Page 35 of Broken Pieces
“Love you, girl.” She waves, peeling off two streets before mine, her figure darting across the road.
I plaster on a fake smile and watch her go, her hair snapping in the wind, her body shrinking against the sprawl of houses that all blur into the same tired shape.
Only when she vanishes on the far side do my feet start moving again.
And the problem is Cassie’s right. She is always fucking right.
The closer I get to the house, the slower my steps drag. That familiar weight starts sinking in my stomach long before I reach the gate. I already know what waits for me on the other side.
The front door gapes open, same as always. Privacy doesn’t live here. It never has. I force myself up the steps and shove through, shoulders braced, lungs locked, waiting for the hit.
And it comes.
A kid is screaming about wanting cereal from the kitchen.
Someone else is crying near the entrance, a high-pitched wail that scratches against my nerves.
Down the hall, the older boys are locked in another argument, this one over who fucked with the batteries in the remote. Their voices spike, sharp enough that I know punches will fly ifDolores doesn’t step in. Which she won’t. Not soon enough anyway.
The air is thick with the stench of dirty socks, stale spaghetti, and the sour tang of too many bodies pressed into a space never meant to hold them.
A sock flies across the hall and lands at my feet, damp and reeking.
On the wall to my right, a streak of tomato sauce is splattered like blood, drying into cracks that will never be scrubbed clean. Muddy footprints trail across the boards, proof no one cares about wiping shoes.
One of the twins barrels past me, butter knife raised, chasing his brother down the hallway with murder in his eyes.
No one bothers to say hi to me. That’s the rule here. The less you interact, the safer you are.
My bag slides down my shoulder as I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the shouting that echoes up from below. The walls are too thin to hold any secrets. Every slammed door is another reminder that there is no such thing as peace.
My room waits at the end of the hall, though calling it mine is a stretch. The door doesn’t lock and the roof leaks every time the sky decides to cry.
I drop my bag onto my mattress.
The noise from the house seeps through the walls, every shout and slam bleeding into the room until it feels as if the chaos has followed me here on purpose.
I last less than a minute before it crushes me.
I shove back through the door and slip out without a sound. No one looks up. No one notices. No one fucking cares.
I head down the back steps, past garbage bins spilling over, sour rot leaking from bags knotted too loose, flies swarming like they own the place. The fence groans when I shove through, splinters biting into my palm as the wood gives way.
My feet carry me without thought, each step pulled by something deeper than choice.
The rooftop.
The one place in this entire fucked-up town that doesn’t smell like despair. Where no one needs me to play a part I never auditioned for.
The fire escape ladder bites into my palms as I climb.My heart pounds with every rung, beating harder as I near the top.
When my fingers curl around the ledge, I haul myself up… then freeze.
He is already there.
Zane.
Sitting where he was yesterday.
