Page 40 of The Tenth Circle
He hurt Stevenson,again, knowing damn well he didn’t deserve it.
The same way he didn’t deserve it at the homecoming dance.
A “misunderstanding” is what the asshole was smug enough to call a punch to the face, and since Stevenson has the patience of anactualSaint, he insisted we let it go.
I willnotlet it go this time.
“How long until EMS arrives?” I shout for the umpteenth time at the 9-1-1 dispatcher.
She continues with her attempts to both calm me down and retrieve information. So I give it to her the best I can without biting her head off.
School name.
Address.
Answer whether or not he’s conscious.
“He is, but groggy and in pain.”
A lot of pain. As he should be after nearly getting fried like a damn chicken cutlet.
Even though the dispatcher reassured me help is on the way, I can’t stop myself from answering her questions like a frantic animal.
I’m mid screech when Archer taps me on the shoulder.
“Pipe the fuck down and save the guy from more embarrassment.” He gestures behind him, the remorse on his face telling me all I need to know about Saint’slackof such things.
Fuck. This. Asshole.
Archer’s right. Saint doesn’t get to laugh at us any more than he already has.
I turn the drama down several notches as I respond to the dispatcher, listening intently while she shoots out the information I told her over a radio.
In one fell swoop, Archer lifts Stevenson to sitting, at the same time I’m fighting the urge to launch a football at Saint’s stupid fucking perfect head.
As if sensing my thoughts, Stevenson puts on his best brave face and says, “Hendrix, just let it go. I’m fine.”
I ignore his request and wait until we’re out of Saint’s sight to let out an exacerbated groan.
One that sparks even more questions from the dispatcher, so I do the responsible thing and hang up on her.
I’m pacing back and forth like a caged lion when Stevenson attempts to reassure me again that he’s fine.
Throwing my hands in the air, I yell, “No, you are not fine! You were electrocuted!”
Any smart person would know Stevenson is the last one who deserves the receiving end of my frustration, but I care about the guy, and Saint hurt him because of me. Which is precisely why I can’t decide whether to feel stupid, murderous, or guilty.
I go with the only option that can tackle all three—and the execution begins the moment two EMS workers appear, rushing down the tunnel with a stretcher.
Saint
I was nine years old the first time it happened.
Me and my little sister were sitting on the floor in our home library, the usual spot where we'd bring all our toys to make a mess.
My father hated us playing in there, but the library was Theory’s favorite spot in the house.
We’d play Hide-and-Seek, Barbies, Cops-and-Robbers.
