Almost Forgotten

Chapter 9: I Was Born a Liar

If I love you was a promise, would you break it, if you're honest?

It was four months into my mission when the first blood was drowning my boots as it fled around. Nightmares about them were nothing new, even now after almost five year the feeling has a strong grip on me.

Sometimes I see it from Harrison's perspective as I drive a knife through his neck. I could see the insanity of my face, the parted lips from gritting teeth as my strong grasp of the knife was reaching the redness of my face. Both natural and from the blood.

The nightmares leading on after were never about the situation and Harrison was never the monster from under the bed.

I was.

Gasping out, hand covering my chest after being pulled back from a repetitive and never ending circle. His eyes were almost rolled back, empty of life but my knife kept being pulled back in and out of his lifeless form. Blood splattered across my face, dirtying the image of an honorable agent and painting the perfect toy for Landon.

He was there when it happened and I never found out did he orchestrate it to find out how loyal I was. Even if he has, it was a win for neither of us.

"Let me guess." the shudder and harsh breaths from the memory was quickly suppressed by my shock of the voice. Getting over the usual emptiness of the room, I look over to Landon.

One leg shifted to have an ankle over his knee while keeping a not yet lit up cigarette between his fingers.

For a moment I have forgotten about all of this, but it hit me soon. Landon. Dad. Leah.

I have no chance for further questions when he adds. "Harrison Thompson."

Blood is running cold on me when I shut my eyes at the mention. A sick feeling, like the one you get before wanting to throw up but you physically can't, stumbled in my stomach.

My knees are reflexive being pulled up, my arms wrapped around the sheets and them when I place my head over it. Fingers are clenched, almost full of cramps as I fight the urge to bury them in my hair. But I don't want to bald sooner than needed.

My head feels as if it has been mixed into a bowl of acid and chocolate, all the things even distantly unrelated. I could barely breathe, but thinking was definitely off the table. Needles poking my nerve system was too much to handle, so I had to shut it down the best I could.

Leave all the emotions behind, act professional and ask only the things that are necessary for the moment.

That is Mrs. Brooks' favorite thing to tell us.

So I settled one at the time, easing into his sick game. "You know about that?"

There is an offended scoff, trying to be disguised as a nonchalant one when I barely lift my head, but turn it to him. His black hair, along with his whole clothing was drenched. It's only then that my ears manage to pick up the rain abusing the window glass and the porch wood.

He pulls out a lighter, bringing it towards his lip when my eyes quickly glance down and count all the used ones cigarettes in the ashtray. There are ten, still looking fresh cigarette butts in there, new one now between almost his lips.

Even if his body tries to play the impassive persona, his body doesn't listen to him as much as he would like to.

"Every day for a year and a half," he stops to pull in and out the filthy fog in and back from his lungs. "I have had you wake up in my arms. Do you honestly believe I never saw it?"

I swallow down, looking ahead, away from his judgmental eyes when I contemplate the next question, but he beats me by talking more. "You talked a lot in your sleep, even during the in and out consciousness state, but it seems never enough."