Page 19 of Jayson
The silence that follows feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if the wind’s going to push you or hold you down.
Jayson exhales, but it’s not relief—it’s restraint.
“You think you want to die,” he says slowly, “but you don’t. You just want someone else to make the decision so you don’t have to carry the weight of surviving.”
His words gut me. Because they’re true. And I hate that he can see it. He just can’t see the reasons why I’ve contemplated ending it all so many times before.
He straightens, stepping back from the bars just enough to give me air—but not enough to mean I’m free. He doesn’t move right away. Just stands there, watching me with that predator’s stillness, like he’s waiting for a crack to show. A flinch. A sob. Anything.
But I give him nothing. I’ve given more than enough just by being here. And maybe that’s what gets to him.
“You know, your reaction to your father’s death has been…unusual. Most people scream,” he says after a beat. His voice is quieter now, but it cuts cleaner. “They cry. They beg. You haven’t even blinked.”
I meet his eyes, dead on. My silence dares him to keep going. He does.
“I killed your father in front of you. Shot him point-blank. And you just stood there.” He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “You haven’t shed a single tear.”
I swallow, but say nothing.
“Not even one?” he asks, more to himself than to me. “No screaming. No breakdown. Not even a goddamn twitch.”
His tone isn’t cruel—it’s curious. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t expect to find under all the blood.
“You’re not scared of me,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing. “But you should be. You really should be.”
Still, I don’t look away. Because what the hell do you say to that?Sorry I didn’t react the way you wanted me to while you painted the walls with my father’s blood? Sorry the grief didn’t perform on command?
He lets out a breath through his nose, gaze tightening as if my silence is more unsettling than any scream could’ve been. And maybe it is. Because monsters expect fear. But quiet?
Quiet makes them wonder what you’re hiding.
“When can I shower?” I ask, my voice sharper than intended.
I glance down, grimacing at the state of myself. My clothes are stiff with dried mud, crusted at the seams, clinging to my skin like punishment. Every movement makes them chafe—itchy, heavy, disgusting. The damp fabric clings to places it shouldn’t, and the smell… God, the smell.
Like soil and sweat and fear. A scent you only notice when it’s dried into you.
I shift my weight, trying not to wince as the fabric pulls across bruised skin. “I feel like I’ve been buried alive,” I mutter.
It’s not just discomfort. It’s suffocating. And somehow, being this filthy—thisuncared for—makes me feel even more like a prisoner.
Stripped of dignity. Rendered helpless. Covered in the earth’s muck. Wearing the last few hours like a second skin I can’t peel off.
I look up to meet his eyes.
“Seriously. I need to get this off me.”
9
JAYSON
She says it like a challenge. Like daring to ask for a shower is an act of defiance. Maybe it is.
“When can I shower?”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer. Just looks down at herself, lips pressed tight in revulsion. Her clothes are wrecked—stiff with dried mud, clinging in all the wrong places. The fabric’s so filthy it’s darkened two shades, hugging her like the aftermath of everything I did.
The scent hits me before I can look away—earth, sweat, fear. Not foul. Just raw. Human. Real in a way I haven’t felt in years. She’s just standing there, broken and proud in the same breath, asking me for a shred of decency.
