hysteria, refused to register anything. Maybe this was just part of a nightmare. I closed my eyes tightly. Go back to sleep , I desperately coaxed myself. Just go back to sleep. It will be okay when you wake up.

Chapter Three

    Blake, first day of school
    I lay in bed, awake but not moving. From across the hall I could hear Mary softly singing to the baby. Must be around three a.m ., I thought, knowing when Grace usually woke up hungry. Mary’s song was sweet and gentle. It stabbed my heart like a sharp knife. Momma , I thought sadly , I miss you so much.
    I tried to find sleep, but it eluded me as usual. For a moment, I stared at the full bottle of sleeping pills high on the bookshelf, across the room and out of Benji’s curious reach, like a drowning woman looking for a life-raft. The bottle was only missing one, forced upon me the first night after the murders. I had felt like a traitor when I had awakened the next day. My parents had been killed and I had just lain down and gone to sleep? I wanted to feel every moment of pain. I wanted no memory dulled by drugs. It was all I had left of them. Every past thought of our lives together, my whole life up until now, would be remembered and stored, no matter how agonizing. The fiercer the pain, the better. It paid homage to how much I had loved them. I wasn’t scared of it, only tortured by it. I knew it had caused me to slowly turn into myself and away from the things I’d once enjoyed. I didn’t care. What was there to enjoy anymore?
    I heard Mary moving now, changing a diaper perhaps. I didn’t feel much other than alternating numbness and pain these days, but logically I supposed I was thankful to Coach Joe and Mary for taking me in and giving me a place to live. No, they had done more than that. They loved me, they always had. Joe had known Dad forever, since they’d played high school and then college ball together. He was almost as broken-hearted over their deaths as I was. But not tortured. That was just me. They had picked me up from my house that awful night, the cami and flowery boxers I had worn to bed covered in blood, and brought me to their home, and other than the funeral and school. I had not left except when forced.
    I sighed and pushed the covers off me, standing quickly and decisively. I’d gone to bed early, at nine, exhausted. That made six hours of consistent sleep, a rarity these days. But I was up now, so I headed to my desk and grabbed a journal and a pen. Since the day of the funeral, I had