He gives the hair wrapped around his fist one more harsh tug before he releases it and turns to the door. With his hand on the knob, he stops and says, "And if youevertellanyoneabout last night, I'll fucking kill you."
Tears sting my eyes, my heart racing as he finally leaves the room. I curl onto my side, still gasping for air.
"Saige!" my mom calls from downstairs. "Are you about ready to go?"
But I can't answer. I'm still trying to catch my breath.
"Saige!"
"I'm coming!" I shout back, hoping she can't hear my voice breaking. But before I leave the room, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door, my eyes immediately dropping to the red mark around my neck. I grab a hoodie from my clothing box, pulling it over my head to cover it up, and head downstairs.
"It's pretty warm out," my mom says. "I'm not sure you're going to want that sweatshirt."
"Was Alex single when you started seeing him?" I ask, my tone dripping with accusation.
She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. I can see it in her eyes, though—the guilt. She knows what it feels like, and still, she did it to someone else.
"She's dead now," I whisper. "Did she die inthishouse?"
"No," she says. "Notinthe house, I—"
"I don't fucking believe this."
"Ready to go, ladies?" Alex asks, appearing in the foyer.
"Yep," I say, my tone brash as I storm out the door and into my harsh new reality.
And in the car, while they talk like nothing happened, I press on that bruise again, reliving the last twenty-four hours in my head, thinking it won't get worse than this—it can only get better.
After all, I've never hurt anyone. I didn't do anything to deserve this.
But no one ever gets what they deserve. And I think I'm about to find out just how true that is.
2
resentment and other drugs
Saige
It's raining, I think. Why is it raining in my room?
I stretch my aching limbs, head spinning, and realize I'm lying on cold, wet ground. Opening my eyes, I find myself in the side yard, getting drenched by our sprinkler system.
I guess I must not have made it inside last night, but by some miracle, I made it home. I don't really remember how that happened. I remember going to a concert in a basement club the next town over; I remember the first set, and there's a brief memory of being in the back of the car and the sun starting to rise. But nothing in between.
I stand up too quickly and regret it, instantly doubling over and vomiting bile down the front of my cropped tee and into the grass. Once I'm finished, I remove that shirt, using it to wipe my face and mouth clean before stumbling around the side of the house.
Elias's car is in the driveway.
Great.
When I started at Aurora Cove, he made sure I never got the chance to make friends and that everyone knew what would happen to them if they spoke to me. He wasn't lying about who he was here—everyonecowered to him. The other outcasts wouldn't touch me; even the teachers seemed to fear getting caught being too nice to me.
Forget school dances and basketball games—a good day was one when my shit wasn't stolen or vandalized, when the popular girls didn't spill soda down the front of my shirt or dump my lunch at my feet to please King Elias. I apologized to him—for what, I'm not exactly sure, but I did. I pleaded with him to make it stop for over a week. The last time, he told me he'd consider it if I got down on my knees and begged him.
He posted the video to his stories instead.
That's when I realized it was useless. The boy with the sad eyes who wanted me to hold him and run my fingers through his hair wasn't real. He was a drunk persona; one of the many facades he'd put on to get what he wanted from people, and I've seen quite a few of them since.
