Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
He leaves, and I keep walking, leaving the boards on the table as I climb the stairs behind him. He heads to the left to take the attic stairs to Mars’s room, and I go to the right, into his bedroom, and close the door.
Taking a chair from the wall, I lift my eyes to the rafter connecting two of the walls, behind his door. It’s been sanded down and re-stained, but a sharp eye can still detect the spot where the rope hung. A small curve in the wood sits just off-center, invisible to those who don’t know where to look.
Keeping the chair below me, I hop up, pushing through the pain, which has risen into my chest. Squeezing the handle with both hands, I rear back and swing. The ax cuts into the wood, the splinters cracking under the edge.
I swing again and again, planting one foot on the arm of the cushioned chair underneath my weight and hacking away at the beam.
It’s over. I’m not letting it stand anymore. I can leave this place, but not before I sever any proof that I was ever here. I don’t want my pictures on the walls, and I don’t want any memory of that day!
Bury it. Or fucking burn it. I want to know it’s gone.
Sweat starts dripping down my back, my arms burning as I peel the blade out of the wood and swing again, over and over.
“Dallas!” The door swings open behind me. “What are you doing?”
I lift the ax, ignoring Liv, and swing again, hearing the dull thud of the blade hitting wood.
“Army!” she calls.
I hack away, almost halfway through the thick rafter.
In a second, I hear my brother’s heavy footsteps as he enters the room. I jerk my head, holding the ax with my outstretched arm, his same green eyes flaring.
“Dallas, stop,” he tells me.
He checks out the broken rafter, his gaze flashing back to me. Liv stands behind him, and I hear more footsteps jogging up the stairs.
I keep going, growling as I cut again and again. I need it gone. I want to be free. I want to forget she was ever here.
“What are you doing?” Army asks, breathing fast. “Dallas, stop.”
Heavier footfalls reach the room, and I yank the ax out of the wood, turning and glaring at Macon as he walks in and lifts his head to see me.
“I don’t know how you can sleep in here,” I say, my voice thick with tears, with anger. “I don’t know why this is still here!”
I hack, bringing down the ax hard, the wood finally splintering in two. The bottom cracks, and I rear the ax back.
“Knock it off!” Macon yells.
I bring it down, but I’m grabbed from behind and find myself flying off the chair, my ax still stuck in the rafter.
“You’ve done enough damage!” he yells.
I stumble onto the floor, standing up and shoving him away. “I’m leaving anyway!”
I don’t know if the tears come then or if they were on my face when I had the ax, but my face is wet. Macon, Army, and the others standing outside the room—watching—stare at me.
Macon’s brow pinches together. “Because of him?” he yells.
Fuck this. Fuck everything. I don’t have to be here. He’s right. I made it worse, and I’m fucking miserable. Bolting past them, I shove past Iron and Trace, go into my room, and finish stuffing shit into my backpack.
I throw on a T-shirt, grab my cell and charger, and run past everyone, down the stairs.
“You’re not going anywhere!” Macon barks.
I hear them coming after me.
“Get the kids in their rooms!” he tells someone behind me.
I grab my shoes off the floor and reach for the door, and he grips the back of my neck, pushing me into the living room. Santos and my friend Tyson stand frozen, Aracely pausing in the kitchen.
“Everyone out!” he growls.
All three of them scram, and I let my shoes fall. I slam the side of my fist against a mirror, a shard splintering onto the floor.
I’m not a child! He can’t stop me.
The front door closes, and he charges, taking me by the neck in both hands and forcing me to the window.
“You think you’re the only one who’s ever fucked up?” he howls. “You think you’re the most important one here?”
I fight him, then press my hands against the window frame, trying to push myself away.
But he forces me to look outside, at the people racing to move cars off the street and carry boards to Mariette’s. “They’re more important than you and me and everyone in this house!” he bellows. “Because they can’t protect themselves!”
He releases me, shoves me into the middle of the living room.
“You got two jobs in this life, Dallas!” He stalks back up to me, the rest of my family staying back in the foyer. “Love someone and be of service, and if you leave to do anything other than that, you’re just going to wind up right back here, because nothing else matters!”