Page 9 of Forever We Fall

“Hey, I’m not going to hurt you.” I jerk my chin toward the sloping hills in the distance and the line of trees that leads to a little patch of forest. “The seamstress’s studio is that cottage by the woods. I think she lives there. She’s always on campus, sewing and hemming. And I use the termshe, loosely. Technically, she has a vagina, but it probably started growing cobwebs when Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister.”

The guy isn’t even paying attention to my poor excuse for a joke. His head is turned away, almost all the way aroundExorciststyle.

“I’m pretty sure she’s a hundred."

He shoves into my shoulder.

My mouth opens to say something when a bellow rattles the air. I can’t make out the word, but it comes from where this guy is looking.

I lean and look, and then nearly lose my lunch and snack too.

The man from the office stalks toward us. His face is mean in a way I’ve only seen in my nightmares. Nightmares that have no basis in reality. What’s coming toward us is worse than any fake-ass horror movie villain.

Two frail hands come up and push me. He pushes me toward the cottage without taking his eyes off the approaching demon. Every fiber of my being screams for me to run. My training and skills be damned.

I turn and bolt.

I fully expect the kid to run with me.

The evil fucking man is far enough away for us to escape, even if he is malnourished. We can lock ourselves in the cottage and call the headmaster or, better yet, the fucking cops to come get this guy and toss him behind bars.

My head turns to tell him so, but he’s not behind me. Well, he is. Way the hell behind me. Where I left him.

He hasn’t moved except to turn toward the man. His hands are out of his pockets and in shaking fists. They don’t shake in rage or retribution, but in what seems like an effort to make himself stay put. It takes more guts than I have to do so.

“You rat-faced little twat,” the man growls. “You think you can get rid of me that easy?” His fists are balled, and his face is drawn in fury. “I’m going to break you in two and take one part with me.”

My deepest, most ingrained instincts beg me to continue. To seek shelter and get away from this evil.

I grit my teeth and run.

It’s been months since I let myself cry. There are so few things I can control in my life since my bastard of an uncle came into it, swinging his fucking scythe and hacking my already fucked life to meaty bits I don’t recognize. Crying is one of the few things I can control.

As he barrels toward me with his wide shoulders and punishing fists, I feel stupid. Stupid to have welcomed any sense of relief. Stupid to have allowed myself the weakness of tears. Stupid to have hoped for better.

I should have known.

He spits his hateful words in my direction. They’re nothing new. Nothing special. I ignore them because I can. Instead, I think of the new guy for a split second. I’m thankful I was able to overcome my newfound aversion to touch, if only for a second.

At least, he took the hint and ran.

He’ll be safe.

I stand a little taller. Because his safety is something else I was able to control. My chin goes up, ready for the knuckles I know so well.

“Hey, fuck stick!”

My uncle’s footsteps falter. I blink and search for the source of the voice.

When I find its origin, a brittle piece of my broken heart dislodges and clatters into the pit of my stomach. It sounds tinny like glass.

Hota, the guy who sees too much and says too much, is running. But he’s going in the wrong direction. I almost yell out for him to stop and run away. I bite my tongue until I taste the tang and copper of my blood.

There is one thing I can control. There is one thing I will not relinquish. No matter what, I will not let my uncle hear my voice again. Not until I am ending his cursed life.

“I’m recording this.” Hota holds up a sleek phone. His feet slow, maintaining distance between me, him, and most of all, my uncle.

Smart.

---