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off at my car. “Thanks again for coming out, Blake. I hope you had a good time.”
    “I did,” I assure her. “I really needed to do something like that.”
    “Good. Then we’ll be going again next Friday,” she remarks with a sly grin. “Don’t forget to dress up on Monday, and bring you’re A-game. We’ve got the meetings with the big wigs at Decker Enterprises.”
    “I will. Enjoy your weekend.”
    Hurriedly, I scamper to my car and slide into the driver’s seat, locking the doors immediately. Grateful to arrive home safely, I know I probably should’ve taken a cab instead of driving. Once I’m showered and in bed, I feel a tiny bit optimistic that tonight was a tiny sliver of light breaking through the bitter darkness that confines me like a caged animal.

A LTHOUGH I FELT LIKE Friday night was a step in the right direction, the weekend was two giant leaps backwards. Saturday afternoon, I decided to get courageous and go to the mall to look for a new outfit to wear for the meeting, but when I couldn’t find my car in the parking lot, I had a panic attack, where I dug my nails into my ribcage so hard I drew blood, which seeped through my shirt. Finally, one of the security officers circling around found me—a sobbing, bloody mess, crumpled in a ball on the pavement. At first, he’d thought I’d been beaten up by someone and wanted me to file a police report, but after I assured him a thousand times that wasn’t the case, he drove me around until I eventually located my car.
    Then, that night, one of the worst of my recurring nightmares paid an unwelcome visit. The ones involving my mom and brother, Brandon, are the cruelest, mostly because I can only imagine what exactly happened to them.
    Trapped in the dark attic of my mom’s house, I hear them both crying out for help, pleading and praying for mercy. I try over and over again to open the door to get to them, to offer myself in place of them for whatever torture they’re being subjected to, but to no avail. Physically exhausted, I collapse on the floor, and then I hear Ish’s voice.
    “If you wouldn’t do things to upset me, then I wouldn’t have to hurt other people. This is all your fault , minha Princesa Americana .”
    Looking around frantically for him so I can beg him to make whoever is hurting my family stop, I see I’m all alone in the room. I’m forced to sit there and listen to their suffering until it fades away, and the memory of the letter that was left at the scene is all that remains.

    I may be able to forgive myself for many things in my life, but I’ll never be able to absolve the fact they were brutally tortured and murdered because of me. Thinking about it makes me wish whole-heartedly I would’ve stayed the course with my miserably cruel life with him , just so they could’ve lived. The day I pulled the trigger, I unknowingly sealed their fate; however, I was too selfish to even think past saving my own life from the awful decisions I’d made that I never thought about retaliation against my loved ones. He used to tell me it was my fault he did the sick, gruesome things he did to other people, but I knew better—he was just fucked in the head. However, what happened to Mom and Brandon after I killed him is one hundred percent on me.
    Sunday morning I woke up with a busted-up lip where I’d chewed on it throughout my unsettled sleep. The scratch marks on my sides would easily be hidden under my clothes, but there was no way I could conceal a swollen and bruised bottom lip. My coworkers know I live alone, so I’m hoping I can blame the injury on clumsiness. I really have no other explanation.
    Waking up to get ready a little earlier than usual for the big proposal, I notice my lip looks worse than it did the day before, if that’s even possible. The bruise has turned a deep purple, and there’s a scab from the dried blood. I frown at my reflection, hoping I’m not a distraction from the presentation Jae and I