Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
I remind myself he can’t see me.
How can he be so defiant after that?
How can he be so unbroken?
How can he risk it?
“You’re nothing,” the man repeats. “You’re nothing to anyone. Nobody can fix you. Nobody should waste their time.”
Tears stream down my cheeks and behind me the guard shifts his weight. I stay perfectly still. Desperate for this to be over.
Don’t move.
Don’t move a muscle.
I don’t know how long it goes on.
At some point, I realize I’m back in the dorm, sleeping with my arm out over the side of the bed. It’s not comfortable. My arm usually falls asleep.
But it doesn’t matter how uncomfortable it is. That’s the rule. We have to keep an arm out so—
I don’t really know why. Probably so that it’s hard to sleep. Or so they can drag us out of bed easier.
I don’t know I’ve fallen asleep until the man I’ve never met shakes my shoulder, forcing me to wake. His face is mostly in shadows, but I know him. My heart races once again, like waking up from a terror.
“You’ll give in,” he says, obviously not caring if he wakes up the rest of the people in the dorm. “We’ll win in the end. We always win. Why is that?”
My mouth is dry, but he won’t leave until he has an answer.
“Because I’m worthless.”
“That’s right. You’re worthless, and you’re not going to win.”
He stands and leaves me there, terrified and unable to think of anything other than what I did to the boy. It’s my fault. Never again.
Never. Ever. Again.
DEAN
The grime that covers my hands adds to my annoyance.
I don’t like that feeling. I don’t like when my hands are dirty at all, but—
It’s not oil or grease from the shop. It’s not even dirt on my hands from pulling weeds out of the ground at my house.
It’s blood.
I hold my hands up in front of my face. There’s not much light—just a streetlight and the moon—but the streaks all over my hands look black. My heart beats a bit faster at the realization.
That’s blood.
There’s more of it all over me. On my jeans and my shirt. I pat my face. Blood on my face, too, but I don’t think it’s mine.
I checked myself over. No wounds. I’m sore, but nobody stabbed me or shot me. I’m sure I would feel that.
Where did the blood come from? There’s a faint light that spills into the alley way. I look around as my vision clears, searching for clues.
I feel like I’ve been running. I can’t catch my breath. My lungs burn like I ran for miles, but—
Where am I? Fuck!
I flex my hands again. My knuckles are sore and slightly bruised. My entire body aches, actually. My thighs hurt and my core. What did I do? Get tackled? There’s nobody here with me. I wait a moment, listening, but all I can hear is my own heavy panting.
Adrenaline courses through my veins, making me alert and awake, but why?
I check again, searching up and down the alley. Nobody’s here. It’s quiet aside from the sounds of cars far off. There are some very distant voices that sound like people coming out of the bar.
I blink harder, trying to get my bearings. This is an alley near my house. Closer to the bar, though. A few blocks past. I could’ve walked here.
Did I walk here? If I did, I can’t remember it at all.
Jesus. Why am I so out of breath? Did I run here? Was I running from someone or chasing after someone? I hunch down, my palms on my knees. And as a couple walks past the opening, I hide in the shadows. What the fuck happened?
Shit. Shit. Shit!
I had to be doing something here. Did I go to the bar? My tongue doesn’t taste beer, so I probably wasn’t at the bar, or if I was, I was there hours ago. I don’t feel like I usually do after a drink with the guys.
Jesus. What day is it even?
“Dean?” Her voice startles me.
Shit. I wipe my hands down on my jeans, and turn my back to her. “Yeah?” I call. “You okay?”
“Dean, what—” Her footsteps move closer. “What are you doing here?”
“I know, I—”
A woman I know walks out, her hair pulled back and her eyes wide. The girl my Dad wants to meet.
Her gasp cuts me off. “Dean, what happened? Oh my God. Did you hurt yourself?” Concern is etched in every syllable.
She reaches out frantically and takes my hand. It’s still covered in blood. Wiping it off didn’t do any good.
She turns it over with a gentle touch. “What happened?” I watch her face, filled with shock as she glances between my hand and my shirt and then finally looks me in the eyes. I swallow thickly.
“I don’t know,” I admit. Fear washes through me. Fear of what she’ll know, of what she’ll think of me… of what I’ll have to do.