Bastian. The body. The blood. The knife.
I did this for you.
A sob tears out of my throat. I trip again, my shoulder slamming into a brick wall. The impact knocks the air from my lungs and I slide down until I’m sitting on the wet sidewalk, back pressedagainst the rough brick, rain pouring over me like the sky itself is weeping.
I’m weeping right along with it. What am I crying for, exactly? For a life that keeps showing me that yes, it’s possible to sink lower? That it’s possible to hurt more, more, more?
You can take it, Eliana,the world seems to be saying to me as it cackles.You can endure, can’t you? Isn’t that what you do best?
I want to scream back,No! No, I can’t endure anymore! I found my limit and this is it. Please stop doing this to me. I don’t want to hurt this badly.
But the world either doesn’t listen or doesn’t care. The rain keeps pouring and my wounds keep aching and the image of Bastian with a bloody knife keeps pulsing in my mind’s eye.
I eventually run out of tears. Or maybe my body just runs out of water. Either way, the sobs taper off into hiccupping gasps, then into shallow breathing, then into nothing at all.
I sit there against the brick wall for I don’t know how long. Could be five minutes. Could be an hour. Time has lost all meaning.
Finally, I make myself stand. My legs shake. My feet are shredded and screaming. But I manage to clamber upright.
I look around and try to orient myself. The street signs are blurry, but I recognize the bodega on the corner. The faded awning. I’m three blocks from Yasmin’s apartment. That’s better than going home. I don’t think I can be alone right now.
I start walking, each step sending fresh pain shooting up through my cut feet. The rain has slowed to a drizzle now, but I’m already so soaked that it doesn’t matter.
I arrive at Yasmin’s building and lurch through the glass doors into the lobby. The doorman looks up from his phone and his eyes bulge. “Miss, are you?—”
I don’t let him finish. “I need to get upstairs.”
“You’re bleeding.” He stands up and starts to come around the desk. “Should I call an ambulance?”
“No!” I take a breath. “No, I just need to see Yasmin. Apartment 5C.”
He hesitates as he looks me up and down. His mouth opens like he’s going to argue, to insist on protocol or common sense or basic human decency.
But something in my expression must convince him not to. Maybe he’s just worried I’ll induct him into the zombie horde I’ve clearly joined. He steps aside.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and make for the elevator.
My reflection in the mirrored walls is horrifying. I look like I crawled out of a grave. In some ways, that’s exactly what I did. The Eliana who went into that alley died there, and this is just what’s left behind.
The elevator dings. Fifth floor.
I lurch down the hallway. When I reach Yasmin’s door, I raise my fist to knock—but on the first touch, it swings open.
I’m confused for a second. Yas has been super careful about locks ever since the whole Brandon situation began. She’d never just leave her door like this, not only unlocked but also unfastened.
Then I hear something.
Sounds of scuffling from inside. Furniture scraping across the floor. A muffled grunt.
My first thought is that it’s Zeke and Yasmin having sex again. I’d like to never see that again—once was more than enough. I consider waiting in the hall for a while…
… until Yasmin screams.
It’s not a pleasure scream. Not anoh-God-Zeke-right-therescream. This is a real scream. Drenched with terror.
I shove the door open the rest of the way and bound inside, my tortured feet leaving bloody prints on Yasmin’s rug.
“Yas!” I shout.
