Kyle turns off the television at approximately 2 a.m. He sets the remote down carefully—quietly—on the arm of the couch.
“Did anyone witness what happened?” His eyes lock with mine, and I immediately shake my head.
“Did you leave behind anything? Any possible evidence?”
“No,” I whisper. I clear my throat. “He’s right. He kicked over his gas can and then went inside the house. No one saw what I did after that.”
Kyle nods and then squeezes the tension out of the back of his neck. He takes a step closer. “So no one knows you were there?”
“Only you.”
He then closes the distance between us. I think he might want to hit me. I don’t know for sure, but the anger in the set of his jaw indicates he might want to. I wouldn’t blame him.
“I want you to listen to me, Ben.” His voice is low and firm. I nod. “Take off every item of clothing you’re wearing right now and put them in the washing machine. Go take a shower. And then you’re going to go to bed and forget this happened, okay?”
I nod again. I might be sick in a second, I’m not sure.
“You are never to leave the slightest traceable connection to what happened tonight. Never look those people up online. Never drive by their house again. Stay away from anything that can trace you to them. And never, ever speak another word of this. Not to me . . . not to Ian . . . not to anyone. Do you hear me?”
I’m definitely about to be sick, but I still manage to nod.
He studies my face for a minute, making sure he can trust me. I don’t dare move. I want him to know he can trust me.
“We have a lot to do tomorrow to prepare for her funeral. Try to get some sleep.”
I don’t nod again, because he walks away, turning out the lights as he goes.
I stand in the dark for several minutes. Quiet . . . still . . . alone.
I should probably be worried that I’ll get caught. I should probably be upset that from this point forward, I’ll always feel a sense of guilt whenever Kyle looks at me. I should probably be worried that this night—coupled with this morning and finding my mother—will screw me up in some way. If maybe I’ll suffer from PTSD or depression.
But none of that matters.
Because as I run up the stairs, swing open my bathroom door and expel all the contents of my stomach into the toilet, the only thing my thoughts surround is that girl and how I’ve just completely ruined her life.
I drop my forehead to my arm as I sit here with a death grip on porcelain.
I don’t deserve to live.
I don’t deserve to live.
I wonder if my bloodstain will look like Gary Busey.
Fallon
I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up.
Beads of sweat trickle down my forehead.
I can’t do this.
I can’t read anymore.
There’s too much. Too much and it’s too hard and I’m too sick now to keep reading.
I somehow pull myself off the floor and make it to the sink. I wash my hands. I cup them under the stream of water and bring my hands to my mouth, swishing the water around. I do this several times, washing the taste of bile out of my mouth.
I look in the mirror at the scars that run from my cheek to my neck. I pull my shirt off and look at the scars on my arm, my breast, my waist. I run the fingers of my right hand up my arm and neck, over my cheek, and back down again. I run them over my breast and down my waist.
I lean forward until I’m flush against the counter . . . as close to the mirror as I can get. And I really look at them. I look at them with more concentration than I’ve ever looked at them before, because what I’m feeling is confusing me.
It’s the first time I’ve ever looked at them without at least a trace of anger following close behind.