My problem was that the Callahan family is the reason my biological parents are dead, and yet I want to go back to the Callahan family. Applying Occam's razor to my problem, then the simplest answer is that…
“I don’t care about my biological parents,” I whispered to myself, and yet I couldn’t help but look away from myself. “That is a bad answer.”
But it didn’t feel like the wrong answer. I knew I wasn’t a good person. I’d come to terms with that, which was how I was able to get Ethan the information he needed, knowing what he’d do to the people I found. But for me to be this black-hearted? My biological parents loved me. I was sure of that, and I’d betrayed them by not even having the decency to leave the Callahans.
Maybe it’s Stockholm syndrome?
I froze for a long time, going over that again and again in my head. And then I sat up quickly, dashed into my kitchen for my tablet, which was covered in poorly chopped onions. I slid the onions off of the screen and used my shirt to clean it off, because obviously I’m a savage. I held it up as if it were the newborn Christ. “Treating Stockholm syndrome,” I said to it. The few seconds it took to search felt like hours.
“Recovering from Stockholm syndrome ordinarily involves ‘psychiatric or psychological counseling,’ with an end goal of making patients realize that their actions and feelings stemmed from inherent human survival techniques. Counseling aims to reinstate normalcy into the lives of recovering victims and to make sure that they can function in a way that is not out of fear or in the sole interest of survival.” It read back to me. “Would you like to see more from this article?”
“Interesting,” I muttered, grabbing the bag of crouton
s off the counter and moving back to the living room.
“Not really. You don’t have Stockholm syndrome.”
My head snapped up at his voice, and even though I saw him, I couldn’t help but throw the table at him and scream, “MOTHERFUCK! Jesus fuck ah! WYATT!!”
“Sorry!” He couldn’t help but laugh at me before raising his arms up. In one of them he had a Chi-burger bag. He was wearing a black jacket over his dark grey suit. “Can I come in?”
“You’re already in!” My heart still racing, I had to hold the arm of my couch to yell at him. “How the hell did you even get in?!”
He took his cell phone out of his back pocket and showed me. “You put the app on my phone. I turned off the alarm because I wasn’t sure if you were sleeping and didn’t want to scare you.”
“Well you fucking failed!” I snapped, taking a deep breath. “What is wrong with you! Just because I put the damn app on your phone doesn’t mean come over whenever you damn well want. At least call first!”
“I’ve been calling you for days.”
And I paused, remembering why I was even in my apartment to begin with. Reaching up and rubbing my nose, I couldn’t find the words, and so I went with the first thing that went through my mind. “Wyatt, I’m not answering my phone because I don’t want to talk to you. I’m here because I don’t want to see you. If you can’t be ashamed of what you did, can’t you at least respect that?”
“You’re right…but do you mind getting me a first aid kit first?” He asked, and it was only then that I noticed the grimace on his face. He was smiling through pain. Before I could ask what happened, he moved around my couch, putting the burgers on the coffee table. Then he proceeded to take off his coat and suit jacket. Only then could I see the dampness on his shirt. The blood had soaked through his shirt.
It took a second for my brain to process what I was seeing. When it did, panic set in.
“WYATT!” I hollered, rushing toward him. “What the hell happened? You’re bleeding, fucking shot? Someone shot you!”
“The one day I don’t wear one of those damn bulletproof suits. I swear I have the worst fucking luck!” He laughed and then whined as he took off his shirt.
“This isn’t fucking funny! You’ve been shot!”
“I know.”
“You’re bleeding!”
“I know that—”
“Then why the fuck are you here and not with a goddamn doctor!”
“BECAUSE I CAN’T AFFORD IT!” he hollered back at me, as if I were the problem. I wanted to smack him, and it must have been clear on my face because he sighed. “Everyone is watching me, Helen. Waiting for me to screw up. Waiting for me to prove that I am the idiot brother. I cannot call for a doctor or anyone else. I can’t afford to look weak right now. I made a mistake, no one else can know that.”
“I’m still waiting for you to apologize.” I crossed my arms.
His mouth dropped open slightly. “Helen, I’m bleeding. There is still a bullet in me. Can we deal with that first—”
“You somehow managed to get a burger with a bullet in you, and you’re still bleeding. I’m sure you can muster up an apology.”
He glared down at me. “I’m sorry for yelling at you, Helen. May I please have the first aid kit before I bleed out and die in your living room?”