Instead, his hands tighten into fists.
My breath catches, because I know that look. When his fingers curl like that, it isn’t a warning anymore. It means the fuse is already lit.
Tom steps forward. Not to attack, but to provoke.
And it works.
The guard shoves him.
Tom dodges like it’s just another bar-fight.
The guard stumbles and slams into the table.
Plastic cups fly as the table tips over. Someone screams.
And then there was chaos.
Tom collides with me and we hit the ground. He lands on top of me, chest heaving, a gash split open above his brow. The world tilts.
Warm blood streaks down my cheek, his breath close against my ear.
“It’s okay. It’s all okay.”
My lungs won’t expand.
It’s happening again.
It’s happening again.
And I hear myself say the words I’ve only said once before.
“You’re not leaving me here.”
Six guards rip him off me, forcing him face-down, slamming cuffs around his wrists.
Everything snaps back into focus.
I move.
“Stop!” He’s my responsibility. Let me through!”
Hands seize my arms, dragging me back. I fight until I realize it’s useless. They’re stronger. There are too many of them and they are trained for this.
I twist just in time to see Tom being dragged away, face wrecked and bleeding.
And somehow he still turns.
He still finds me in the crowd.
He still smirks, even as he spits out a tooth.
One last wink, then they drag him out of sight.
I stare after him until a tap lands on my shoulder.
“Walk that way.”
We’re herded toward the toilet block near the dining room. A few guests protest that they can’t go on command. They’re pulled aside and sorted into a separate group. It’s just an extension of the path to the gallows. It won’t save them.
