Page 14 of Creeping Lily
His name rips out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Bentley…”
The way she flinches blows me apart. My vision goes white-hot, my fists clenching until my knuckles crack. The urge to smash the walls, to destroy everything in reach, takes me whole.
“Don’t,” she whispers, shaking her head, pain etched into every line of her face. “Don’t say his name again.”
I nod once. I won’t. Not because he doesn’t deserve to be cursed, but because I can’t stand seeing her recoil like that—not from me.
I breathe in, sharp and bitter. “I’m leaving in the morning.”
Her face twists, hurt flashing across it. It’s a punishment I deserve.
“Just like that?” Her voice is soft, but the words hit hard.
“Yeah,” I rasp. “Just like that.”
The truth is heavier, uglier. I can’t stay here. Every wall of this house reeks of him. Of them. I can’t walk these halls without hearing her scream. Can’t sit at the Walker dinner table and play the good son while they cover for the monster who broke her.
If I stay, I’ll kill him.
And once I start, I won’t stop.
So I’ll walk out. Not because I don’t care.
But because I care too much.
I’ll leave because if I stay, I know I’ll kill someone.
Later,when the house is quiet, I pack a single duffel. Bentley’s already gone, but I still don’t trust anyone within these walls. Not even myself.
Before I leave, I stand outside her door one more time.
I almost knock.
Almost tell her I’ll come back for her.
But my chest feels like it’s caving in, and I know if I see her again tonight, I won’t go.
And if I stay, I won’t just be leaving this house in the morning.
I’ll be leaving it in handcuffs.
So I walk away, never once looking back.
My chest caves with the weight of it. Every inhale is a fight, every exhale ragged. The walls feel too close, the air too thin. I press a fist against my sternum as if I can hold myself together, but the ache only grows sharper, more unbearable.
So I do the only thing left.
I turn.
I force my legs to move, one step, then another, down the path that suddenly feels like it’s scattered with a mile of broken glass. Each step away from her door feels wrong, unnatural, like I’m ripping pieces of myself out of my own body and leaving them behind.
The urge to look back burns hotter than fire. My shoulders tense, my neck screams for it—for just one glance, one last glimpse of the door that holds everything I want but can’t have.
But I don’t.
I don’t look back.
Because if I do, if I give myself even half a second of weakness, I’ll turn around. I’ll knock. I’ll fall into her arms, and I won’t crawl out again.
