One-Eighty (Westover Prep 1)

“You could’ve died,” Mom sobs, her emotions taking over again.

“I could die walking to the mailbox!” I yell. “I could die from a million things that have nothing to do with the accident. I’m not going to stop seeing him.”

My father grinds his back teeth, but he doesn’t open his mouth to insist I never speak to Dalton again, and for that I’m grateful.

When they head to the cafeteria for more coffee and something to eat, I drop Peyton a text to find out what’s going on with Dalton and why he won’t respond to me.

It’s late, and she has the test tomorrow. That’s what I tell myself when she doesn’t text me back either.Chapter 37DaltonThey tell me I used to love the color black.

There are many things from my past that I hate.

Myself and the dark color surrounding me are the two things leading the pack right now.

People whimper and cry beside me, and I’m just numb, so broken that my pieces can’t combine enough to form wetness in my own eyes.

I deserve this.

I deserve watching the love of my life with her ashen face and hands crossed on her stomach in constant repose as the preacher talks about her devotion to life and helping others.

I deserve the looks from her mother and father that speak of the million ungodly things they wish would happen to me.

I deserve the blame my own parents planted at my feet for my involvement in the steps that led up to today.

I deserve it all.

The torture.

The wreck.

The getting my heart ripped from my chest because of an undiagnosed brain bleed that snuffed out the life of the most beautiful girl in the world.

She was fine when I left the hospital that day. Even her mother assured me she would be okay.

She didn’t deserve this, though.

She didn’t deserve the monster that tormented her daily.

She didn’t deserve to suffer at the hands of an idiotic boy and the army of bastards willing to hurt her at his command.

She deserved the world, and yet she gets a wooden box and six feet of dirt, all the while I’m left on earth without her.

I can’t do that.

That can’t happen.

Our story doesn’t end this way.

It should be me in that casket. Me leaving this world behind so she can shine in the bright light of the sun and live her life to all its glory.

It should be me.

It should be me.

It should be me.

My hand trembles as I reach into the inside pocket of my sports coat.

I’m not scared or afraid of what comes next.

It’s the anticipation, the thrill of joining her that makes my blood sing, the unused energy making my fingers twitch.

July sun glints off the barrel as I hold my salvation to my head and pull the trigger.

I wake with a start, heart pounding in my ears like drums. Cold sweat covers my skin in a sheen so thick my clothes stick to every inch of my body. My hands are trembling so hard they thump against my forehead when I try to push my hair out of my face.

I check my phone once again. Seeing that she had texted me twenty minutes ago, the pain from my dream ebbs a little.

I made promises.

I vowed to myself that I’d stay away.

I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but I didn’t expect it to be pure torture either.

She’s called.

She’s texted.

She left a voicemail filled with sobs and tears, explaining that her dad read her journals and knows all of the horrific things I did to her.

She begged me to come see her, but I can’t face the pain on her face.

I can’t face the girl I love because of what I saw.

Every time I close my eyes, the wounds on her thighs are front and center. Some were older, thinned and fading to a light silvery color, but there were others that were still pink and angry, proof of the pain I caused her. I hurt her so much that she hurt herself.

What kind of monster does that make me?

What kind of person pushes someone else so far that they take a razor and cut into their own skin?

And yet I want her.

I need her like I need air, and it’s killing me to keep my distance.

Going to her would be selfish. It would calm my pain, but it does nothing to ease hers.

There’s nothing I can say, nothing I can do to make things better. I can’t erase the past, not like mine has been erased from my mind.

I don’t deserve the reprieve. I shouldn’t be able to sit on my bed with her journals spread all around and merely read about the things I’ve done to her. I need to be wrapped in her torment, cocooned in her pain until I’m suffocated in retribution.