Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
“Clean yourself.” He grabs a cloth and a bucket of water, holding it out without looking at me. “I can’t… I can’t help you with that. It’s not proper.”
His arm shakes.
I take the supplies.
He steps into the doorway with his back turned, arms crossed so hard his shoulders bunch like boulders.
I know every twitch in his neck, every shift in his legs, every tiny flinch that means he’s barely keeping himself from breaking things.
Quickly, I wash myself with the cold water, wiping away the sticky blood that keeps appearing between my legs. It hurts. Not the washing. The looking. The understanding of it.
When I finish, he leads me back to the main room and pulls out a pencil and paper.
“Write down everything you know about him.” He slams them onto the desk. “Write his name. His parents’ names. His address. What he looks like. His tattoos. His car. Where he works. Where he hangs out. Everything.”
Shame slithers up my throat. Shame for letting this happen. Shame because I know what Jag will do. Shame because I put that hurt look in his eyes.
I pick up the pencil with trembling fingers and write what he asks.
When I’m done, he scans the paper and shoves it into his pocket.
“I’ll get what you need for your period.” His tone is flat. Not calm. Not angry. Worse than both.
I don’t want him to leave. Not like this. I don’t want him to do this terrible thing for me, even though, deep down, I don’t feel guilty about this particular death.
I don’t want Jag to feel guilty about it, either.
Telling him was the right thing. The only thing.
When he grips the doorknob, the words tumble out of me.
“I told him no.”
Jag goes still.
I nod toward the paper in his pocket. “I said no over and over, and he wouldn’t stop.”
The change in him is instant.
And horrifying
And familiar.
His face warps. The tendons in his neck stand out like ropes. His nostrils go wide. His eyes go bright. His shoulder veins rise. His fists open and close, and his entire body expands with rage. Monstrous, hellborn rage.
I brace myself.
But he shoves it down. All of it. He forces his lungs back under control, unclenches his hands, and drags that rage inward like he’s swallowing fire.
“Did he do your eye?” he rasps.
“No. I fought with a girl. I told you. That was nothing.”
“Do not leave unless the building is burning.” He opens the door and glances up and down the crumbling hallway, then back at me. “Lock the bolt on the inside and let no one in. No one.”
“Please, come back.”
“I swear it.” He lifts his hand, pinky out.
That tiny gesture hits harder than all his shouting, all his anger, all his everything.
I rush forward, hook my pinky with his, and bring our knotted fingers to my lips. He turns our hands, pulls the joined pinkies to his mouth, and kisses them.
Then he walks into the hallway, carrying all my shame, all his fury, and the promise he’ll keep.
I bolt the door behind him, and silence settles over the room. For three seconds. Then…
Bang.
Another.
Bang. Bang.
The sound vibrates through the cracked tiles under my feet.
I move without thinking, sliding back the bolt and cracking open the door.
Jag stands at the end of the hallway, destroying the wall.
He slams his fists into the sheetrock over and over, hammering, pummeling, and shredding. White dust explodes around him. Chunks fall to the floor.
“Jag!” I step out.
His head snaps toward me, his eyes too wild to be human as he roars, “Told you to stay in the room and keep that door locked!”
My stomach drops to my ankles. I’ve seen him angry, but not like this. Not this stripped open and out of control.
I caused this. All of it.
“S-Sorry.” I close the door fast and shove the bolt in place with shaking hands.
The banging stops.
Hours pass.
When a light knock sounds, followed by my name, I unbolt the door.
He steps inside, hands stained in dried blood.
Exactly how I knew they’d be.
He avoids my eyes.
Without a word, I follow him into the bathroom and grab a water bucket. He leans over the sink, shoulders slumped, muscles twitching with all the leftover electricity trapped inside him.
I pull off his jacket and pour the clean water over his hands.
The blood runs in thin rivers along his forearms, swirling down the rusty drain. I wash him with a cloth, wiping the raw skin, tracing the ridges of his knuckles. I’ve washed his bloody hands before, always from bad people, never from walls.
When his skin is clean, he removes a crinkled plastic bag from his jacket. Sanitary napkins and a new pair of underwear.
He opens the box and reads the instructions like he’s defusing a bomb. His brow furrows. Then he nods to himself.
“Here. This is how you use them.” His ears turn red as he explains how the wings fold and where they stick.