Page 92 of Pawn

“Is something burning?” I mutter to the empty closet. It’s dark in here, save for the swinging bulb above my head casting this eerie glow over mops and janitor supplies. Looking down, smoke starts to creep in below the crack. “What the …”

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The loud sound startles me and is that the fucking fire alarm?

My palm bangs against the door. “Hello?!” Fuck, if no one could hear my voice before, with that alarm ringing over my head, it’s no use now.

Okay, don’t panic.

Pattering footsteps come from the other side of the door, the bass of the music cutting and okay, now I’m starting to panic.

Taking a deep breath, I start throwing everything I can at the door. The mop, the dustpan, the fucking “wet floor” sign. When nothing works, I throw my whole body against it.

No fucking use.

I’m starting to feel warm and I’m not sure if it’s because of the fire I’m imagining is erupting through this building or the fact that I’m so, fucking, scared.

Did Jordan do this?

Is he trying to kill me? Trying to finish the job?

Does he want Willow all to his own?

“Help!” I call, banging the door again.

The smoke starts to creep through the border of the door and the cracks. It’s not long before I’m transported to my eight-year-old self. The memories colliding with my reality.

My palms hit the door, my mind drifting to that night, and when my eyes land at the bottom of the door again, I see hints of red.

No.

“Someone! Please!” I yell, banging on the door again.

Tears roll down my cheeks, and I don’t think anyone’s coming. My forehead hits the door, my body buzzing with fear, anxiety and dread.

Did my parents know the fate that awaited them that night? Were they awake to feel their demise? Sliding to the floor, I curl my knees to my chest, my eyes shut tight and all I see is him.

Damien.

If I never get to see him again, at least I have the memories, his touch on my mind.

Rubbing my hands along my arms, I imagine it’s his cold, big hands on me and it only chokes me up even more. I don’t want the memories. I don’t want to imagine his touch.

I want him.

But like everything else I want in my life, that’s getting ripped away.

For good.

His face is on my mind, craving his touch as I dig into my pocket, pulling out the joint. I stare at the shitty roll.

My last high.

I guess this one is for him.

For Damien.

Twenty-Three

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