“Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do?”
Home, sweet home.
The Main family has a full-scale medical department in the mansion with top of the line equipment, private nurses and doctors on call 24/7.
He gets his own luxury hospital room with a large comfortable bed, silk sheets, artwork on the walls and a magnificent view, but the medical equipment he is connected to is still the same. Just newer. And more expensive. Not that he cares; Vegas is so exhausted that he can barely think straight. He’s back in the golden cage, but he’s at least safe from the monster here.
… Pete…
Every time he thinks about the monster his heart aches so terribly that it feels as if he’s been shot all over again. So Vegas tries to steer his thoughts far away from this sore spot.
When the elderly resident doctor visits for the first checkup of his new patient, his simple ‘How are you feeling?’ causes Vegas to dissolve into tears.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he replies.
Vegas feel like an empty husk; he’s a mess, he’s been broken, and it feels as if he’ll never be able to put himself back together again. So why bother?
Thankfully his doctor is smart enough to read the signs, even if his patient is unable to vocalise just what exactly is wrong. They have a quiet conversation, just the two of them. Vegas tells him about the nightmares—not exactly what they’re about, but that they keep him awake all the time. He has to answer a lot of questions that aren’t really related to his injuries, but more to his mental state of mind. In the end the doctor decides to implement a ‘no visitors’ rule, for the time being. That includes everyone in his family. No one gets to see him apart from the nurses and the doctor.
He needs rest, he is told. He’s been traumatised. His mind needs a break so that his body can heal without stress. He’s showing signs of depression, too. Vegas will get sleeping pills for the next 10 days that will knock him out, so that he will get a full night’s rest. But only on the condition that he will then see a therapist afterwards to deal with his trauma. Whatever. Vegas has no energy left to protest or even care.
And he sleeps, like Sleeping Beauty. Not just during the nights, but during most of the days as well. And when he’s awake, Vegas spends hours just staring at the walls or out the window. He isn’t hungry. He doesn’t want to talk. Having people around him is exhausting. He wants to be left alone.
The safe space in his mind is gone, pulverised, obliterated. There’s nowhere to hide from the terrible reality; denial is pointless. Vegas is left in a seemingly endless state of stunned shock. He simply can’t process the devastating truth about Pete and move on.
His body heals. Breathing doesn’t hurt any more. The chest pain is nearly gone, too, but his left arm is still not cooperating and his back feels wrong. Muscle damage, they tell him. He will need extensive physical therapy. Vegas finds himself as weak as a newborn child, which is rather unsettling. He needs help with everything. He can’t even walk.
His body might be slowly on the mend, but his mind is an altogether different thing.
“You need therapy, Khun Vegas,” the doctor once again patiently points out during one of his daily visits. “It’s no use trying to hide from your trauma. Sleeping pills and antidepressants are not going to fix this, and you know it.”
Vegas stares out of the window, simply feeling a bone-deep exhaustion. It’s raining again. The sky is crying because Vegas can’t even cry anymore at this point.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says quietly. “I just want to forget.”
Forget about everything. Turn back time. Fix everything. Never fall in love with a monster.
“You can’t hide in this room forever. I’ve been giving you the privacy you so desperately need, but you and me both know this is not going to last forever. Even Khun Korn’s patience will run out at some point. Your father has been very vocal in his displeasure about you being here, and not at your own family compound. I’m getting a lot of pressure from all sides, Khun Vegas.” The doctor sighs. “I want you to start with the physical therapy tomorrow. You are just wasting away in this bed; this needs to stop.”
“I’m still so damn tired,” Vegas protests quietly. “I just need more rest, I can start physical therapy when I have recovered some more.”
“You’ve recovered enough,” the doctor decides for him, overruling his objections. “And starting tomorrow, you will also see a psychotherapist for your trauma and depression.”
Vegas cringes, just hearing the word ‘therapist’ brings back very bad memories.
“I’m not good with therapy, I tried it before, it didn’t work out.”
He shies away from even thinking about his few therapy sessions, but now that the topic has been broached, another painful realisation crystallises in his mind. That part was fake too; he never met a real therapist, never had real therapy. The asshole faked it all, and the knowledge of that hurts incredibly.
“Besides, my father wouldn’t want me to have therapy,” he adds desperately.
“As long as you’re staying here with the Main family, Khun Korn is the one making all decisions. I have already discussed this with him and he’s given the ‘go ahead’,” the doctor informs him calmly. “You will talk to Khun Tankhun’s therapist; she’s been vetted and can be trusted.”
Vegas snorts softly. “And everything I say will find its way back to my loving uncle.” What a fucking nightmare. He knows he should be more upset about this and the fact that he doesn’t care is another glaring red flag regarding his deteriorating mental state. But he doesn’t have the energy to care or be upset. He’s run out of fuel; there is no outrage to ignite. Everything inside him feels burned to ashes. His mind is a bleak, desolate place these days.
“Just give it a try, Khun Vegas. She’s a good person to talk to; I believe she can really help you. Without her, your cousin wouldn’t be able to function.”
Vegas just shrugs. Fine. Whatever. He is tired again, he wants to curl up underneath his blanket and escape into sleep. This isn’t going to work. This is never going to work.
----------------------------------------
The therapist is a pleasant surprise. She is an elderly woman with laughter lines around the eyes and greying hair, and strangely enough Vegas doesn’t find her presence intrusive. She just shows up with her knitting kit, greets him warmly and takes a seat and then she just sits there and knits. All the apprehension Vegas was feeling about this session seeps out of him. Besides, he has no energy to be constantly on guard. They spend two hours in silence, the only sound in the room the clicking of the knitting needles. Then she bids him farewell again. Strange.
True to his word, the doctor also sends two physical therapists. Twice per day, they gently but firmly talk Vegas through a multitude of exercises. If Vegas thought he was exhausted before, he now learns what true exhaustion is. For the first time he realises how utterly weak he is after spending weeks bedridden. Where have all his muscles disappeared to? And has it really been weeks? He’s lost all sense of time. Lost all interest in time, too.
Another week goes by and he makes progress. He can actually—with help—walk a few meters now. His sole motivation for not giving up on the training is to be able to go to the bathroom on his own. Damn, it’s embarrassing to need help with that. And as for his therapy—he’s knitting now. His therapist just hands him the equipment one afternoon and starts explaining how to do it. Vegas feels a bit steamrolled, but goes with the flow. This will improve his fine motor skills, he’s being told. Especially in his left hand, where his fingers still feel numb most of the time. Knitting sucks. Vegas hates not being good at something right away. But he hates talking even more, so he’d rather knit than do a deep-dive into the mess that is his mind. He notices that he has to concentrate so hard on what he’s doing that he doesn’t have time to wallow in misery. Damn that therapist, she is sneaky.
They start talking too. Mostly about the knitting. Then about patience, when Vegas repeatedly throws the needles across the room in frustration. Underneath the thick layer of his exhaustion, Vegas discovers that there is a bubbling ocean of frustration, resentment, and other volatile emotions just waiting to be unleashed. Self-control seems to be non-existent these days; when the damn knitting goes wrong he finds himself suddenly slamming the knitting needles repeatedly into the mattress, just stabbing down down down, which triggers a visual flashback of broken glass turning a body into minced meat.
His throat suddenly feels constricted. Vegas takes a strangled breath as the image of the body blurs and turns into the monster, looking up at him and giving him a dimpled smile, and Vegas rams the knitting needles into the monster’s chest with a hiss. “I hate you!” And then he snaps out of it again and stares in shock at his mutilated mattress. Shit. What the hell? Where did that come from?
“It’s not just the shooting, is it?” his therapist asks him softly, her voice free of any judgement. She doesn’t look shocked by this unexpected outburst at all.
This is so embarrassing; Vegas wishes the earth would just swallow him on the spot. No such luck though. He is at a loss for how to explain this outburst, and just shrugs helplessly.
“Actually, I expected you to snap a lot earlier. Even in the exhausted state you’re in, you still have a very strong urge to stay in control all the time. No wonder you’re so stressed out, Khun Vegas. You can’t keep all these emotions bottled up forever, and you know it. I’m here to help you learn to find a valve, so you can release that pressure in a controlled way before you explode.” The woman just smiles gently at him. “Let’s try to find out what’s stressing you most, and then brainstorm to find a way to deal with that stress in a constructive way. I’ll give you a hint: talking about it helps a lot.”
“But I don’t want to talk about it.” Vegas looks at the slightly bent knitting needles in his hands and drops them on the floor. He’s disgusted with himself over this outburst. He’s such a damn freak. They should have just let him die.
“Yes, you do. You’re practically screaming to talk to someone, Khun Vegas. So talk. I’ll listen. I don’t think there are any listening devices in this room, and if you’re worried about the journal I’m keeping, the journal my employer has the tendency to read, there will be a lot of notes about your knitting progress…” She winks at Vegas.
He has to smile reluctantly. Uncle Korn will not be happy to read about knitting—this therapist has guts, sticking to her work ethics like this. Which reminds him of Pete—no, the monster—he swallows dryly… well, all his talk about work ethics turned out to be just another lie… and Vegas’ heart aches again.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start…” he admits quietly.
“Let’s start with the most obvious part then: you do not like being here,” his therapist points out.
Vegas swallows again, and leans back, staring at the white ceiling. “I came here of my own free will,” he points out with a sigh. “I even begged to be allowed to come here.”
“As far as I understand, you fought tooth and nails to break free from this family. If you hadn’t been this seriously injured, and if you hadn’t been in the fragile emotional state you’re currently in, I sincerely doubt you would have ever asked to come back here, Khun Vegas. So why did you walk back into the cage?”
“… Safety…” Vegas answers, without even having to think about it. He closes his eyes; it would be so nice to be able to escape into the darkness again. Unfortunately he’s wide awake.
“Safety from what?” The knitting needles start clicking again. It’s a comforting sound. “You had a private hospital room with bodyguards stationed at the door. But that didn’t make you feel safe?”
As if that would stop Pete… what a joke.
“No. Right here is the only place where I feel relatively safe from the monsters,” Vegas admits.
“I take it this relates to the shooting. Was your assailant ever caught?”
Vegas curls his hands into fists. “No,” he says quietly. “The monster is still out there.” He doesn’t want to think about him, it hurts too badly.
The knitting needles fall silent. “Do you know who shot you then? I was under the impression that you couldn’t remember.”
Yeah well, about that… “The memories have come back. I know who shot me.” And he will never be able to forget it. That moment has burned itself into his very soul. He is revisiting it every night in his dreams.
“Have you informed the police about this then? Or are you going to let your family handle the matter?”
Vegas flinches. Surprisingly enough, everything inside of him violently opposes the thought of letting his family handle this. And that reaction confuses him. What is wrong with him? He shouldn’t be feeling this way. “I’ll tell the police eventually. This is a police matter after all. I just haven’t had the energy for it yet,” he explains hastily. “It has to do with some of my cases.”
“Do you personally know the person who shot you?”
Yes! Yes, he does! He wants to shout it out loud for the whole world to hear. But the words die before they even get close to being voiced and instead he says, “No. I just know it’s a killer I’ve been investigating, that’s all.” Damn! What’s wrong with him?! He shouldn’t keep this to himself, he needs to tell people. The monster needs to be dealt with before he kills again!
His therapist sighs. “And you think this killer will be coming after you now, since he failed at killing you on the first attempt?”
“Are you here to finish the job?”
“No, of course not.”
“I’m not going to kill you Vegas, I promise.”
Breathing becomes once again difficult as the memories hit him. The look on Pete’s face—NO! Notgoingthere! It hurts. His chest hurts and Vegas nearly panics. He can’t answer that question. He doesn’t know how to answer it, he just doesn’t know!
“Did the killer try to contact you while you were in the hospital, by chance?” His therapist’s voice intrudes softly, reminding Vegas that he’s not alone in the room.
“I’m not going to kill you Vegas, I promise.”
He nods numbly. This whole conversation is so painful; he doesn’t want to remember, he doesn’t want to think about this! Everything coming out of the monster’s mouth has been a lie. He can’t be trusted. He’s going to kill Vegas. Pete’s going to kill him. And that knowledge is excruciating; Vegas wants to curl up and try to protect himself from this brutal truth somehow.
“I see.” The knitting needles start their rhythmic clicking again. “No wonder you didn’t feel safe there. In light of this, I think coming here was the most logical decision to be made. You did the right thing, Khun Vegas. You might be trapped here for the time being, but at least you are safe.”
“I’m stuck in the fucking cage and they’ll never let me go again,” Vegas points out gloomily. “It’s only a matter of time before the demands from all sides start; as soon as I feel a bit better they’ll all descend on me like vultures.”
This seems to amuse his therapist, because she chuckles lightly. “So let them try. How old were you when you cut yourself loose the first time? 18 years? You were practically still a child, and yet you were strong-willed enough to go against not only your father but your uncle as well. Don’t forget you’re an adult now, Khun Vegas. They couldn’t force you to stay as a teenager, why on earth do you think they’ll be able to enforce their will now that you’re an adult? Let them try, I say. I predict that when the time comes, no one will be able to keep you here against your will. You’re just too depressed right now to see this.”
“I wish I had your confidence in myself, but right now I feel as if I’ve died,” Vegas objects tiredly. “There’s nothing left, I just feel dead inside, I have no energy to rebel at all.”
“Because of the person you hate so much that you imagined stabbing them with the knitting needles?”
Not pulling any punches I see. Vegas cringes and pulls the blanket tightly around himself, he is feeling cold all of a sudden. “I don’t think I want to talk about this…”
“Who else are you going to talk to then? Your friends? What friends?” the therapist points out. “Khun Porsche? Who is in a relationship with the cousin you hate and cannot be trusted not to spill the beans about your private matters?”
Vegas winces again because she has a point. He can’t talk to Porsche about this.
“Who else are you going to talk to?” she asks again. “You shot your only other friend, didn’t you?”
Tem… Vegas heart constricts painfully and he gives his therapist a wary glance. She must have been talking to Macau, he decides. Macau and Porsche. Maybe even Tankhun. Shit.
“You didn’t get any trauma counselling after that incident, right? It seems to be a sore spot judging from your reaction.”
“I talked to someone,”—the monster—“but that didn’t really help,” Vegas admits in a small voice.
“Was it the same police department counsellor that you were seeing because of your anger issues? Khun Porsche told me about this,” she adds, when Vegas gives her a surprised look. Of course it was Porsche.
The monster… “Yes. Turns out that anger management training was a waste of time,” Vegas whispers bitterly. “I guess you could say me and that therapist weren’t compatible at all.”
This time, she stays silent, just continuing to knit while watching Vegas calmly. Waiting. Waiting. What is she waiting for? He has nothing to add. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He wants to go back to sleep, isn’t it time for a nap? What is she waiting for?
“You could say we had a difference of opinion regarding work ethics,” Vegas eventually says, just to break the silence. But apparently it’s not enough, she’s still waiting for him to say something else it seems. It’s grating on his nerves. If only he could ignore this.
Finally, just when Vegas thinks he can’t t take the silence any more, she comments, “Wasn’t that therapist involved in the shooting of your partner as well?”
Vegas swallows hard. What an understatement.
“Yes. I shot Tem because of him.”
Oh God, he shot Tem to protect the monster. The damn, manipulative, lying monster. This was probably all a setup as well, carefully choreographed to get rid of Tem. He used me, again. Vegas feels himself getting teary all over as that realisation hits.
The woman notices how upset he is getting. “Do you feel guilty for your partner’s death, Khun Vegas? I heard he was threatening to shoot someone. If you hadn’t intervened, that other person would have died—the other person being your therapist…”
Angry at himself for not being able to suppress his runaway emotions, Vegas wipes the tears off his cheeks, but they just keep welling up, more and more. “Of course I feel guilty. It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. If it hadn’t been for me, none of this would have happened!”
“So your partner threatened to kill your therapist because of you?”
He can’t talk about this. He just can’t talk about this. No one is supposed to know. And yet…
“Tem was jealous.” Never before have three words been so difficult to say, but it feels as if some of the weight on his shoulders has been lifted. All those damn secrets are wearing him out, such a heavy weight to carry all the time.
“Were you in a romantic relationship with him?” His therapist just sounds curious, not judging him at all. Which is a relief.
“No. Not really. It was complicated…” Vegas doesn’t even know where to start explaining this mess, but perhaps he doesn’t need to.
“You’re aware that workplace romances and relationships are pretty common, right?” the woman calmly points out to him. “That goes for same-sex couples as well. This is another stress factor, isn’t it? Having to hide who you really are?”
If only the damn tears would stop welling up… Vegas keeps wiping them away angrily. He hates being so emotional; this is the monster’s fault as well. He used to be in control of himself, but now he’s broken. Damaged. All control has disappeared.
“I hate this,” he mumbles under his breath.
“Desperately clinging to control is exactly why you are now having an emotional meltdown, Khun Vegas. There comes a point when your body cannot endure bottling up everything, and you have reached that point. Instead of using all your energy trying to subdue your feelings, why not open a valve, let them out and talk about it?” his therapist reminds him gently while continuing to knit. “Were you in love with your partner?”
Let it all out? What is she even talking about? If Vegas allows himself to let go of control, he will never be able to put himself back together again. He’s barely hanging on as it is. “No… Yes… Maybe. It was more like a crush. I had a crush on him because that was safe, I knew it was impossible, it would never go anywhere, I don’t do workplace flings. It was just a crush, but for him it was so much more.”
The words just flow out of him; she’s right, he desperately wants to talk about this with someone. But he’s horrified to hear himself admit all of this anyway.
“And it was impossible because…?”
“My father kills everyone I’m trying to have a relationship with.”
Despite his exhaustion, Vegas feels intense anger about this. He hates his father with a passion bordering on madness. But they’re father and son, and that makes everything so much more complicated.
“You could say he has a slight problem with me being gay.”
His therapist nods thoughtfully. “Khun Gun doesn’t come across as the most open-minded person. So as a result, you cut yourself off from anyone you are attracted to, in order to protect them from your father’s wrath. But what about your needs? Don’t you think you deserve a loving relationship as well? When are you going to put your own needs above those of others, Khun Vegas?”
Vegas closes his eyes and swallows hard. It feels as if his throat is closing up again. He pulls the blanket tightly around himself because all of these questions are making him feel increasingly vulnerable.
“It’s just not worth it. If I care, people leave or die. It’s not worth it. That’s why I tried to just be friends with Tem, even when he wanted more. And even then I had to be so damn careful all the time to make sure my father didn’t find out about that friendship. It’s better if I stay away from everyone.”
The knitting needles come to a stop again. “So what was it that made you take the risk anyway? You mentioned that Tem was jealous. This involves your police counsellor, doesn’t it?”
“I think we should take a break now, I’m feeling very tired…” Vegas deflects. He feels brittle, not ready to talk about him.
“You weren’t ready to take any risks for Tem because you were—with good reason—genuinely scared that this would get him killed. So what was it about your therapist, a person who should be even more off-limits than your partner, that made you take the risk anyway? He’s the one you were stabbing with the knitting needles, isn’t he? The one who evokes such strong feelings in you?”
“I can’t do this!” Vegas shakes his head repeatedly, trying to shut out those words. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“What did he do to you to make you feel this strongly? Did he reject you? You said you weren’t compatible.”
The questions keep coming relentlessly.
“Please…” Vegas curls up on the bed. He can’t even get up and walk out, because he’s still too weak. There’s nowhere to flee and hide. “I don’t want to talk about this, please…”
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“What happened, Khun Vegas?”
“I can’t… I really can’t…”
I found out I fell in love with a deranged killer, he wants to scream. He’s a damn psychopath, that is what happened! But he can’t tell anyone, he can’t, he must not tell anyone, surely Pete’s going to kill anyone who finds out! He can’t endanger people by telling them about Pete being a serial killer, no. Then again, keeping it all to himself is so tiring, Vegas has no energy for this. The problem is that he’s cracked, he is damaged, no matter how much he wants to resist answering, deep down he just wants it all to come out—at least partially.
“He made me fall in love…” he whispers brokenly after a while. “I didn’t want to. I tried so hard not to be attracted to him and it was all for nothing.”
Again, the therapist asks softly, “What went wrong?”
“He lied… he lied about everything… everything…” And the tears are rolling again. His heart aches just as badly as when he got shot.
Pete shot him. Pete is trying to kill him. It hurts. It feels as if every fibre of his being is vibrating with pain.
“It hurts so damn much,” Vegas whispers. “It just won’t stop hurting. I don’t know how to make it stop.”
“Have you tried talking to him about how his lies made you feel?”
Blinking away the tears, Vegas laughs weakly. As if the lies were their only problem. “Hell no. I don’t ever want to talk to him or see him again.”
The woman sighs. “I’m sure you know very well that a therapist is not supposed to have a relationship with a patient for precisely these reasons, Khun Vegas. As a patient, you’re vulnerable and you can be easily exploited. But I’m not here to judge you, love is love, you can’t choose whom you’re attracted to. The thing you need to focus on right now is how to emotionally wrap up this situation in a way that feels satisfactory to you, so that you can move on without any regrets. You should think about this until we meet again. If you don’t want to talk to him again, maybe you should write him a letter just to get it all off your chest. And I am not saying you need to mail the letter. If it makes you feel better, you can burn it. I’ve had patients who thought this was a very satisfying way to move on.”
Burn the letter? How about burning the monster instead? Burn it to ashes until there is nothing left. Burn it and hear it screaming. Make it hurt just as badly as Vegas is hurting. Now that would be a satisfactory way to end it all, as far as Vegas is concerned.
His therapist has stopped knitting and is putting away everything into her large bag. She collects even the yarn and knitting needles that Vegas dropped on the floor.
“I’ll allow you to rest now, Khun Vegas. You must be very tired. Thank you for talking to me. I will see you tomorrow.”
And since Vegas is still lost in thoughts and not paying attention to her, she simply leaves the room.
Vegas pulls the blanket over his head. Darkness. Silence. Finally. He thinks about flames and screams, and his lips curve into a dark smile. “I hate you,” he whispers. “I hate you.”
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For yet another night Vegas walks amongst the dead, haunted by a Cheshire Cat smile. The dreams are relentless. He wants to torch everything, burn the dead, burn the Cheshire Cat. Burn it all. The next morning after breakfast, much to the surprise of everyone, he asks for his phone. This is a first; he hasn’t shown any interest in the outside world in weeks. Progress, the doctor calls it cautiously, and promises to relay his request.
When the therapist shows up again, Vegas takes his knitting tools and declares that he doesn’t feel like talking today, he is still processing. And then he knits. If it were up to him, the yarn would be black, as black and dark as his thoughts. He didn’t care what he was knitting beforehand, but now he envisions a shawl. Long and black, a shawl that he wants to wrap around the neck of the monster, wrap it really tight, cutting off its air supply. Before his inner eye he can see the surprised look on the monster’s face, how very satisfying it would be to watch the life drain from his eyes, to see the smile slip from the handsome face forever. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, he thinks while knitting.
His therapist comments on his aggressive knitting style today, but Vegas refuses to engage. In his mind he kills the monster over and over again. I hate you.
After physical therapy, this afternoon brings another surprise. The door opens unexpectedly and in walks his brother. They stare at each other in startled silence for a few moments, then Macau hurries over to the bed Vegas is sitting on, throws his arms around him and hugs him tightly.
Exhausted from his physical therapy session, Vegas exhales a shuddering breath and hugs him back. They cling to each other for the longest time. He really missed Macau, Vegas realises. He’s been so caught up in his own troubles that he actually forgot about his brother, and now that he is here, Vegas is reminded once again that there are people who care about him. It feels damn nice.
“You look much better,” Macau mumbles, clearly reluctant to let Vegas go. For a moment, Vegas feels ashamed. Poor Macau must have been through hell these past weeks.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and hugs his brother tightly. “I’m so sorry. I was so wrapped up in myself I forgot about you. I am really a shitty brother.”
“I am just glad you’re alive, Vegas. Don’t ever do this to me again, all right? What am I supposed to do if you die? You’re basically all the family I have.”
“Well, you have your crappy cousins too, don’t forget them,” Vegas reminds him, and Macau just groans.
“They don’t count, those Main family freaks…” The brothers share a chuckle, then finally stop hugging.
Macau sits on the bed beside Vegas. There is a moment of silence, then both of them sigh.
“I’m glad they finally allowed me to visit,” Macau says softly. “I got a daily update from your doctor but that really wasn’t enough. Porsche has also been climbing the walls: he’s driving everyone insane with his complaints about not being able to visit you.”
“Just tell him I’m doing much better. Visitors are pretty exhausting, Macau. I really just needed a long break from everyone.” Vegas sighs again and gives his brother a faint smile.
“Oh, before I forget…” Macau pulls Vegas’ phone and a loader from one of his pockets. “I got this from Porsche; he got it from the police. We cleaned it up best we could, but you need to load it I think.”
The last time he saw his phone was in the greenhouse… Vegas swallow hard.
Red flowers. Red and black. His phone slipping through his bloody fingers…
He swallows hard again before he pockets the phone. “Thank you.”
“Everything is going to be fine, right?” Macau asks him anxiously. “This here’s just temporary, correct? You are not actually going to stay here, are you? Pa’s having a fit about you being with the Main family.”
“This was a necessary evil, Macau. Don’t fret, you know me. I will find a way to extract myself from the family again and go back to living my own life. Have a little faith in me. I just need to recover first.”
“Are you sure Uncle Korn will let you go again?” His brother doesn’t sound convinced.
“I swear I can handle it, don’t worry.” Vegas sounds a lot more confident than he feels. This isn’t going to be without complications. But he remembers the words of his therapist. He’s an adult now; this is going to be much easier than the last time. Hopefully.
“What are you going to do about Pa?”
“I can handle Pa as well. Trust me.” If only Vegas had faith in himself, too, regarding this issue. Meeting his father will be interesting. He does not look forward to this at all.
The visit and the physical therapy, coupled with his lack of sleep, is making him tired again. Macau stays a little bit longer and then reluctantly leaves. Vegas falls asleep the second he closes his eyes.
----------------------------------------
It’s evening, and the phone is fully loaded. Vegas stares at it, somewhat reluctant to switch it back on. He’s been so sheltered these past weeks, he has no clue what’s been going on in the world outside, and isn’t sure he is really ready to rejoin life. But he promised Macau to stay in touch, and then there is Porsche, too, who deserves some peace of mind. Not to mention work…
Well, better to get it over with. He can’t sleep anyway, or rather, he doesn’t dare to. He’s not looking forward to the nightmares at all. No more sleeping pills to keep them at bay. Every night is just endless suffering, as far as Vegas is concerned.
The phone powers on. The notifications start popping up. So many. Well, that was expected.
His mail, too, is overflowing and it feels overwhelming. He isn’t ready for any of this. Vegas decides to just sort them for now and answer them later. That needs to be enough, he’s still recovering after all.
So many emails.
The only one that catches his interest is an email from Arm. Shit. What can this be about? More things to add to his nightmares? Vegas’ stomach drops. What has the monster been up to now while he’s been at the hospital? He doesn’t deal well with rejection. Shouldn’t have touched the phone, shouldn’t have looked at the emails. Too late now, too late. Walk away, he tells himself—and then clicks on the email anyway.
Vegas reads. And blinks. It takes him a moment to remember what this is related to. Oh, yes. The body in the crushed car. Relief floods Vegas, no new dead bodies at least. Now what is this about again…?
Apparently this is about Alak Sunthorn. The deceased. Arm finally managed to get the ID card out of the metal mess. The name doesn’t ring a bell but according to the pattern, this must be somehow connected to Vegas.
… Cheshire Cat… I hate you…
Vegas logs in to the police server and does a search. The information appears on the screen, the ID card photo too. Fuck! He knows that face. Fuck! And suddenly the snide little comment on that card—‘You are welcome’— makes perfect sense too.
White hot rage floods Vegas and he throws his pillow across the room. That bastard! He’s going to kill him!
… I met him in high school…
… three wonderful weeks of dating…
… lunch at my father’s favourite restaurant…
… my boyfriend across the street…
… the moment the car hit him…
… like watching a puppet fall, its limbs fluttering around lifelessly and broken…
… I saw the driver who hit him, you know. He was my father’s Main bodyguard at that time…
… my father’s bodyguard…
Alak Sunthorn. His father’s bodyguard that fateful day. The one who drove the car. Vegas wants to scream.
You are welcome. He’s so angry he’s trembling. You are welcome. The nerve! I didn’t ask for this, he wants to scream. It just feels like yet another betrayal. Something told in confidence, and the monster used it as an excuse to kill yet another human being. I hate you, he thinks, hitting the mattress with his fists. I hate you so damn much! As if he would condone this murder because it was a shitty person who got killed, someone who was part of hurting Vegas in the past. You bloody asshole! I’m a goddamn cop, you really thought I would be okay with this?!
Vegas is fuming. For the first time in weeks he’s feeling something other than despair, heartache, hurt and exhaustion. He is going to kill this bloody monster, he is going to wring his neck, shoot him, throw him off a roof, burn him to a crisp. The anger feels rejuvenating. This is so much better than curling up in bed and staring at the walls. The anger blows away the brain fog, and the only thing keeping Vegas from storming out of this room to get himself a gun for dealing with this problem is the fact that his body isn’t ready yet.
I hate you. I fucking hate you!
----------------------------------------
Vegas drifts along a river of red and black flowers. The dead are reaching for him, clawing and screaming silently, trying to drag him down into the maelstrom of flowers and blood. This is all his fault and they know it. They want their pound of flesh, and if he won’t deliver the monster to them, they will make do with Vegas…
With a stifled scream, Vegas jerks awake. This is the forth time already tonight. His heart is pounding hard in his chest, triggering memories of how it felt when he was bleeding out. Vegas is on the edge of another panic attack. He grabs his phone, desperately looking for something to distract him.
The room is dark; the only thing lighting it up a bit is the screen of his phone. So many messages. He’s just going to read a few, until his heart is back to beating normally again, and he can go back to sleep. Maybe he’ll be able to catch a few more hours before the next nightmare.
So many messages.
“Join us for a live webinar on 5/8 at 4 pm.”
“Your appointment is tomorrow at 3:00 pm.”
“Take 20% off your order with code THANKYOU.”
“Your parking is about to expire.”
“DHL: Your parcel is arriving tomorrow, track here.”
“You have 47 missed calls.”
“I am so sorry.”
Vegas’ breathing becomes ragged. An unknown number. Four words. He re-reads them, and gasps. That message dates from the day he got shot.
“I am so sorry.”
Vegas feels numbness spread through his whole body. One moment his heart was racing, now it is beating sluggishly, stuttering painfully. There’s more; this isn’t the only message from that number.
“So damn sorry.”
“I messed up really badly, I’m sorry.”
“I know you most likely cannot read this right now but I need you to know I really regret shooting you.”
"I’m so very very sorry, Vegas.”
The messages just keep going on and on and on, sprinkled over the timeline of his hospital stay. The more Vegas reads, the colder he feels. His heart aches. No, his very soul aches. Every word hurts. Every word is a dagger to his heart, every letter a twist of that dagger. It hurts really badly. Vegas has broken into pieces and now the monster is using these words to grind the pieces together, like the fragments of a broken bone. It’s excruciating.
“I’m so damn worried about you.”
“I can’t get any information about your health status, this is driving me insane.”
“Are you awake yet?”
“Sorry?”
“Can you even read this?”
“I miss you so damn much, Vegas.”
“Are you healing well?”
“Why are you not reading this? I’m so worried.”
“Could you please talk to me?”
“I know I messed up badly, but could you please stop ignoring me?”
“Are you healing well? Can you not send me a life-sign, please?”
“Talk to me, Vegas. Please?”
Vegas feels his throat constrict. He shouldn’t read this. He should delete the whole thing. He should block this number right away. What is he even doing, reading all these lies? His heart is a black cloud of hatred, but occasionally, there are the tiniest sparkles of another emotion, like fireflies in the night. And those words feed the fireflies. Fireflies and sparks. Feelings. So many emotions. I don’t want to feel like this. This is wrong. This cannot be happening. What’s wrong with me? He shouldn’t be feeling like this. This is the person who shot him. This is the person who murdered several people in the most horrific manner. This is a pathological liar. He shouldn’t be feeling anything but hatred and disgust reading this. And yet…
“I hope your nightmares will stop soon.”
“I love you. Don’t give up on me, please.”
“I am so sorry. I really didn’t mean to kill you, please forgive me.”
“I know I’m not good at this whole relationship thing, but would you please give me another chance?”
“I’m so damn in love with you, Vegas. Please talk to me, this silence is excruciating.”
“Please make sure you get plenty of rest, all right? I worry about you.”
“I miss you.”
“Can you really just turn off your feelings like this? Vegas…”
“I’m your missing puzzle piece, remember? I need you. Please talk to me.”
“I don’t like how you make me feel.”
“Please don’t be afraid of me.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, I genuinely love you. This was all a terrible mistake, I was such an idiot for not realising that I love you sooner.”
“Am I really that unlovable?”
“How many more times do I need to apologise?”
“For fucks sake, stop ignoring me! If you keep this up I will force you to pay attention to me, you know I have my ways!”
“I'm sorry! Sorry sorry sorry!!! Shit! I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to write this! I swear, I won’t hurt you again, or anyone you care about. I’m sorry, I’m going crazy here. Sorry.”
“I feel like shit, Vegas. Is this what you wanted to achieve with your silence? Because it’s working.”
“I know I deserve it but could you please stop being so cruel? Please just give me a life sign.”
“I really love you. How can I convince you of that?”
“What am I supposed to do without you? I need you, Vegas. I cannot be without you.”
“Would you please let me apologise in person?”
“I love you.”
Vegas absorbs all the words hungrily; it’s as if he’s actually hearing that familiar, silky voice begging him, whispering apologies and love confessions right into his ear with increasing desperation. I can’t do this, he realises numbly. I can’t deal with how this makes me feel. Every word is a stab to his injured heart. I am not ready for this. Why am I still feeling this much, this is wrong! These are the words of a monster! He shouldn’t be feeling even the slightest hint of conflict! He hates the monster! Hates hates hates him! Why does it hurt so much? Oh God, he must be a horrible person, he shouldn’t have any feelings other than hatred for this monster! Something’s wrong with him! The monster has broken him beyond repair!
With shaking fingers, Vegas turns off the phone. He needs to cut himself loose, or he will be dragged right back into the abyss again. A minute later, he holds the tiny SIM card between his fingers. Time to let go. Time to snuff out the sparks. Time to let the fireflies die. He drops the card onto the bedside table and uses the corner of his phone to grind it into pieces. And ignores how his treacherous heart aches while he does so.
And you loved me
I could feel it
Cause I loved you
Can’t eclipse it
It goes on, it goes on
Love
It goes on, it goes on
Still love you
----------------------------------------
Vegas asks for a new SIM card in the morning and receives it promptly. He sends his new phone number to Macau and Porsche with the strict instruction not to share this number with anyone. He’s still feeling numb, as if he’s once again bleeding internally. He isn’t hungry; he refuses breakfast. Vegas endures his physical therapy session in a daze; he’s so out of it and distracted that he keeps falling down, and he welcomes the physical pain. He deserves to be in pain. He should be punished for having no control whatsoever about his emotions. He’s a terrible person because the monster made him feel impossible things again. A serial killer. Vegas shouldn’t be feeling like this. It’s wrong.
When his therapist enters the room later that day, she takes one look at him and arches an eyebrow.
“I told you to think about our talk, but it seems you thought about it more than I expected, Khun Vegas.” She holds up the bag with the knitting equipment. “You want to take it easy today or is there anything else I can help you with?”
He can’t believe he’s doing this, but the words simply burst out of him. “I need help.”
The woman smiles softly at him and nods. “So I figured, that’s what I’m here for.” She takes a seat and soon her knitting needles are clicking again. “Is there anything specific you need help with?”
Vegas swallows hard. “Yes. I need to stop feeling like this, it’s tearing me apart. It needs to stop, please tell me how to make it stop.”
“Feeling like what, Khun Vegas? You think you could be a bit more specific? I know it must be difficult for someone as private as you to vocalise your feelings, but talking about it counts as the first step.”
It feels as if he’s choking on the words, they seem to get stuck in his throat on the way out. Vegas clears his throat repeatedly. He looks down and notices with surprise that he is wringing his hands. Just say it, he thinks. Just get it over with.
“I… I need to… I need to fall out of love… fast.” His soul weeps, every cell in his body vehemently rejects these words he is saying. But it’s the right thing to do. The only possible solution to this. He cannot be in love with a serial killer. “I can’t go on like this, it needs to stop.”
“If it were that simple to stop yourself from feeling love, then there wouldn’t be countless self-help books about it,” his therapist gently reminds him.
“I cannot be in love with this person,” Vegas insists quietly. “I cannot —must not—even have the slightest feelings for him. We are completely incompatible and this … relationship… never should have started in the first place. Please help me; I need to make it stop, it’s tearing me apart.”
The knitting needles keep on clicking, and the silence spreads in the room. “You’re talking about your inappropriate relationship with your police therapist, aren’t you? What was his name again?”
Vegas opens his mouth but can’t bring himself to say the name. It just won’t come out. It’s a fake name anyway. He gives his knitting therapist a helpless look. “I can’t…”
“What do you think will happen if you tell me his name? Saying his name out loud will make you feel exactly what, Khun Vegas?”
“I need distance.” Vegas is wringing his hands so hard that it starts hurting. Maybe he’ll even be bruised by tomorrow. “This is me keeping my distance, at least I am trying to. I can’t make this real, his name is making it too real, I can’t deal with it. It’s just self-protection.” The name is a lie, just a mask for the monster underneath, but he can’t tell her that.
“Yes, I understand that, but what will saying his name make you feel?”
… Pete…
Vegas feels overwhelmed just thinking about the name and closes his eyes, his hands curling into fists. The pain of the fingernails digging into his palms grounds him slightly. When he eventually speaks, his voice is very small, barely audible.
“Hurt. Anger. Hatred. Pain. Confusion. Sadness. Grief.” He pauses briefly, and swallows hard. “Longing. Lust. Love.”
“And which of these emotions scare you the most?”
“I can’t have any kind of positive emotion when it comes to him. I need this to stop.” Vegas hates how desperate he sounds, but he feels desperate too. He shouldn’t have read those messages from the monster, they seriously messed with his state of mind. “I can’t function like this. I need it to end, I want everything to go back to the way it was before I met him.”
“You know that these are unrealistic expectations you have,” she calmly points out, while continuing to knit. “You can’t turn back time. You can’t erase what has already happened. And this goes for emotions you’ve experienced, as well. You’ll always have the memories of them with you. The only thing you can do is to decide how to deal with them in the present and in the future. I think you should be more kind to yourself and not beat yourself up for feeling things you tell yourself you should not be feeling. You’re only human, Khun Vegas.”
“You don’t understand…”
How to explain this and make her understand, without telling her vital information she needs, but that he cannot talk about? What a fucking dilemma. “I need this between us to stop. If I have even the slightest hint of positive feelings towards him, I’ll never be able to cut myself loose. I can’t go back into this relationship. I cannot. He’s not good for me; going back is akin to suicide.” Buckets. Flowers. Wings. Bullets. Death is inevitable, he needs to stay away from the monster to stay safe.
“You’re feeling very strongly about this whole situation, which is only natural. You have been trying to stay in control of your emotions for the longest time, Khun Vegas, and look where it got you. You’re going against your own nature, you’re in essence a very emotional person who experiences emotions very strongly. But by bottling them all up your whole life, you are completely taken by surprise when they all rise to the surface and overwhelm you. This is the source of your anger issues as well. You internalise your anger until you explode, instead of giving it a voice before it becomes uncontrollable.” The therapist gives him one of her gentle smiles. “In order to get over this relationship you first need to give yourself permission to feel all the emotions you are feeling, to experience them all, and acknowledge that they exist within you. It’s completely normal to still feel love in this situation. You need to feel even the emotions you want to hide away from, in order to be able to grieve and then move on.”
“But I can’t do this, it’s giving me anxiety!” Shit, his hands hurt because he’s digging his fingernails so hard into the flesh of his palms.
“Be kind to yourself, Khun Vegas. How many people have you loved, truly loved, in your life so far? Your brother? You rarely allow yourself to see him and show him your love these days. Your mother? Has passed away and can’t receive your love anymore either. You hate your father. All these years you’ve avoided falling in love, even though you have so much love to give. No wonder your feelings are so intense when you finally find another person to love and open up to.”
His therapist falls silent as she switches to another colour of yarn, and a different set of knitting needles, giving Vegas a moment to let is all sink in.
“Try seeing your love like a precious stone; the stone itself is beautiful and valuable and you need to cherish it; it’s all right to feel this love. You just had the misfortune to hand this precious stone to the wrong person who didn’t appreciate it. And that can happen to all of us. Now you can take back that precious stone and keep it safe again until you find the right person to hand it to. It’s still precious and not tainted. Don’t just throw the stone away now.”
It hurts hearing all this. Sure, it makes sense, but it still hurts. “Love sucks, I don’t like feeling like this!”
Vegas wants to run away from everything, but his idiotic body isn’t strong enough to flee yet. He should have just stayed silent. Why did he start talking to her? This is going nowhere.
“I don’t think anyone likes the feeling of heartache. Try being proud of how deeply you’re able to love someone instead. Don’t fall into a hole of negative thoughts. Focus on self-care, do things that are good for you. If you find yourself thinking about him, re-direct your thoughts, give yourself a moment to recenter and calm yourself. It’s all right to still feel a certain amount of love for an ex-partner. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t able to move on.”
“He’s not a good person though. He’s a damn liar and he’s manipulative as hell. It shouldn’t be okay to love this kind of person at all. He’s so damn toxic, he’s not good for me. I shouldn’t feel like this about him—doesn’t it mean something’s wrong with me? The love should have disappeared the moment I found out about all of his lies. I don’t understand myself…”
Vegas runs his fingers through his hair in frustration and winces. Ouch. His palms hurt; some of the nail impression are even seeping blood. He hides his hands under the blanket so his therapist won’t see.
“Give yourself some credit for figuring out that he is not good for you, Khun Vegas. Most people won’t realise this even after decades together with toxic partners. You noticed it, you removed yourself from this situation and now you are taking steps to move on. You’re doing the right thing. There’s no quick fix though; this process takes time. You are not a bad person for loving someone like this. I’m sure he has some genuinely lovable traits that you fell for. But as you yourself said before, you were simply not wholly compatible, and it’s all right for you to protect yourself and leave this relationship. Would you like me to report him, since he broke the ethical guidelines of our profession?”
Vegas startles and gives her an alarmed look. “No!” He doesn’t even want to think about what the monster would do to this lovely lady. “Please don’t. I want to handle this myself eventually, when I’m feeling better. So please don’t interfere.”
His therapists nods. “As you wish. Just out of curiosity, have you two ever tried talking about your problems? I would be interested to know if he is even aware of why you’re getting out of the relationship, and how he is reacting to this decision of yours.”
“He’s not taking it well, that much is safe to say.” Vegas sighs deeply. “There’s nothing to talk about. Neither of us is good at talking about feelings in the first place. He fucked up big time, crossed the line and as far as I am concerned that is it.”
Getting a bullet to your chest counts as crossing the line, right? Not that he would have ever tolerated Pete being a serial killer either. Or the lies. The false identity. The constant manipulations. The violence between them. Bloody hell, red flags everywhere, and he was too blind to see any of them.
“I’m not planning to go back. He’s sent me messages but I’ve changed my phone number now. I won’t be talking to him ever again. I don’t trust myself if I start listening to him once more…”
“You worry you’ll fold?”
Vegas turns his head to look out of the large window. It seems to be a pleasant day; he hasn’t been outside for weeks.
“I’ve never before been this desperately in love with anyone,” he admits quietly. “At times it feels that he is the air that I need to breathe. The mere thought of being without him, of him leaving me, used to give me panic attacks. I think he’s manipulated me from the very first day of our acquaintance. He’s been playing me like an instrument, with masterful skill. He knows exactly what buttons to push when it comes to me. You wonder if I worry about giving in?”
Vegas sighs defeatedly. Time to face some ugly truths.
“If I let him anywhere near me again, he will burn me until there are only ashes left, and I will enjoy every second of it, because he’s my drug and I need my fix. That’s what I mean when I say that I can’t do this anymore. He’s the fire, and I’m the oxygen he needs to burn. He needs me, I need him. He’ll consume me, we’ll both burn really bright, in mutual agony, until we are both gone.” He pauses as a stray thought flutters by. Maybe Pete really loves him? No. No way. “This can’t be real love. This is something twisted. That precious stone of mine is damaged—that’s why I need to stop feeling like this.”
His therapist stops knitting and gives him a worried, but compassionate look. “I wish I could tell you that there is an easy way to switch off those unwanted feelings, but I would rather not lie to you. There’s no easy way, this process takes time. I can only give you some suggestions right now about how to make this breakup a little bit less painful.”
Placing her knitting kit to the side for now, she leans back in the chair, making herself more comfortable.
“First of all, stop isolating yourself in this room. There are people out there who care for you; let them in, be in their company. Allow yourself to feel their love. Stop rolling up like a hedgehog, showing everyone your spikes. Allow yourself to be vulnerable. If they ask you how you feel, answer them truthfully. No more bottling up your emotions. Your brother and Khun Porsche are your support system. Use them wisely.”
“Feel your feelings. I know this scares the hell out of you, so this part will be difficult for you. Anger is okay. Hatred too. And even love. Don’t put a value on those emotions, none of them are all positive or negative, they all have their place. You might hate him right now, but it’s all right to still feel the love you had for him. Do not try to numb your emotions—that will only backfire in the long run. So no escape into sleeping pills or alcohol, Khun Vegas.”
The stern look following that warning makes Vegas duck his head instinctively, and nod quickly in agreement.
“Getting a new phone number is a step in the right direction too, especially if you worry about giving in and going back to him. If you have him on social media, block him. Block his phone numbers. Block his email addresses. Don’t go places where you might run into him—that will only prolong the healing process.”
“Most importantly, give yourself time. You’re safe here. He won’t be able to contact you here. See this as a much needed vacation and focus on your body and on getting well again. Wounds take time to heal, both physical and emotional ones. Take care of yourself and be kind to yourself, Khun Vegas. With time, you will feel much better, I promise you.”
Vegas listens quietly to all of this. It all makes sense, it’s all very reasonable advice. Nevertheless, he is sceptical. This is not going to work, he thinks tiredly. It might have worked if this had been a mere relationship breakup issue, but it’s so much more, and he can’t tell her that. He can’t tell anyone that he is being stalked by the ruthless serial killer that he had the misfortune to fall in love with.
The monster will never let him go. Never. They’re trapped in a mutual obsession, he and the monster are so intrinsically intertwined at this point that it will take extreme measures to regain his freedom. The big question is, how far is Vegas willing to go to cut himself loose?
“Don’t overthink it,” his therapist tells him wryly. “I can sense a certain unwillingness to take in this advice. How about you let it sink in for a few days and then revisit my suggestions when you’ve had more time to process everything? We’ll do some more knitting until then, to give you some peace of mind.”
They look at each other in silence, until Vegas gives her a reluctant nod. Fine. She can have it her way. But before he can say anything else there is a knock on the door.
Vegas’ stomach drops when Chan enters the room. This can’t be good.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your therapy session, Khun Vegas, but Khun Korn and Khun Gun would like to have a word with you.”
Vegas’ blood turns into ice. Shit. How long has he been at the mansion? It doesn’t feel long enough; Vegas thought he would have more time. Shit. Seems his family has run out of patience with him. Maybe he shouldn’t have requested the phone, that was a stupid thing to do. His thoughts race, but he can’t come up with a good reason to avoid this meeting. Shit. No matter what he told Macau, he sincerely doubts that he can hold his own against his uncle and his father. Especially if they team up against him. Shit, this is so bad, he is in deep trouble.