Not this. Anything but this.
I slam my body against the door as ragged sobs tear from me, raw and jagged. I pound with my fists, nails scratching until they burn, my head spinning and ears ringing. “Let me out! Let me OUT!”
The door doesn’t budge.
My eyes sting, tears blurring everything. My breath comes in abrupt, panicked gasps that catch in my throat. The closet is too tight, too dark, and I’m trapped.
Again.
I continue to scratch at the wood, slamming my hands and body against it as I scream over and over. Or at least I think I am. Everything sounds muffled, like I’m underwater.
Can anyone even hear me?
Suddenly, the door swings open, and the light crashes in. I let out a high-pitched scream while surging forward right into something solid. I push with all my strength, wanting to get away.
I turn to run but drop to my knees after a few steps, my heart pounding so fast I think it’ll explode.
Arms wrap around me as I thrash around and scratch.
“Merci, it’s okay. Shh. It’s okay, baby.” Mom’s voice filters through the panic as she holds me tight.
My chest heaves as I sob, finally curling into her.
Another hand is on my back, rubbing soothing circles.
“We’re here, Merci. You’re safe.” Mr. Knight’s voice is solid and strong. Just like the day he burst into our kitchen after my father . . .
After he saved us.
I sob harder, shame and weakness consuming me. “I’m sorry. . .” I gasp between breaths, unable to meet their eyes.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Mom whispers, her hand smoothing my hair back.
But it’s not. None of this is okay.
All I wanted to do was comfort my stepbrother. Narrowing my eyes, I spin, wanting to tell him off. But when I look over my shoulder, Zach is at the bottom of the staircase, not moving.
His body is sprawled across the tile. One arm is bent wrong, with a bone sticking through the skin. Blood pools near his head, bright and too much, spreading like it’s trying to fill every crack in the marble.
My stomach drops. “Z-Zach. . .”
“Oh my god. Steven.” My mother points to my stepbrother.
Mr. Knight races down the stairs, his phone already pressed to his ear. “I need help. Send an ambulance!”
Mom stands, pulling me to my feet. My legs are jelly, my heart pounds so hard it hurts, and my stomach clenches. I’m going to be sick.
“Merci, come on.” Her voice trembles as she tries to usher me away, shielding me from seeing anything more.
But I can’t unsee it.
The blood, his lifeless body . . . it plays in my mind like a bad dream I can’t wake from.
“I—” My throat closes.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Did I do that?
Everything blurs together and a ringing in my ears becomes so overpowering my hands clamp around them as if to keep the sound out.
