Page 93 of The Staircase in the Woods

Nick laughed then. “There it is. A little fight in you. Come on, Zuikas. Let’s do that. Show me them nails, them bloodied nails. Scratch and claw, you little bitch. Tell me how much you hate me. Or hated Matty. Come on. Lay it on. Talk about how Lore left you behind, you poor thing. She kept going and you laid there, belly up, pissing and moaning.”

“Fucking hell, you are relentless.”

“You ever finally get together with her, by the way? You two went off to college together, right? Or was it that you followed her there, like a lost puppy? Or chased her. Like a stalker.”

“I did not fucking chase her there. Sarah Lawrence was a great school for people who wanted to be…creative. And yeah. Not that it’s any of your business, but we got together a few times over our time there and…it didn’t work out.”

“Doesn’t seem like anything really worked out for you, Owen.”

And then another shrug. Dismissive. Prickish. Pouty.

Something broke inside Owen. A boot pressing down on a bone.Snap.

He felt himself lurch forward, finger in Nick’s face, a finger curling inward toward the rest of the hand, forming a fist as he seethed: “I swear to god, Nick, youshrugat me one more time and I will bust your fucking teeth—”

—down your throat till you choke—

And in that moment, he cut his words short.

And he wanted to do it.

He really, really wanted to do it.

How easy it would be.

Not just easy.

Freeing.

Howfreeingit would be to let that fist slip its leash and force Nick’s teeth down his throat, just like Owen wanted, and then, even better?To keep hitting. Oh because all the teeth wouldn’t be gone. No, some would remain. He’d have to keep pistoning his fist into the other man’s face. Hisfriend’sface—but a friend no more. A stranger. Afoe. He could keep punching, keep knocking the rest of the teeth down into his throat like he was tossing a bowling ball to get the straggler pins,no strike on the first go, only a spare,and the blood would bubble up as he pushed his fist into Nick’s mouth, Nick’s lips splitting like torn lunch meat, Owen’s knuckles bulging down into the esophagus, finding the teeth that were lodged there, and Nick would try to scream, but how do you scream around a fist, a wrist, a pushing arm,and Owen thought it would be funny—no, that itwasfunny, because this wasn’t a vision, this wasn’t a dream, it was really happening,it had already happened,oh god, oh god,no, Nick, I’m sorry—

His fist—slick with blood, some of it his own from when the teeth shredded his fingers and hand—throbbed.

He stepped back from his dead friend.

His dead friend, who was grinning now through his broken teeth and ripped plastic bag of a mouth.

“Maybe you are a fighter after all,” Nick said, voice whistling through the thick blood in his mouth.

Owen blinked.

The blood was gone.

The teeth were there.

His fist didn’t hurt at all.

Nick’s fine.

“This place is messing with us,” Owen said.

“If you say so.”

Still alive, so still a prick.

“We weren’t close because we weren’t close,” Owen said. “You and me, I mean. We just weren’t. You were scary in a lot of ways. Intense. Kind of a dick, honestly. But I also respected you and looked up to you because you never seemed to give a damn what anybody thought. And all I did was care what people think. You were fearless and I was always afraid. I’m sorry we weren’t closer, but we just weren’t. If we get out of here alive, maybe we can do something about that. If we don’t, then just know I admired you. And I love you.”

There.

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