Ultimately, fear rules me.
Slinging on my backpack, I escape out the side entrance, making it a few yards before popping a cigarette in the corner of my mouth. Riding to school with Remy in the morning means I'm stuck walking home alone. Sure, I could drive myself separately now that I have my license, but it’s worth the rushed make out session in the back of the parking lot before the bell.
I cup a hand around my cigarette and light up. If my parents find out, I’m sure I’ll be grounded, but they’re too busy to notice. Mom has been consumed with planning an event at the gallery and Richard has been working tirelessly on a case. I haven’t seen either of them for more than ten minutes at a time over the last two weeks.
Not that I mind. I’m content to hide away in Remy’s room or truck, chasing his tongue. Though, ever since winter break, his mood has been unpredictable at best. Sometimes he stares into space, lost in the black hole of his mind. Sometimes he rants forhours, pacing ceaselessly. Sometimes he giggles at everything, gifting me his beautiful smile. But most times, he’s sullen. Crying. Scared of sleep and the horrors waiting behind his eyes.
I’ve begged him to tell his parents, but his excuses are miles long. He doesn’t want to scare them. It’ll pass. They’ve got a lot on their plate right now. He’s fine. He’ll say something if it gets worse.
On and on and on.
As frustrated as I am, I can’t blame him. Am I any better? I harm myself to release the pain inside me. I lie again and again because it’s easier than admitting I’m sick.
That’s what we are. Sick. Fucked up and stranded in the middle of a stormy sea. How long can we tread water while holding the weight of the other? How long until the ocean fills our mouths and sucks us into dark, icy depths?
I take a drag, exhaling smoke through my nose.
“Oh look, it’s Kingsbury’s token faggot!”
My sneaker catches on a crack in the sidewalk. I’m seconds from face-planting the concrete when a hand clamps on my bicep, whirling me around. The sadistic smile of Grant “The Devil” Larson greets me.
But he’s not alone.
His minions— Marcus Shultz and Jessica Aldrich— mirror his menacing grin. Jessica’s overfilled lips, courtesy of her plastic surgeon father, smack a piece of bubblegum as she approaches, hips swinging. She cocks her head, her sleek high ponytail swishing between her shoulder blades.
“He doesn’t look gay,” she muses as if I’m nothing more than a mannequin in a store window. “Pretty cute, actually, in a sad, goth kind of way. Maybe he hasn’t found a pussy worth fucking yet.”
The sandwich Remy made me for lunch climbs back up my esophagus. I try to shake off Grant’s hand but it’s the equivalent of a steel cuff.
Marcus chuckles, cutting left as Jessica goes right. Circling me. I’m a mouse who's had the misfortune of catching three hungry lions’ eyes.
“Is he mute?” Marcus asks, digging a finger into my cheek. I flinch away but don’t make it far. Grant yanks me forward, sneering down his nose.
“Nah, he can talk,” the bastard says, lowering his voice, “Speak, puppy.”
My lip lifts in a snarl. “I’m not a fucking dog.”
His evil grin widens. “I knew there was some fight in you… but how much?”
Fuck.
Lightning fast, his hand moves from my arm to my throat. I gasp, barely getting a sliver of oxygen through my windpipe. His thumb presses into my pulse.
“What’s this?” Marcus asks, hoisting up my fist where Remy’s letter is clutched. Immediately, my heart rate skyrockets. He pries my fingers apart to free the paper while Grant’s vicious eyes light with excitement.
I’m shaking.
I can’t help it.
Everything blurs.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
A snort from behind me.
“It’s a love letter.”
Jessica gasps. “From who?”
