Page 20 of Stitches

How broken I was because of it.

That wasn’t true though. I wasn’t broken because of it. I was broken because I was a fuck-up. That was all on me. Even when I tried to do something right, I was wrong.

I parted my lips as I stared at Church. His tight, black running gear graced his body, his blond hair a mess from rushing through the forest. He took a step toward me.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his green eyes narrowed at me. His silver nose ring glinted against the setting sun.

“Because I didn’t die.”

There was no humor on his face. “Shouldn’t you be punishing yourself for being a worthless piece of shit?”

I let out a breath. “Trust me, brother, I am being punished.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” he snarled, getting in my face. “You are no brother to me any more than fucking Danny Linley is. Imagine my disgust to find you still breathing after the shit you pulled. You’re lucky I’m not my father, Sinclair—”

“Am I? At least he’d have been merciful enough to grant me my death and consume me after so there wasn’t a trace left of me in the world. Not you though. You specialize in the long game of torture. I don’t blame you though,” my voice shook. “I deserve all the pain and more. I’m trying, Dante.” I pushed my jacket off and lifted my shirt to show him my wounds.

He stared at them, a muscle thrumming along his jaw.

“Tell me when it’s enough,” I whispered, wincing at the cold bite against my cuts. Some still bled they were so deep from the whip and knives.

“It will never be enough,” he said back, his voice low. “Your cuts aren’t deep enough. Carve out your fucking wicked, blackened soul then come see me. Until then.” He reached into his pants and pulled out a knife and pushed it against my palm. “Use this. It knows how to properly carve flesh.”

I stared down at the blade he’d given me and swallowed. It was the one his father had given him to cut things with. Horrible things. Things that brought him to Chapel Crest. Things that twisted him into the monster he was today.

“Consider it a parting gift.” He backed away from me.

“Is she OK? Siren?” I choked out, stumbling toward him. “Is Stitches?”

“They aren’t your concern anymore, Sinclair, so don’t worry about it. I have it handled.” He didn’t wait for me. He turned and ran back into the woods like the black spectral shadow he was, disappearing from my sight as I stood rooted to my spot, my eyes burning with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into the gentle, cool breeze. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

* * *

The pain was immense,but I continued to push Church’s blade into my flesh, cutting as deeply as I could. I’d been at it for an hour. I’d passed out once from the pain, but got back up and continued my work.

With my chest heaving and the blood running in rivulets down my chest and stomach, I stared at what I’d done to myself.

Siren.

Carved deep across my chest.

Her name forever embedded into my body so I wouldn’t forget my sins. So I wouldn’t forget her.

The pain was otherworldly, burning through every fiber in my body. I gripped the edge of the sink in the bathroom before I vomited into it, my hair a damp, sweaty mess. When I was done, I washed it down and rinsed out my mouth, the blood still running down my body and dripping onto the ugly, pale-green tiles.

The room tilted, the dizziness gripping me.

I pushed through it, grabbed fistfuls of my hair, and began hacking it off in uneven chunks until I was sporting a shorter, shaggier style that looked like I’d just had a prom-night breakdown.

The room tilted again. This time, I didn’t try to hang on. Instead, I toppled to the floor, my head smacking hard against the tiles.

I cried out, my vision dotted with stars before I was able to roll over onto my back and stare up at the buzzing overhead fluorescent light.

I watched as it flickered, the room spinning around me.

Or maybe I was spinning.

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