Page 99 of Rat

Rory forced a savage laugh. He squeezed his eyes shut in a long blink. “Yeah…I should’ve guessed it was you, Pauly.”

“Rory…” Ollie warned, grabbing his hand. Rory shook him off. There were eyes on him, so many, but he could only see Pauly.

“Me, sweetheart? It’s all about me.”

“You sick bastard!”

Rory launched out of his chair and rushed at Pauly. They tumbled to the floor, and the classroom exploded into noise and chaos. Rory rained his fists down at Pauly’s face, and he unleashed everything he had. The anger and the adrenaline surge kept his punches brutal, kept him focused on the man underneath him.

He couldn’t stop, despite being dragged about and struck by other inmates, he kept swinging his fists and his legs, whatever connected with the evil people that tried to remove his heart. Pauly and his group of bandana-wearing inmates must’ve been behind it, and Rory was going to punish them all. He wasn’t the only one fighting. Teddy and Sebastian were with him, and the officers ran forward, adding to the brawl.

Arms closed around Rory and dragged him back, out of the madness and the violence, but they couldn’t save him from his own whirling mind.

“Enough, Rory,” Sebastian said. “Stop.”

He struggled free. “No.”

Rory went for Pauly again—Pauly on the floor not moving, Pauly covered in blood.

Pauly who knew he had a sister.

Pauly who had somehow faked a newspaper article to destroy him.

Pauly who wasn’t going to get away with it.

Officers slammed into Rory, taking him down to the floor where he was pinned. He weakened, and the fight left him as quickly as it had come. They dragged him out of the room, down the corridor, down endless dark tunnels until he ended up in a concrete box on his own.

Only then did he scream.

Scream until his throat spasmed with agony.

He clawed his head, sobbing with spittle on his lips.

It couldn’t be true, and yet, a little voice in Rory’s head told him it was.

Rory had his hands on the desk, and for the first time, they were cuffed. He stared at them instead of looking at Hamish.

“You didn’t tell me.”

His voice came out hollow, distant to even his own ears. He hadn’t slept in at least two days and had cried his eyes dry. Dehydration beat in his head, but he couldn’t drink, eat, or sleep. He wanted the pain, the droning headache and the sting in his eyes.

“We thought it was for the best,” Hamish said.

Rory tipped his head back and released a laugh. It hurt his throat, and the manic smile cracked his dry lips. He closed his eyes and relished the throb of agony. Erica was dead. She was gone.

“You didn’t tell me my sister had died,” he said slowly.

Hamish looked away. “You were doing so well. I didn’t want to—”

“You sat here two weeks ago, told me my dad would be proud, and let me call her, knowing she wouldn’t pick up. Knowing she was in the morgue. You didn’t say a thing.”

“Rory—”

“And I find out in an art class, three weeks after in the cruellest way possible…and then I’m locked in a concrete box for two days.”

“I didn’t know you were in solitary.”

Rory flexed his fingers, bruised and split from lashing out at the wall. They had warned him repeatedly he had to stop or they’d be forced to sedate him. It had been tempting, but he wanted to confront Hamish.

---