One-Eighty (Westover Prep 1)

“There’s nothing that we can do for him until help shows up.” That doesn’t make any sense. The man in front of me is an adult. They’re supposed to know how to handle situations like this. “Let’s get something on that forehead cut of yours.”

Before I can object, the sounds of sirens fill the air. Only then do I notice a road flare burning in the middle of the road about forty yards away. I don’t know which direction I’m facing. I don’t know which side of the road we went off or how close we are to town. Everything is happening so fast and yet slowing down at the same time.

It seems like hours before the ambulance and rescue personnel show up after hearing the sirens for the first time, but then it’s like there are a hundred people swarming the scene. I refuse to go in the back of the ambulance, insisting that Dalton will need it when they find him.

The EMT frowns when he looks at me, and I can see in his eyes that he doesn’t think Dalton will need an ambulance. Thankfully, he stops short of telling me that a body bag will be more likely for the boy that’s tormented me for years.

People are hollering; guys are tied to ropes and rigs as they’re lowered down toward the car, while I sit in the open door of a police car and watch it all in the flash of red and blue lights.

There’s a commotion, but my brain isn’t really registering any of it. It’s almost like an out-of-body experience when the bottom of a bright orange rescue basket peeks over the ledge. Inch by inch, Dalton is revealed as the pulley system brings him to safety.

He’s rushed past, carried by two men on either side of the rescue basket, but when I stand to tell him I’m sorry, it’s clear that he’ll never hear another word I say.

My head swims, guilt and fear filling it until I can see nothing but blackness and death.Chapter 5PiperThrough the steady beeps of a distant machine and whispered voices, I do my best to assess my surroundings without opening my eyes. I’ve done this very thing several times already, before falling back into the torment of my nightmares.

I know when I open my eyes and acknowledge the people in my hospital room, I’m going to have to answer for what I’ve done. I’m putting that off as long as I can. Guilt burns a hole in the lining of my stomach.

I don’t think most people would bat an eyelash at the opportunity to rid the world of their tormentor. I imagine, just like me, they lie in bed late at night and dream of a slew of demises fitting for the ones who’ve made their lives a living hell. After years and years of abuse, I, myself, have thought about numerous possibilities to relieve the earth of Dalton Payne.

I pictured my hands around his throat, cutting off his oxygen and ceasing the vile words from his mouth. I’ve imagined watching him getting attacked by bears and doing nothing to try to stop it. I’ve even wondered what it would be like to hold his head under water until he stopped moving.

I didn’t think it would ever happen. Getting rid of someone requires guts, stamina, and most importantly, the ability to get away with it.

I don’t have any of those things.

He’s made sure of it. Dalton and his clan of groupies have chipped away at my self-esteem and self-worth until I’ve been left with nothing.

Tonight, however, I’m single-handedly responsible for killing the tyrant.

I hate Dalton Payne.

I hated Dalton Payne.

I haven’t had a change of heart, but despising someone who is no longer alive doesn’t seem fair.

His life is over.

My life will also be over once I open my eyes, but the bravery I need to face my actions is nowhere to be found. My body trembles, shaking uncontrollably.

This isn’t like the time I broke the back window at my grandmother’s house, or the time I forgot the bathroom sink was running and the water overflowed for hours onto the floor. This isn’t a mistake that a couple of hundred dollars and a trip to The Home Depot can fix.

I’ve ended a life, and there are serious repercussions for doing something like that.

Maybe the police will believe me when I tell them that Dalton grabbed the wheel. He caused the wreck, not me. But it’s my luck that they’ll still handcuff me and take me to jail. It’s honestly where I belong. If I hadn’t let him make me angry, if I had paid more attention to the road instead of the horrific things he was saying, we’d both be home right now. I wouldn’t be in a hospital bed, and he wouldn’t be in the morgue.