Once I get my feet under me on the slick lake bed, I stand and heave Kira into my arms. I slog through the shallow water with her, both of us gasping for air as Janessa hovers anxiously, orbiting me with tears in her eyes, asking Kira all sorts of questions that she’s clearly in no state to answer.
She’s choking, gagging, hacking up water. Her whole body convulses in my grip as it tries to expel what she was forced to inhale. Moving quickly, ignoring all the yelling and shouting and panic, I walk her to a patch of grass, lay her on her side, and help her roll onto her elbows as she vomits up more water. Her eyes blink unseeingly and she gasps, gulps, heaves out sobbing breaths, her entire body shaking. Her skin is clammy and cold. Her lips are blue.
Janessa is crying, whispering encouragement, her trembling hands running over Kira like she can heal her just by touching her. She’s begging Kira to be alright. I stay silent, too focused and dialed in to get words out of my mouth, but I clap Kira on the back a few times, trying to help her get it all out.
She finally gulps in a full breath, and even though it sounds suspiciously wet, I think she’s going to survive this.
Which is when my brain shifts gears.
My eyes cut like knives to the culprit. Lexie is red-faced and shouting, pounding her fists ineffectually on Biran’s chest. He’s blushing a little bit, looking embarrassed, and a little upset.
“She can’t swim, you moron!” Lexie shrieks. “Why would you do that?!”
“It was supposed to be a joke!” Brian tries to defend himself from the ire and judgement of the small crowd. “She never told me she can’t swim, alright? How was I supposed to know?”
“We didn’t know,” Gregory shrugs, almost nonchalant. “It was just a joke. It was supposed to be funny.”
“You kept me from going to her!” Lexie turns her screaming onto him. “She could havedied!”
I stand slowly, already disassociating. But instead of anxiety, all I feel is a rising tide of black-out, unstoppable, killing rage.
I should stop myself. I should control myself. I should think of the fifteen grand. I should be Tommy Claremont right now.
But I’m not. I’m just Tommy. And I let the rage take me under.
***********
Young-gi
“Help! Someone, help! Help them!”
I hear the terrified scream from my office, and Yosef and I are both running out the door in less time than it takes for the echo to die.
“Someone help! He’s going to kill them!” A girl’s voice, shrill and panicked, cries out from near the back door. Not Kira; she’s still outside. Which means something’s happening–something dangerous–and she’s out there without me. And that is unacceptable.
I won’t let anyone hurt her.
I vault over the stair banister, taking the pain of a rough landing to save time. Yosef is right on my heels as we barrel through the hallways until we see the source of the screaming; one of the summit guests. She’s trembling, leading a frantic trail of kitchen staff toward the lake, all of them running but none of them running fastenough. I blow past them, the lakeshore coming into view.
The lake appears. Adrenaline sharpens everything. Time slows as my mind races and my seeking gaze skips over everything else, processing none of it, until my eyes catch on Kira. She’s leaning heavily against Janessa on the grass, cryingon her shoulder. She’s not bleeding or dying, even if she is soaked and distressed. She’s in one piece, no one is hurting her.
Only then, once my mind understands that she’s not currently being murdered, does the rest of what I’m seeing finally catch up to my brain.
I take it all in–the entire bloody, gruesome scene, and stop dead in my tracks.
And for some reason, I’m hit with the most bizarre thought I’ve ever had.
I think I finally understand art.
I’ve always understood theconcept, but it’s never provoked a response in me. I’ve never been moved by it, never understood how anyone could appreciate looking at something just because it has the potential to make youfeelsomething.
But I get it now.
Tommy is straddling the Vandmorson boy, Brian; his knuckles are splattered red and his expression is burning like an avenging archangel’s. With pounding, unending, unmerciful cruelty, he lands hit after hit onto Brian’s already bloody, swollen face.
Not far from him, within the circle of horrified spectators, are two more boys–ah, the Palmer brothers, Leonard and Gregory. Gregory is slumped on the grass, curled forward over his legs, drooling and heaving, gagging. The way he’s clutching his stomach proves he’s just had one hell of a hit to his gut. One of his eyes is already swelling, his mouth is bleeding profusely. And despite Leonard shaking his shoulder, urging him to get up so they can get to Tommy together, Gregory stays down and shoves his brother away. He knows he’s been beaten.
Frustrated, Leonard rushes Tommy and tries to pull him off, but as easily as swatting a fly away, Tommy shoves Leonard backward, and goes back to his victim of choice.
