Page 116 of Twisted Heathens

I consider Brooklyn’s door for a moment, ready to resume knocking when a thought crosses my mind. My feet hurry to the next floor, where I reach Eli’s room and test the handle, finding it unlocked. Just like I thought, they probably searched the place top to bottom after he was hospitalised. Safety and all, can’t have a dead kid on their hands.

That would be bad for business, right?

Slipping inside, I find the room pitch black with curtains drawn across the autumnal day. Just as I move to flick the lamp on, a soft whimper freezes me on the spot. Tension radiates down my spine as I flinch at the barely audible noise, laced with so much fucking pain.

“Firecracker?” I whisper into the dark.

It’s got to be her. Where else would she go?

Tripping over books and dirty t-shirts, I stumble to the bed. A cowering shadow betrays her presence. She’s tucked into the corner, hugging Eli’s pillow tight, buried in dark sheets that don’t immediately reveal their secrets. Relief floods my body. She’s here, she’s okay.

“Hey,” I say softly.

Her soft cries are the only response.

My relief is short-lived. Heartbeat roaring in my ears as I inch closer, I finally notice the dark stains on the fabric. Icy tendrils invade my body and copper fills my nose. Everything stops. Nothing exists beyond the sheer terror that infects my mind at the sight of Brooklyn.

Blood.

Everywhere.

An impassable crimson ocean separating us.

“Brooke? What….” I trail off, fingers touching wet sheets. “Oh, holy fuck…”

“Go away, Nix,” she mumbles drunkenly.

What have you done, baby?

I crawl across the bed, spooning Brooklyn in my arms. Her sticky blonde hair is stained red, splayed out across the pillows. As soon as I touch her she jumps, struggling to break free from my embrace, still trying to run from me. Like I’d ever let her go willingly.

I tighten my arms and hold her to my chest. “Don’t move.”

“Why are you here?” She grabs a handful of my shirt, weak voice trapped on a sob. “Leave me the fuck alone. All of you. I want to be alone.”

“So you can die? Is that what this is? Goddammit,” I curse furiously. My fingers slip on blood-slick skin, searching for the source. “What the fuck did you to do yourself?”

I lay her down on the bed, flicking on the bedside lamp. Horrifying destruction is revealed on her skin. My mouth goes dry at the deep, uneven slashes, blade parting flesh without mercy. Too many to count, weeping red from both arms. She can’t have cut herself that long ago if she’s still conscious, but it’s pouring out of her too fast.

So much blood. I’m losing her.

“I made it stop.” She sniffles.

I gulp hard. “Made what stop, baby?”

Shrugging my jacket off, I wrap Brooklyn up and lift her into my arms. Panic rules my every thought and all I can think to do is fix her, no matter what it takes. Her head lands on my chest, nose burrowing into my neck as she shudders a pained breath.

“Everything. The world. Voices. Guilt.”

“You have nothing to be guilty for!”

Vicious newspaper articles and dark allegations threaten to contradict me, but I forcibly kick the thoughts out of my mind. None of us are bloody innocent here. She may be a monster, but she’s my fucking monster. I decide whether she’s guilty or not.

“You’re not allowed to die,” I declare, my decision sealed.

I can’t take her to the medics. They’ll lock her away for good. I’ve got to fix this myself. Striding from the room and kicking the door open, I glance around to check the coast is clear before tightening the fabric around her body, concealing the almighty mess inside.

“Keep quiet,” I say tersely, jogging down the stairs.

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