* * *
“Why the helldoes Lopez have your guitar?” Zeta demands, the following day, standing over me as I face the TV in the common room, attempting to pretend that my heart isn’t destroyed inside my chest listening to that asshole butchering my baby as he tries to play.
“Never mind that. How badly are you hurt?” I inquire.
I was happy to see her walking into school this morning, grateful she hadn’t broken any bones in the nasty fall, but that happiness was short-lived when I took one look at her face. Her nose is swollen to twice its size, and her skin is littered with bruises and cuts. Her lips are cracked and dried, and there’s a small cut on her bottom lip which looks sore. Scabs and bruising cover her knees and lower legs too.
Rage like I haven’t felt in years swelled up inside me, and I sat on my hands to resist the urge to hit something or someone.
“I ache all over, and Frankenstein’s bride was staring out of the mirror at me this morning, but I’ll live. Now stop deflecting, and answer my question,” she demands.
“No.”
“No?” She plants her hands on her slim hips.
“No.” I elongate the word for extra effect, arching a brow. “We’re not friends anymore, remember?”
“You decided that. Not me.”
“You didn’t seem unhappy about that yesterday.”
“Because I was fucking hurting! And I’m not just talking about my obvious injuries.”
The mournful look on her face causes me actual physical pain.
I want to take it all back.
To fess up and tell her the truth, but that little voice in my ear reminds me of how destructive I am, of how I always mess things up, and it renews my resolve.
I harden my heart, silently begging her forgiveness as I twist my lips into a sneer. “Whatever. Like I care.”
Her nostrils flare, and her eyes darken as she glares at me. “I can’t believe I ever fell for the nice-guy act. You’re just like every other asshole I’ve ever known. Only interested in one thing, but you were just cleverer about it.” Her words cut a line straight through my heart, but I school my features into a disinterested expression, ensuring she has no clue how much it kills me to hear her proclaim what we shared as fake when it’s the most real thing I’ve ever known. “I don’t ever want to speak to you again.”
She storms off, and I watch her leave with a lump of stone in my chest in place of where my heart should be.
“Man, you’re totally fucking up,” Young supplies, shaking his head. “She’s going to figure it out, and she’s gonna be so mad at you.”
“Not now,” I bark, rubbing a tense spot between my brows. “You know why I did it, and I have no regrets. She might hate me, but at least she’s protected.”
“I hope you’re right, dude, and that it’s worth it.”
The next few weeks are some of the worst of my life. Without Zeta and my Fender, I’ve lost the will to live.
Flashbacks and nightmares assault me on an almost daily basis, and I’m sinking back into dangerous territory. It’s a timely reminder there’s no long-term solution to my problems. This is something I will live with for the rest of my life, and every time something traumatic or upsetting happens in my life, I risk falling into that black hole again.
Dr. Blaufeld has noticed, and when I wouldn’t open up, he went digging on his own. Powell clearly tattled about the guitar and Zeta, but I keep my lips sealed as he attempts to coax me into talking. There’s no way I’m telling him what went down because blabbing to authority figures never ends well. I know better.
Zeta’s face is almost fully healed, and Lopez has remained true to his word, ensuring she’s left alone, so that provides me with some comfort at times when Zeta glares at me like she hates me most in the world.
To have had a shot with the girl of my dreams ripped from me in such a cruel way is also a timely reminder.
That I don’t deserve happiness.
That I will always be lonely and alone.
That I’m stupid to harbor any hope because I already know what fate has in store for me.
But none of that could prepare me for what I learn next.
