Page 38 of Haunting Goats

CHAPTER 23

LYRIC

For just a moment, my spirit moves effortlessly across the Veil, and before I’m able to process what’s happening, I’m standing in a familiar room—but it’s not mine. I acknowledge my panic as I scan the area. Just a minute ago I was in my feelings about Attie, wrapped in love and protection, and now I’m here. But where is here?

My eyes land on a man.

Lying on the floor in what appears to be a pool of blood, I spot… Jake.

I dash up to him and crouch down beside him. Blood mats his hair to his face, and dark crimson and royal-purple bruises ring his eyes, a pale yellow blooming across the bridge of his nose, suggesting that it’s broken. Blood continues to leak down his face and soak into the carpet.

I hesitantly reach out to touch him, and my eyes notice my bare arm. I scan up my shoulder and down my chest before it strikes me that I’m completely naked. Across the floor, I scramble backward. I frantically slap at the carpet in my vicinity, searching for anything to cover myself with, and when I decide that I don’t trust anything in this room enough to touch me, I give up and curl in on myself.

I lie on my side and wrap my arms across my chest, attempting to cover and bring warmth back to my erect nipples. Have I always been this cold? It reminds me of the time that I asked Jake to turn the heat on in our apartment.

It was winter, and he was always hot. Every winter, I sacrificed my warmth and sanity. Each winter he treated it like it was the hottest, most grueling summer, and he consistently kept the windows open and the curtains pulled back. The more I would protest, the more severe my punishments would become.

When Jake eventually got sick and tired of me trying to negotiate and come up with a compromise, he grabbed me by my French-braided hair and dragged me into the bathroom. Once we reached the shower, he used his other hand to pinch the nape of my neck and guide me into the center of the tub like a battered dog on a leash. When I cried out in pain, he kicked me in the back with his boot and aggressively maneuvered the knob to the coldest setting, icy pins and needles stabbing me in the back. My punishments would last until I stopped crying or I went physically numb—whichever came first.

That particular punishment lasted upwards of fifteen minutes before he Googled how long I would have to be in there for it to seriously and effectively injure me. When he recognized he was pushing my limits, he yanked the knob all the way to the other side and blasted me with a scalding hot spray. Two different flames licking each other—and both burn. My personal hell.

I don’t know how long I’ve been lying on the floor, but I can’t move. I feel like I’m frozen in time and space. The weight of everything holds me down.

I hear a noise from nearby and I shrink in on myself a little more. I can’t see from this angle and I’m scared. Never in my life have I felt so paralyzed; I don’t know what’s going on with me.

Golden-brown construction boots round the bed, and I look up to see Attie hovering over me. “Lyr!”

His eyes look bright and bold, but not in a gleaming type of way, but the way someone looks when they’ve seen a ghost. His eyes don’t deceive him—that’s exactly what he’s looking at, but that’s not why. I never feel small, but I do feel fragile.

Breakable.

Unfixable.

He hurries to me, dropping to his knees. Distraught, he lifts me from the floor, cradling my stiff spirit in his burly hands. Holding me in his lap, he wildly looks me up and down.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Answer me.”

My mouth is dry and I lick at my lips. I’m struggling to bring myself to speak.

After not blinking for several minutes, I force my eyelids shut and keep them closed as I huff out the words.

“I’m not okay, Attie, and I don’t know if I ever will be. Nothing about any of this is okay.”

He rocks me from side to side before briefly stopping. Attie yanks his hoodie over his head, leaving a thin white tee behind; his thick midsection grazes my cheek. He pulls the black oversized skull hoodie down over my head and places a tender kiss on each rosy nipple before guiding the cotton and polyester blend down my body.

Attie resumes rocking me. With Attie, I’m small and protected. He’s the glue that continues to hold me together every time the cracks in my soul extend. Reaching for his face, I place my palms against his bearded cheeks. I search his eyes, and I know he can see the conflict in mine. I press a soft kiss to his lips, and he tickles me with his mustache.

I couldn’t muster a laugh, even if I tried. Still not knowing how I got here is burdening me with stress, and I can’t seem to find the courage to tell Attie that I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t. I’m tired—not in a lethargic way—in a my soul is tired kind of way. A way that reads with restlessness and despair, strife and finality.

“You’re right. None of this is okay. Now, what do you wanna do about it?”

CHAPTER 24

ATTICUS

Seeing Lyr just lying on the floor like this scares the hell out of me. I have an idea of how she got here, but I need to know why here?

Why with him?