Page 35 of Forever We Fall

If only my brain would stop. It rattles along too fast to compute much. Calculating my joy that Arlo is here and my dread at the broken notes of his voice.

“Just leave me alone.”

No part of me wants to leave Arlo alone. It’s what his life is, except for the horrors of his uncle and me. Alone. If I push him too hard, I could lose him. And, if I’m being honest, I’m alone too. He is all I have.

I can’t bear to lose him, which is why I punch the heavy wood between us.

“Fuck that. Open the door.”

I try the handle again. The same nothing happens.

There’s only silence from the other side.

His lack of retort is worse than him telling me to get wrecked.

I drop into a plank and lower my chest to the cold wooden floor. There’s a tiny gap between the threshold and the heavy wood of the door. It takes a minute for my eye to adjust to the narrow slit. When it does, all the blood in my body drains to my toes. The floor feels warm, and my body is ice.

Red, the color that should only be inside the body, is smeared on the tiles. It’s a vivid stop sign against the white backdrop.

“Open the door!” I jump up and throw myself against the barrier. It rattles but doesn’t give. My effort is uncoordinated and frantic. My veins vibrate with dread.

Has his uncle come back and hurt him?

Has he gone to complete his mission?

Is that his uncle’s blood?

Is that his?

The hammer of my fist goes to work on the door. “Open up! Now!”

I yank on the handle repeatedly, waiting for it to engage and grant me access. It doesn’t. My muscles feel like they’re so taut they’ll snap.

“Think. Think, dammit,” I mumble to myself. Don’t care about that either. If I end up rocking and speaking to myself in the corner of a mental institution about this, so be it. I plow my fingers through my damp hair and pull, willing my fucking brain to engage.

The door is solid wood with a metal frame. I could probably break the lock with a mule kick. It’ll make a ton of noise, but noise brings people, and I don’t want anyone else in here. There’s no way I’d get to him then.

I eye the lock. Too bad I’m not a criminal deviant. If my sins weren’t of the flesh, maybe I’d know how to pick a fucking lock.

As I glare at the hunk of metal, it hits me like a hoof to the face. The keyhole looks a lot like the keyhole to my dorm door.

I launch myself at my bag, toss it out of the way, and grab the shining gold key. Scrambling back is hard. I slip and lose traction on my knees and elbows both slick with sweat. Pressing the toes of my wrestling shoes to the floor, I push hard and grab the handle like it’s a gold medal.

To my complete amazement, the key fits in the hole. I turn it, and the lock snicks. I wrench the door open, and I…I have to hold the doorframe to keep myself upright.

Arlo sits on the floor. His bare shoulders are propped against the far wall. The naked lengths of his legs are sprawled wide. His hands hang loose on the floor.

The edge of a razor blade glints in his open palm.

Only the steady rise and fall of his chest and the occasional blink of his eyes keep me from calling for an ambulance. That, and I know he wouldn’t want anyone to see the graveyard of scars that mar his skin.

They are everywhere, in every shape and pattern, from his shoulders to his hips and lower. I’m certain the black of his boxers keep more from my sight.

I can’t marinade in my renewed hatred and blood lust for his uncle. Not right now. We have more pressing matters to deal with. Like the stripes of fresh cuts that seep crimson onto the floor.

These shallow gashes taint the unblemished skin of his upper thighs. Left and right.

His lashes are clumped with tears, while the whites of his eyes are bloodshot, much like they were on the first day I met him. Snot slowly drips from his upper lip onto his chest. A chest that jerks every now and then in an autonomic reflex from fervent crying.

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