Page 29 of Breathe Like Hell

Bitch

Me

Love you

Mila

So did he rearrange your guts?

Me

You have such a way with words. But yes

Mila

I need a man

Me

Men are overrated

Mila

True. Let me rephrase, I need dick. I need COCK

A shocked laugh burst out of me, and I instantly shut my phone off, shoving it deep in the pocket of my hoodie, forcing my focus onto Micah. His stare slid over to me for an instant, igniting a steady flame inside of me, and Mila’s ridiculous text was quickly forgotten about.

I did my best to pay attention for the rest of lecture, listening to Micah talking about pipe wall thickness and schedule numbers while my mind wandered to other things. Like Aamon. To me, there didn’t seem to be that much urgency with killing him, and I couldn’t figure out why that would be if my life was seriously on the line—and it seemed like it was.

But what did I know?

Nothing. Always nothing.

After lecture, I didn’t waste time before heading up to the sixth floor of Stanton and slipping down the quiet hallway containing the door to Micah’s office. Thankfully, the handle wasn’t locked when I tried it.

Glancing around quickly, I silently pushed open the door and stepped into the dim room, closing the door behind me. The rolldown shade over the window was halfway shut and I walked over to it, then tugged it up to look out over campus. He had a nice view over the sprawling sidewalks and mismatching architecture of all the class buildings. Some were old, carved with stone and brick; some were new, made of metal and glass. Leaves fell from the branches of thick-trunked maple trees and red alders, and were scattered across the lawn in brown piles, drifting when the wind blew.

My eyes scanned the sky, noting the darkness of the clouds, the bluish hue of the light filtering through them. I could feel the slight vibrations of thunder in the distance.

I went across Micah’s office and plopped myself down on the couch, fishing my phone out of my pocket to reply to Mila as I scuffed my boots on the thin carpet. My hand fell absently to my side, fingers tracing hexagons on the printed couch fabric as I scrolled through social media to pass time, my old phone loading every post at a snail’s pace.

My own social media was quite lackluster. I hadn’t posted on it since high school, and most of the posts made me sad to look at. It would probably be healthy to delete them, but they were proof of my life, in a way.

Grainy pictures of myself or things I found aesthetically pleasing—lots of shark teeth and beaches and black nail polish, all things I still liked—with vague captions that didn’t mean much to anyone who didn’t know what was happening to me. Back when all I listened to Ultraviolence and Natural Born Losers and wore a tattoo choker most days.

I tapped on a picture of my old black Converse, taken as I sat on the ground in the hallway of my high school, my back leaning up against the lockers, captioned Don’t want to go home :(

There were purple bruises on my shins, and from the sliver of a glass door I could see in the background, it was probably after school. Almost dinner time, maybe. I remembered how I used to walk around and pretend I was part of clubs or study groups, just to avoid spending a few more hours in that trailer. My bio still said I’m not here and Bridgeman HS.

I tapped on another picture, this time a picture of my wrist with black writing on it. You’re on your own, inked in black Sharpie on my skin. It was strange looking at the posts now. It made my stomach twist. I swiped out of the app and slumped backwards on the couch, resting my head on the back of it. My fingernails traced over the textured fabric as I stared at nothing, listening to the thunder getting closer.

I hopped up when I eventually heard the door opening, some form of relief flooding my system as Micah stepped into the room and shut the door behind himself.

“Micah,” I greeted tentatively, my fingers twisting together in front of me. He went to sit at his desk, then rested his elbows on its surface, hands clasped, watching me. My gaze trailed down to his rolled shirtsleeves and muscular forearms, my sadness morphing into something else. Lightning flickered in the sky and I snapped my attention to the window as thunder rattled the glass.

“Masters.”

I looked back at Micah, finding him staring intensely at me.