Page 90 of Soul of a Psycho

I stand and run my fingers along the raised scar, my heart suddenly falling like a brick into my stomach. I can’t help but feel like everything he’s doing to protect himself only hurts him more. God only knows why he thinks he needs an ax to defend this place, but it’s only him who has suffered from it. And isolating himself out here, safeguarding his soul from those that threaten to break him, only fractures him further. No onecould come out unscathed from living like this, in a shack and in solitude.

“You lied?” He smirks, as if it’s amusing.

My first instinct is to boast that I finally got one over on him, but with his trauma a tangible thing beneath my fingers, I realize my own trauma is not something to be proud of. I’m no better off than him. I lie to protect myself from my father and society’s judgment, but it strips me of genuine experiences. I’m not going to come out unscathed either. The only difference is my self-inflicted wounds are internal.

But I didn’t come out here to wallow in the tragedy of our lives. I came out here to do the opposite. Stepping away, I pour some of the rubbing alcohol Cade pulled out onto a fresh piece of gauze and clean him up. He has a whole box, along with other first aid items, and I surmise it’s from the last time he had a near miss with the ax. I adhere some surgical tape around a square of the gauze and press it to his skin.

“You’ll live,” I say, trying for a smile, and hand him his shirt,

The sun is just starting to go down, but maybe we can catch a few of the descending rays and go for a walk. I know I can’t recreate the spontaneity of an ice fight, but there must be—

“I’m going to die, anyway.”

My chin falls. “What?”

He catches my gaze and winces, but then pulls his shirt on and shrugs. “We all die eventually, right?”

I bite my lip and turn so he can’t see my face, so he can’t see how much his outlook saddens me. Yes, we all die eventually, but it’s a bleak thing to think about. I fiddle with a roll of tape, stacking it on top of another, and busy myself with straightening the mess. This isn’t going how I wanted today to go. I’m not getting him out of his head at all. He needs to play, to let loose, to havefun.

I pick up a notebook to put it on a pile of textbooks and then stop as an idea emerges. I clutch the small leather book to my chest instead, using it as a shield against whatever solemn answer he’ll have for my idea.

“Do you want to go to dinner?” I turn to him. “I don’t know what’s open, but we have a couple hours before they lock the gates.”

His eyes flick from mine to my chest and then back again.

“What?” He stuffs his hands in his pockets.

God, he’s pretty. The way his arms flex and how his hair falls over his eyes. He’s tall to begin with, but being in such a small space with him, he somehow feels all powerful, and am I really asking him on a date right now?

“Dinner?” I hug the journal tighter, feeling silly.

We’ve slept together, done numerous intimate things together, and it was he who said we are official. It’s a perfectly normal thing to go to dinner together. But Cade is not normal. He’s not movies and dinner and flowers, he’s graveyards and rainy days and knives. Dinner seems so ordinary in his presence.

“Can you put that down?” he asks.

It takes me a second to realize he means the notebook, and I furrow my brows.

“No,” I say, uncertain and a bit irked. Why does he get to keep ignoring my questions? “Do you want to go out to eat?” I push harder.

“Just give it to me.” He reaches out with one hand, the other still in his pocket.

“No.” I take a step back, tightening my grip. I should just let him have it, but something about giving him what he wants seems like defeat, seeing as he won’t give me whatIwant: An answer.

“Sky.” His eye slightly twitches, and a vein in his neck thumps.

“Cade.” I retort playfully.

We go into a staring contest, and though I can’t see him having a personal journal, I suspect I’m holding something close to it with the way he’s acting. I would be lying if I said a tiny part of me isn’t thrilled to be this close to his deepest thoughts. Would it be filled with more macabre or does he have a brighter side he keeps hidden away? I would never read it, but just the possession of it feels like I’m holding a rare gem.

And I don’t want to let it go.

He lunges, and I shriek, dipping under his arm. He might be stronger and bigger, but I’m smaller and quicker. I have no problem slipping out of his reach and swinging open the door, all while still clutching the journal. A giggle climbs up my throat as I skip into the clearing in front of the shack. Maybe this could be thefunI wanted for us.

“You want it?” I taunt him as he reaches the threshold. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

“Don’t,” he says, taking a step forward.

I mirror his movement in reverse, getting ready to run, and he freezes.

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