Page 2 of Fire Fight

She wouldneverhand them to him voluntarily.

Nevergive himmy name.

Fear steals half my voice. “What did you do to her?” I push at his chest, but he’s six foot two of lean muscle. It’s like shoving a breezeblock wall.

“You should be more worried about what I’ll do to you.” He bunches my blouse in his massive fist until it rides high enough to expose my skinny ribcage. There’s no hint of mercy on his face as he glances along the hallway. “Which locker?”

The only thing of value is the phone in my pocket. If he wants to take his weird crusade out on the school-issued textbooks, he can have at it. “Number 173.”

His hand stays bunched in my shirt as he drags me along. Sweat plasters his dark hair to his forehead until it’s as black as the circles under his eyes. Days of stubble dot his chin, sculpting his face into a lethal mask.

His clothes stink.Hestinks.

Like he hasn’t showered in days.

Emotion twists deep into his features. It trembles through his limbs, shudders across his skin and I recognise it’s not just anger.

It’sfury.

I’ve visited psych wards often enough to recognise the signs of psychosis. Until year ten, when her shrink stabilised her meds, institutions were my mother’s secondary home.

It hits me again. Stronger this time.

I’m in a fuckload of trouble.

“Open it,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket and swapping the pills for a can of lighter fluid.

Fear explodes in my chest, heart thumping so hard that bright lights flash in my eyes, a whine filling my ears. I feel for the lock with trembling fingers, navigating the combination by touch.

The moment it springs open, Drake paws through my stuff, sweeping half onto the floor. A water bottle thumps to the ground, its contents sloshing out as the nozzle pops open on impact.

He rights it and pushes me aside, releasing my blouse to double hand the can of lighter fluid, squeezing it inside the cubicle. With one flick of his Zippo, the contents explode into hungry flames.

I don’t think.

I run.

My body eats through adrenaline, the world blurring into a haze as I thump through the exit doors, fly past the scienceblock, sprint for the playing fields—praying for the safety of people.

Large, muscular, sporty people.

But the four field expanse is completely empty.

Motherfucker.

There might be students in the gymnasium, but it’s the length of a rugby pitch away and Drake is already on me. Tackling me to the ground.

I fall awkwardly, my nose smacking against my forearm, lips mashing against my teeth. When I try to crawl away, his weight pins me into the mushy ground. Days of rain have turned the hard earth into an inch of mud.

Enough to drown.

Strangled screams and pleas and cries for help pour from my throat, tangling together until they’re nonsense. He grabs hanks of my wavy blonde hair by the roots, yanking back so hard the bones of my spine grind together.

“Tell me how much you sold them for,” he demands, panting as he straddles my back, slapping my freckled cheek like he’s trying to keep me awake.

“I didn’t sell them.” I want to explain more, but he scrambles to his feet, bringing me with him, forcing me to stagger towards the batting cages on the far side of the field.

Someone must see us.

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