Page 53 of Scarred Sins
In one moment, Arlo is carrying me away from the eyes of the monster that haunts my dreams. Arlo’s touch is soothing, and although I’m freezing, the sound of his beating heart brings warmth in front of me.
He lowers me down on the back seat of the car and gets inside with me. Meanwhile, I’m still shocked. Paul Simmons was right there, staring at me. He looked so different, yet too much like how I actually remember him. He saw me. Herecognizedme.
He took years off my life.
It’s time for me to finally get my power back and to get my revenge.
For the little girl he hurt and for all other women he’s been hurting ever since.
In the next moment, Arlo’s eyes close, and panic starts settling in the pit of my stomach. His forehead is sweaty, the white strands of his hair wet. His hair’s too messy – something I’m only taking notice of right now.
Despite his face being emotionless, his eyes smile, like they always do when he’s looking at me. He looks me up and down a couple of times, almost as if to make sure I don’t have any injuries, before slowly letting his eyes close.
“Arlo?” Reluctantly, I place my hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly.
He doesn’t respond.
“This isn’t funny,’’ I say. “Say something.’
No response comes from him. Instead, his head slides over the seat until it falls on my lap. That’s when I notice that the back of his long coat has two holes. Piece by piece, a puzzle starts forming in my mind until the last piece falls into place.
Arlo was shot.
“Drive us to the hospital,’’ I instructed the driver. “Now!”
My hands tremble as I stroke his hair. Eternity seems to pass, and I can barely feel the vehicle moving. My head gets clogged with thoughts, the vivid images of Arlo dying in my arms starting to consume me. My eyes swell with tears, but I don’t miss the slight movement of his chest, rising and falling.
“Please,’’ I whisper, tears rolling down my cheeks. “Just be okay.’’
At this moment, I seem to have forgotten about the camera in Arson’s collar. Arlo is dying on my lap because I acted like a little, spoiled brat. If I hadn’t run away, none of this would have ever happened.
There’s no one else to blame if he dies, except for me.
It terrifies me.
Because I can finally understand that the reason I’m crying, the reason my hands are trembling, combing through his hair and whispering sweet nothings into his ear, comes all naturally to me. All because somewhere along the road, I started caring about Arlo.
Despite having put a camera in my pet’s collar, and presumably all over my previous home in Long Grove, I’ve never felt as safe as when I’m with Arlo. He was always there, lurking in the shadows, prepared to protect me and kill for me if he deemed it necessary.
He’s always been protecting me, and I started noticing the moment his life was threatened.
How pathetic of me.
I try telling myself that it’s not my fault, that it would’ve happened regardless, yet the guilt that rears its ugly head to the surface is telling me otherwise. His face is getting paler and paler, and I’m terrified his skin tone will match his hair.
When the driver finally pulls up in front of the hospital, everything is hazy. It’s going quickly; nurses and doctors are all over him, and when his head is no longer on my lap, the fear sinks in.
Silently, I follow behind them, trying to understand their muttering and words, but it’s all fading into the background. Seeing Arlo’s body on a stretcher, with many hands on him, just forces me to remain rooted in my spot.
The hospital is full of people, and anxiety starts building in the pit of my stomach.
My palms are sweaty, and one of the nurses is with me, asking me too many questions. I don’t even know the lies that I tell her, slowly starting to detach myself from the situation. I don’t remember much, as if it’s a fever dream I can’t wake up from.
In the next moment, I find myself sitting in the lobby of the hospital, with a thick jacket covering my body. My eyes scan the area and widen in shock when I spot a big clock on the wall, and it’s past midnight.
I must’ve slept for at least four hours.
With a sigh, I stretch, my body aching from being in an uncomfortable position for way too long. Given the size and model of the jacket, it belongs to a man. It doesn’t smell like Arlo, and it’s not his style. Someone else put their jacket over me to warm me up, and the fact that I slept through it makes me uneasy.
