Page 23 of To Hell

Where could she be?

Is she sick?

I adjust in my seat, itching to leave the classroom and ensure she is fine.

“Virgilio,” Ms. Decker calls my name, and I take it as my cue to get the hell out of the class.

I’m not answering shit.

Shakespeare be damned.

I throw my backpack on and slip past the gate.

It’s not my first time leaving during school hours, but I’m always smart about it. Not that anyone would care.

If they take it to my father, he wouldn’t give a fuck about that sort of thing.

I pick up my pace and eventually start sprinting at the mere thought she is unwell.

I know life’s dangers. I know how fleeting it is. And I know some men can make that happen with a snap of their fingers.

My father is that kind of man.

He had warned me about getting too attached to people, and I wouldn’t put it past him to have someone watching me. He would know I had been hanging out with Zoe by now, and he might have sent someone to hurt her just to teach me a lesson.

I dash past the point I had left her yesterday, running down the lane I have seen her walk alone so many times now.

I’m stupid. I should have been more careful.

My heart thrums in my chest, and my blood rushes to my brain.

I can’t say how long I have been sprinting, but I don’t care until I see the dusty royal blue bungalow that is Zoe’s house. I have never been here, but she told me what it looked like.

I catch my breath now, resting my hands on my knees as I cough, needing oxygen and maybe some water. I keep coughing, breathing, and panicking.

I lift my eyes to see Zoe sitting on the porch steps. She is wearing what should be cream nightwear, with her burgundy cardigan tied around her waist. She seems lost and sad.

But at least she is one piece.

She feels my presence, and when she sees me, her entire disposition snaps.

“Virgilio,” she beams, her sadness gone.

“Zoe?”

How many times has she had to switch like this to conceal her real feelings? I have never stopped to think that her eyes always tell a different story than her lips.

I start to make my way to her, and she gets edgy. As if remembering something, she unties the cardigan around her waist.

I see why.

“Who did this?” My eyes drop to the scratch marks on her upper arm and the red handprint on one side of her face. “Zoe, who did this to you?” God help my father, that this was not him because I will fucking…

“I’m fine,” she chuckles, “I just had a fall and I…”

“Don’t you dare fucking lie to me, you have done that enough already by keeping this a secret from me,” I grip her upper arm. “How long has this been happening?”

Please tell me it’s only now.

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