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“Nearlykilled,” she says. “That means those two young ladies are going to be alright after they recover, correct?”
“That's something that only the sheriff and the prosecutor know at this time.”
“Butyou'rethe sheriff, sir. My son didn't kill anyone. It was an accident.”
“His blood alcohol level was six times the legal limit.” The sheriff's voice is terse. “They had to pump his fucking stomach before they could get him into surgery.”
“He still didn't kill anyone.” She pleads. “What if those girls were drinking too? I bet they were at the same party he was and the spiked punch snuck up on them, too.”
“Stop talking, Miss. You need to focus on getting your son one hell of a lawyer. We’re fulfilling the arrest warrant in Room 236 at noon.”
The officer’s footsteps trail down the hall, and the woman holds her cell phone up to her ear.
I don’t stick around to listen to her conversation.
I take the elevator to the second floor.
When the doors open, I walk down the hall and stop at Room 236.
I know I shouldn’t be here, that I should turn around and walk away, but I can’t. I need to get a glimpse of the guy who’s ruined all of our lives.
Letting out a breath, I open the door and step inside the room,
A blond guy who looks about my age is sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a “‘Top Dawg” t-shirt.
“I asked you for more Jell-O an hour ago.” He groans, not looking up at me. “Are you here to tell me you don’t have any more?”
“No.” I step closer. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Well, could you make yourself useful and see what the hell is going on with my lunch?”
“Nah, I can’t do that.” I step closer. “I don’t work here.”
“Then get out and empty my trash on the way out.”
“Okay.” I close the gap between us. “That’s a very good way to word things.”
He finally looks up at me, squinting through slightly swollen eyes.
On his wristband, there’s a yellow sticker, and I know from several conversations that it means he’s in good condition. He can walk if he chooses to.
He can blink, talk, and eat without the aid of any machine.
He’s placed Scarlett two steps from the grave, but he’s practically unscathed…
“No need to hover over me for the trash can,” he says to me. “It’s over there, dude.”
“No, it’s right here.” I punch him square in the jaw. The impact knocks him off the bed and onto the floor.
I stomp him repeatedly as he tries to get up, cursing him, hating him.
Stooping down to his level, I pummel his face with my fists, and his blood colors my fingers.
“Please, stop! Help! Help Me!” He cries for mercy, but I don’t show him any.
Every time he screams, I hit him harder. Any time he attempts to get away, I stomp his chest.
I’m not sure when a security guard runs into the room to try to get between us, but it takes four more of them to get me to stop.
