Page 95 of Ghosts Don't Cry
A muscle ticks in his jaw.Good.
“Think you’re funny, Oliver?”
“Think you needed backup to tell me about your newfound literacy?” I scan for gaps I can break through to get to the exit, but I already know there aren’t any. His line knows how to contain. It’s what they’re trained for. These guys can hold back three-hundred-pound defensive tackles. I’m barely one-fifty soaking wet.
His fist moves before I can fully brace for it. It slams into my kidney, and sends lightning shooting through my spine. My legs try to fold, but I lock my knees and force myself to stay upright.
“Getting slow, Danny-boy. All that training not paying off?” I let my gaze drop to his stomach, and arch an eyebrow. “Or maybe too many burgers?”
“Hold him.”
Hands bite down on my arms again in an iron grip that knows exactly where to hold, and how to keep me from moving without wasting effort. One of them twists an arm behind my back, not quite enough to dislocate it, but close. My shoulder screams in protest.
“What’s wrong?” I bare my teeth. “Need help beating up one guy? Coach must be so proud.”
Dan’s fist connects with my ribs and … something cracks. The sound echoes off the lockers. Fire explodes through my chest, spreading outward. I force down the sound trying to escape, swallow the scream building. I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of knowing they’ve hurt me.
“Not so mouthy now, are you?” His next hit is targeted. Football players know where bodies break, and where to hit for maximum damage.
“Still mouthier than you.” I force the words out between bursts of agony. Each syllable costs me. “But that’s not hard.”
The beating turns methodical after that. Dan’s wrapped knuckles find every vulnerable spot—ribs, kidneys, solar plexus. The linemen hold me up when my legs threaten to give out, their grips tightening when I sag. Each hit sends fresh waves of fire through my nervous system. My vision blurs. Clears. Then blurs again.
“She’ll figure out what you are.” Dan’s voice seems distant past the ringing in my ears. “Garbage she picked up off the street.”
Blood fills my mouth while I smile. The copper taste is familiar, almost comforting. “Worried she likes what she found?”
That earns me three rapid hits that leave me gasping. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. My ribs grind together, something shifting wrong inside my chest. But I don’t stop. Words are the only weapon I have left.
“What’s really eating you, Dan? That she chose a guy like me? Or that she chose anyone but you?”
His fist drives up under my ribs, and somethingdefinitelybreaks. Multiple somethings. The pain steals my breath. The world goes white, then gray, then black at the edges. When they finally drop me, tile presses against my cheek, just cool enough to keep me conscious.
Footsteps retreat. Voices fade. A door slams, the sound echoing through my skull.
Getting up takes forever. Each movement sends agony through me. I have to use the lockers for support, leaving bloody fingerprints on metal. My legs don’t want to hold me. The roomspins and tilts with every attempt to stand. It takes three tries before I can stay upright for more than a few seconds.
Somehow, I make it to the nearest restroom. The mirror shows what I already know. Bruises are blooming dark across my torso, spreading like ink in water. Blood trickles from my split lip. When I press fingers against my ribs, my nervous system tries to shut down. White-hot pain bursts out from the point of contact, doubling me over, and leaving me gasping.
I splash water on my face, trying to wash away the blood. My hands are shaking so badly I struggle to turn the faucet. The cold helps, temporarily anyway. Just enough to clear my mind enough to figure out how to get through the rest of the day.
My hoodie is black, so anyone seeing blood on that is unlikely. My skin is pale, but that’s not unusual either. As long as I keep my head down, no one will notice there’s anything wrong. If I can make it to the end of day without anyone noticing, I can get back to the factory and figure out what I need to do next.
English is the next class. The teacher’s voice drones on while I focus on breathing without passing out. Each inhale feels like swallowing glass. Each exhale grinds broken ribs together. Sweat soaks through my shirt. The words on the page twist and swim, refusing to hold still.
“Ronan, care to share your thoughts on the symbolism of the green light?”
I force my head up. The light sends daggers through my skull. Every student turns to look at me.
“Sorry. Wasn’t paying attention.”
She frowns, lips pursing, but moves on. Relief washes over me. Lily keeps glancing over from two rows ahead. I don’t meet her eyes. I can’t let her know what’s happened.
The bell rings to signal the end of class after an eternity of waiting. I stay in my seat, waiting for everyone to leave, then move slowly to pack my books away, trying to look casualinstead of broken. Lily glances back at me again, concern clear in her eyes, but Cassidy pulls her through the door and away before she can say anything.
Lily will be expecting me to meet her in the library once she’s finished lunch with her friends. She’ll look for me in our usual spot between the reference stacks where no one looks. Missing it will raise questions that I don’t want to answer.
She’s already there when I finally make it, tucked into the corner with a book open on her lap. Her face lights up when she sees me, that smile that makes everything hurt in a different way. But I stay back, near the end of the aisle, keeping to the shadows they form. If I get too close to her, she’ll see and know something is wrong.
