Reborn In a Murderer’s Embrace

Caleb wrapped his arms around me, trembling as he held me tight. His eyes were bloodshot, on the verge of losing control.

I clutched at Caleb’s hands desperately. “Colin… take me home.”

With a shaking voice, Caleb pulled me closer. “Dexter… I will kill you.”

At the doorway, Robin looked on with a complex expression, unable to utter a single word.

Melody sat shocked on the bed, unsure how to console Dexter.

Stella’s eyes were red, her face streaked with tears. She didn’t know, couldn’t fathom what her Phoebe had been through.

Caleb lifted me up, struggling to keep his emotions in check. With his mental illness, suppressing his emotions was a hundred times harder for him than for anyone else.

“We’re going home…” he whispered, leading me out of the hospital room.

Stella lunged forward, slapping Dexter hard across the face, crying out as she hit him. “Dexter, you bastard, give me back my Phoebe, give her back to me!”

I sobbed into Caleb’s chest, not caring anymore whether he was acting or not. In that moment, all I wanted was someone to lean on.

That was all.

“Colin, shall we take the subway home?” My voice was hoarse as I spoke softly into his shoulder.

Caleb, holding me, walked on without stopping, his voice tender. “Alright.”

I smiled.

His acting was incredible; how could he be so composed?

Was he really mentally ill? This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

“Caleb, I’m not Phoebe Caldwell…” I wanted to see what it would take for him to snap.

I didn’t want to be Phoebe anymore; being Phoebe was too painful.

Caleb paused for a second, then looked down at me. “Yeah, I know.”

He said he knew I wasn’t Phoebe? So why hadn’t he lost it?

“Didn’t you say you’d kill me if I wasn’t Phoebe?” I mumbled the question.

He didn’t answer. Still holding me, he wouldn’t even put me down to enter the elevator.

I couldn’t be bothered to walk; if he was protecting me even after realizing I wasn’t Phoebe, was it because I was carrying his child?

10:11

Men… they’re all the same, aren’t they?

I didn’t expose him, just quietly leaned against his shoulder.

“Why… the subway?” he asked softly as we entered the subway station.

I didn’t explain, aware of the stares and the whispers from the onlookers as he carried me. Bot Caleb was Caleb; he didn’t care how others looked at him.

He had been the guy in ill–fitting clothes, grimy from his time on the streets. The man with a mental illness didn’t mind the public eye.

The subway wasn’t too crowded, not rush hour, and I stepped out of his arms to stand next to a pole.

I felt a bit hypoglycemic, probably from the earlier emotional turmoil.

Caleb, like a magician, produced a lollipop from his pocket and popped it into my mouth before scanning for an open seat.

Finally, he spotted three seats taken up by a middle–aged man sprawled out, legs crossed. A young girl approached to argue. “Sir, you’re taking up three seats. Can you let us sit?” She gestured towards me. “Look at this lady; she can barely stand.”

The man snorted dismissively. “I sat down first; these are my seats! Mind your own business, dressing like that, you’re no good.”

Caleb led me over, a man of action rather than words, and with a simple tap on the man’s forehead, he was down on the ground.

So, in a mix of shock and discomfort, I sat down.

Caleb, ever the gentleman, gestured for the young girl to take the other seat.

The girl sat down slowly, admiration and awe for his good looks in her eyes. “Are you a model? You’re so handsome.”

The man on the floor lay there, pretending to be injured. “Ah, call 911,I can’t make it, my heart hurts, he attacked me, you all saw it! I’m calling the police!”