“Nisha!” Izzy screams, pulling me out of my trance-like state. “Stop.”
Stop what? I look around. Everyone’s staring at me with dropped jaws and wide eyes. What’s their problem?
“N-Nisha,” Blaze chokes, tapping my back.
I look down. He’s beneath me. My arm is pressed against his neck. Shit. I jump off him. “I-I…” I what? What the heck did I do? “I gotta go,” I bark, pushing through the crowd.
I barge through the creaky door. The first snow crystals are falling, covering the soil with a fine white blanket. I’d say it’s beautiful, only I’m too distraught to appreciate the picturesque scenery.
What just happened? Like a broken record, the question plays on repeat.
Chilly air beats against my shivering body. I press my palms against my thighs, attempting to even out my breath, trying to wrap my head around what went down in there. A recap of the moments leading up to this one flickers across my mind’s eye: Blaze and I are on the mat. He teases me. People start laughing. My brain shuts off, paving the way for a hallucination. I’m somewhere in Egypt, during a time when people wore loincloths. Seth is there, encouraging me. Oz is a king. Izzy his queen. Blaze a Medjay. I fight him. Izzy screams. Then, I come to, realizing I’m in the midst of suffocating Blaze—just like in that dang hallucination.
Only it wasn’t a hallucination, was it?
I turn and glare at the Shed. Of course it was. This is Shepherdstown. Not Egypt. Oz isn’t an Egyptian king, and my cousin might be his queen, but not in the literal sense of the word. Seth wasn’t here, either. He doesn’t even exist. He’s just a myth. A fictional character in a story my mom once told me. Just like the Medjay.
Then, why was Blaze in the exact same position? How was I able to take down an MMA champion? What really happened in there? The questions mount up to the height of Kilimanjaro.
I lean against the wooden façade of the Shed, considering my next steps. One thing I’m sure of—I’m not going back in there. I wouldn’t know how to face my friends. How to face Blaze. Or how to explain what just happened without telling them about those dang hallucinations.
I need to go home.
Brilliant idea. There’s just a teeny-tiny problem. It’s a two-hour walk back to West German Street. I don’t really mind the distance, but it’s freezing cold, and all I’m wearing is a thin oversized Military jacket. What’s the other option, though? Waiting for Blaze or one of my friends to drive me? I’d rather freeze to death.
I move through the parking lot. Three cars pull up—the Heathers mobile, Marie’s BMW, and Silvio’s Chevy. Life is beyond cruel.
Quickening my pace, I hope to get away before the Hate Nisha Fan Club jumps out of their fancy cars. Turns out hope is highly overrated. “Look who’s crawled out of her hole,” Tarryn says, coming right at me. I can’t do this right now. The Mean Girls production is postponed. Shooting can resume once I’m less inclined to throw myself in front of a car.
Without breaking into a run, I speed toward the road. I make it to the edge of the woods when a bulky hand wraps around my upper arm, pulling me back. “She talked to you,” Silvio hisses, spinning me around.
“Please,” I beg, staring at the white ground. “I just want to go home.” I promise I’ll lock myself away and never come out again. Like ever.
“I just want to go home.” He imitates the whiny voice of a little girl. “Let me tell you something, freak. I don’t give a fuck about what you want. You shouldn’t even be here. And you sure as hell should have never messed with our friends.” His fingers dig into my skin, cutting off the blood flow. “I’m curious, though. Did you think we’d let you get away with what you did to Marie? That we’d ignore the fact you almost killed two of our friends now?”
I don’t shy away from responsibility. Never have. I’ve always put the blame where it belongs—on me. Mole’s accident? Totally my fault. But I refuse to admit to any wrongdoing where Marie is concerned. She—I have no doubt—would have died had I not pushed her against that dang sink.
“What?” Silvio laughs. “Lost your voice now that your bodyguard isn’t around to protect you?”
“Blaze isn’t my bodyguard.” I snort through gritted teeth. After tonight, I’m not sure he’s still my friend. What happened must have finally opened his eyes to the real me—the Angel-of-Death me.
The other six members of the football team—J amongst them—circle me. The Heathers, led by Marie, do the same. There’s no escaping now. Maybe that’s a good thing. If they kill me, I won’t have to drown myself in the river, or commit hara-kiri with the samurai sword Dad collected during one of his trips to Japan.
“We warned you to stay away,” J says, ogling me with the eyes of a wild rabid animal.
Marie moves closer, her flawless face blemished by a creepy grin. “You should have listened to them.”
“Yeah.” Silvio tightens his grip. “You should have.”
As I stand there, in the shadow of a gorilla escaped from the High School Zoo and surrounded by the army of Jefferson High, the edges of my mouth curl upward. I’m not afraid of them. Heck, I’m not even afraid to die. I’m just tired of all the drama in my life.
Silvio shakes me. “You think this is funny?”
“A little,” I admit.
He narrows his dark-brown eyes at me. “If you think we’re just fooling around—”
“I don’t.” They’re out for my blood. I feel it in my bones. I just don’t care.
Marie gets in my face. “Then why are you laughing, bitch?”
If I were smart, I’d keep my mouth shut. Turns out I’m not smart. I’m suicidal. “I’ve watched dozens of people die,” I say, voice colder than the snow beneath my feet. “I had my mother’s gray brain tissue on my face.” I zoom in on Marie. “Did you know brain tissue is gray, not red?” She stumbles backward. “No?” I laugh. “Didn’t think so. It’s true, though. Wanna know what else is true? All the shit you see on TV, the fake blood and guts—none of it will ever be able to capture the reality of death. So, let me ask you this:”—my gaze drifts over their disturbed faces—“do you really think a bunch of football jocks and wannabe queen bees scare me?”
“She’s insane,” Tarryn whispers somewhere behind me.
“Totally,” Adrianne utters.
Took them long enough to realize.
“Not scared, huh?” Silvio mocks me, murder on his face. “We’ll see about that.” He pushes me. I fall backward. Sharp pain jolts through my backbone. The flesh around my palms tears. It burns like heck.
“Are you scared yet?” Marie snickers.
Snow soaks through my favorite jeans. But there’s still no trace of fear in my system. I’m kind of amused. “I’m sure you can do better,” I taunt Silvio, as if deep down I want him to unleash the monster.
“Damn right.” When I catch a glimpse of his boot, it’s already too late. He kicks me in the belly so hard, I think I have to puke. The stars above me blur. Colorful flashes flicker across my eyes. I’m curled up on the cold ground in the fetal position, like a ball of misery. Another kick hits me in the back. This time it’s a gift from J.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, Imagine Dragons’ “Radioactive” plays. The beating of the drums foreshadows my end. Never thought it would be brought upon by the football team and the Heathers. Actually, I’ve never given much thought to my end, period. I was too busy with that of others.
Marie slices her fingers through my hair, hauling me to my feet. The pain is excruciating. I don’t fight back. Don’t even attempt to loosen her grip on me. In my peripheral, I catch a glimpse of her balled fist aiming for my face. “That’s for Mole,” she spits as the sound of skin on skin vibrates through the night. “And this”—she strikes out again—“is for me.” Like a yo-yo, my head flies left, then right, and back again. Mush—that’s how my brain feels.
She lets go of me. I sink to my knees, barely able to keep my left eye open. It’s swelling up fast.
Silvio co
mes at me. He’s ready to kick me some more. Cheers roar through the crowd. I think they say something like, “Show her how.” And “Teach the bitch a lesson.” Contrary to widespread belief, murderers have no age, no race, and no religion. One thing they all have in common, however, is that they’ve been corrupted. Their minds have been infected by the most vicious virus of all—hate. The need to punish the people they abhor drowns out every rational thought. It blinds them to a point where they believe what they’re doing is right. That’s how ordinary teenagers—who have everything going for them—turn into cold-blooded killers. Sounds melodramatic, but I recognize the look in Silvio’s eyes. I’ve seen it dozens of times—in the eyes of the masked man who shot Joseph, in the gaze of the dude who stabbed our teacher in the woods, even in the eyes of the woman who jumped from New Ramsey Bridge.
“Just do it,” I whisper, not a single tear crawling out of my eyes. I’m done crying. I’m done hurting. Above all, I’m done living.
Silvio’s wrathful gaze pierces through mine. He’s still wrestling with himself. Part of him doesn’t want to engage in the hate. The chants grow louder, overruling his moral voice, his last resistance.
He lifts his leg.
But never delivers the hit. Not because he had a sudden change of heart. Oh, no. He wants to end me, all right. Unfortunately—for both of us—Blaze knocks him on his butt with a mean punch to the nose.
I thought I’d seen scary. Figured nothing could shock me anymore. One look at Blaze, and I notice how wrong I was. He rocks the expression of a stone-cold serial killer. Works his muscles like a dang beast.
Silvio gets on his feet. “Stay out of this,” he warns, a lethal ring to his voice.
Blaze curls and uncurls his fists. The same hate I saw in Silvio’s eyes ignites Blaze’s. He, too, wants to kill. But Blaze is stronger than the virus trying to corrupt him. He turns to me, ignoring the angry mob around us. “You okay?” he asks, lifting me up.
I merely manage a lame nod.
“C’mon,” he says, ready to take me away.
Silvio blocks our path. Ugly crimson pours out of his nose and onto his team jacket. “We’re not done yet.”
My left eye is a goner. The right one catches the look on Blaze’s face. He’s seconds away from going full-blown psycho on Silvio. “Get out of my face before I introduce you to the real Angel of Death.” He’s serious. I can tell by his low, threatening tone.
Silvio doesn’t care. “Wow. Am I supposed to be impressed by a loser who lost his title because he put some poor son of a bitch in a wheelchair?”
Blaze’s fingers stiffen around my shoulder. He takes deep, pained breaths. “C’mon, princess,” he whispers softly. “Let’s get you to a doctor.” His self-restraint is beyond impressive.
We move toward the jocks. They don’t let us pass. “Move,” Blaze barks. Anyone with a brain would listen. They don’t have one.
“Why are you protecting a freak like her?” Marie looks seriously offended by the fact that he does.
Blaze shoves me away from her, getting right in her face. “Consider yourself lucky I don’t hit girls.” He cocks a brow. “Now, move before I change my fucking mind!”
“No.” She stands her ground. Pretty bold. Have to give her that.
Silvio joins her. “She has to pay for what she did.”
A hellish flame sparks in Blaze’s eyes. The killer slumbering inside of him is awoken. He’s thirsting for blood—their blood.
“What the fuck?” Shaggy yells.
The gang pushes through the jocks. Izzy catches a glimpse of my demolished face. The look in her pale gray eyes gives Blaze’s a run for his money. Marie must think so too, because the second my cousin approaches her, she steps back. “Are you responsible for this?”
Marie says nothing.
“Hey.” Scooby is behind me, steadying me. “You okay?”
I shrug.
“I’m not going to ask twice,” Izzy says, voice dangerously low.
Silvio steps between them. “She’s a freak, Izz. Why can’t you see that?”
He shouldn’t have said that. Because the next thing I hear is Izzy’s fist connecting with his already bleeding nose. “Wanna say that again?”
Silvio balls his fists. “You—”
Oz shields Izzy. “If I were you, I’d choose my next words with great care.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard so much raw wrath in Oz’s voice.
J comes to Silvio’s defense. “What is wrong with you guys? She’s a goddamn killer, for Christ’s sake. And you’re defending her?”
I’m not sure who throws the first punch. I think it’s Oz. Or maybe it’s J. It doesn’t really matter. A full-blown brawl is under way. Scooby and Shaggy fight off two football players. Izzy is pulling Marie’s hair. Silvio attacks Oz from behind, pulling him off J. It’s a dang massacre.
Blaze drags me away from the center of the fighting. “Wait here,” he orders, leaning me against an oak tree. Then, he goes on to help Oz. My head spins as I watch fists flying, legs kicking, teeth biting.
Someone needs to call the cops.
I search for my phone. It must have fallen out of my pocket. Scanning the area, I catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure hiding behind a tree. He’s dressed in black, just watching like a dang stalker. When he catches me staring, he takes off.
I return my focus on the battle raging ahead of me. There’s something small and shiny in Silvio’s hand. Is that—
Oh, shit!
Silvery moonlight reflects on the blade in his hand. He’s got a dang knife, and he’s headed toward Blaze, who has his back to him.
“Blaze,” I try to shout, voice barely a whisper.
Silvio is getting closer.
Heat rises through my core. The same heat that flooded me the night my parents were killed—only this time it’s ten times stronger. My palms buzz with an otherworldly energy. “Blaze,” I shout again, loud enough to shake the earth.
Wait. The earth is shaking.
The fighting stops. Everyone freezes on the spot as the vicious waves rock the ground—the Mannequin Challenge in the midst of an earthquake. Branches come down. The Heathers scream. I spot a crack in the ground. It’s opening up like the gates of hell.
A fraction of a second later, it’s over.
The fire inside me extinguishes. All that energy I felt seconds ago leaves me. I drop to the ground. Painful ringing vibrates through my ears. Then, the world is wrapped into a blanket of everlasting darkness.
I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling. Every bone in my body is aching from the vicious attack, every fiber of my soul hurting. Pain is a complex experience. It’s as old as creation itself, and no being is immune to it. Some believe it’s the body’s way of protecting itself—the unpleasant feeling motivates an individual to withdraw from a harmful situation, encourages us to prevent similar incidents. Personally, I think it’s a little trickier than that. Pain isn’t just a warning mechanism to keep us out of harm’s way. Pain makes us and breaks us. But above all, it shapes us. It turns a hurt animal into a wild beast. A wounded soldier into a hero who, despite his injuries, drags his brothers out of the line of fire. It makes an ordinary human a survivor. When it sinks its sharp teeth into us, it has one mission and one mission only—to remind us we’re still alive. But what if the thing meant to protect us starts eating us up? What if pain only keeps us breathing so it can torture us with a slower, more brutal death?
I vaguely remember one time I went to Sunday school at church. I didn’t want to go—even as a kid I didn’t believe in a higher power—but Mom insisted. She said the only way to know for sure that something wasn’t right for you was to give it a try. And so I did. The teacher, a lovely elderly lady, read a verse from the Bible. Corinthians. It went like this: “But God is faithful; he will not suffer you to be tempted beyond that which ye are able to bear.” Until this very day, her words are branded into my mind. Not because they rang true, but because I knew the second I heard it what a load of crap it
was. Our lives are full of incidents we can’t bear—the death of a loved one, deadly diseases, racism and hate, just to mention a few. Not all of these things kill us instantly, but they break us—sometimes beyond repair. So, the pain I’m feeling right now isn’t a warning mechanism, or a test of God. It’s a slow-spreading disease, shutting down my wounded heart. A reminder my mere existence almost turned a bunch of high school kids into killers and endangered the lives of my friends.
“Nisha?” Rob knocks on my door frame. “Can I come in?”
I’m tempted to send him away. I don’t want to hurt more people. “Yeah, sure.”
Hands jammed in his pockets, he saunters to the bed. “How are you holding up?” he asks, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. “Can I get you anything? Ibuprofen or pancakes maybe?” Welcome to the nanny state. Rob and Aunt V go out of their way to take care of me. They have been like this since they picked me up from the ER Friday night.
I push myself up. “I’m good, Rob.”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind making some pancakes.” He forces a smile he doesn’t feel. “I even got some blueberries downstairs.”
As I said previously, this so-called God doesn’t just tempt us with things we can bear. Or else he wouldn’t have sent Rob to my room. The worry in his eyes is killing me some more. “I’m not hungry,” I assure him, hoping he’ll just leave me alone so I can drown some more in my self-pity.
He keeps quiet, his gaze roaming over my damaged face. I rock a nasty shiner. One of the many reminders of how screwed up last Friday night really was. The others being bruised ribs, several hematomas all over my body, and a shattered heart that wasn’t whole to begin with.
“Do you need anything?” I inquire after some time.
Rob shoves his folded hands between his thighs and sighs. “There’s someone waiting for you downstairs.”
My pulse jackknifes against my neck. The last thing I need is a visitor. I dig my nails into my blanket, pulling it against my chest. “If it’s the chief again, tell him I moved to Timbuktu.” The man has been harassing me ever since Aunt V called him to file a report against Marie and the football team. He showed up here, threatening to reopen every investigation with my name on it should I not quit lying. Yeah, he is convinced I made up the part where they started the fight. Deep down, I’m sure he’s disappointed they didn’t finish the job.
Book of Souls (Gods of Egypt 1) Page 21
