Page 13 of Psycho Boys

“I’m fucking leaving. I don’t need to be here,” I growl, the edges of my patience wearing thin with her presence.

“But your leg is broken, and you have bruised ribs?—”

“No offense, Nurse, but I’m not fucking dead; I’m just broken. My girl is out there—God knows where—and I need to find her. I can’t do that stuck in this miserable bed, can I?”

Her mouth closes, and she straightens her posture, trying to assert herself as if to convince me to comply with her demands. She might be beautiful, but she's not attractive enough for me to abandon Cali for her wishes.

“We recommend that you stay. You’ve experienced a serious trauma, and you have all kinds of medications in your system. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m checking myself out against medical advice,” I fire back, well aware of my rights.

Just as she opens her mouth to protest, I gently push past her, memories of navigating crutches flooding back. It brings me back to the traumatic moment of my first broken leg—inflicted by my father. I was thirteen, and as a rite of passage, I had to endure a beating at the hands of a few boys, all while our fathers looked on—one of the many grotesque traditions of their secret society that I never wanted to be part of.

Sweat beads on my forehead, my heart races like a stampede, and my vision blurs as I stagger down the empty corridor, the crutches clattering against the stark white tiles. Panic permeates my body, threatening to overwhelm me, but I push through the anxiety, desperate to reach the outside air.

I can’t believe I’ve lost her again; she slipped through my fingers like grains of sand. I should have fought harder against those who took her. I should have pushed through the pain. But I didn’t, and now she’s in greater danger than ever before.

As I push open the door and take my first breath of the cold air, I close my eyes, reveling in it, feeling the weight of dread and guilt start to lift.

“Shit, Dom? Are you okay, man?” Ash’s worried voice pulls me from my reverie.

I open my heavy eyes to see him standing before me, Kill and Five beside him.

"I... I need to sit down,” I mumble, swaying unsteadily, feeling like I’m about to pass out. “Get me to the fucking car.”

Ash immediately steps forward, wrapping one strong arm around my shoulders for support. The others follow suit, and together they help me navigate the pavement, careful not to let me stumble on the crutches. The chill in the air seems to seep through my hoodie—a cruel reminder of how vulnerable I really am.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Kill mutters, his brows drawn together in worry as he helps steer me toward the vehicle, his voice hushed but edged with a barely concealed anger. “You could have ended up doing more damage, fucker. You should've waited for us.”

“Not as much damage as losing Cali," I hiss back, trying to keep my voice steady despite the tremors running through my body.

With every footfall, my mind races with scenarios of what might have happened to her after the accident. I tighten my grip on the crutches, a surge of determination igniting in my gut. As we reach the car—Kill's beauty—I let out a breath, feeling the supportive presence of my friends. They help me into the front seat; the leather cools against my skin, but it's a small price to pay for the freedom this moment brings.

“Where do we even start?” Five asks, worry creasing his forehead as he takes the back passenger seat, glancing up at me with urgency.

“Anywhere but here,” I reply, my voice firmer now.

With Killian in the driver’s seat and Ash behind him, we pull away from the hospital, and the buildings blur into a haze behind us. I fix my gaze out the window, desperate to slow the chaotic whirlpool of thoughts.

"Have you made any progress?" I ask, hopeful that they've gotten something.

"We started a list of people who might have something to do with it or who might know something," Ash announces, hesitation in his voice as Kill steps on the gas and flies like a rocket down the empty street, heading for downtown.

"That's all you've got? What the fuck, this isn't a joke, ya'll." I roll my eyes, ignoring the blinding pain behind them.

“We’ll find her, Dom,” Kill assures, his hand tightening on the steering wheel as he navigates through the random traffic we've all of a sudden hit. “You’re not alone in this—we're all with you. We’re going to bring her back.”

Half-listening, I pull out my own phone again, fingers trembling as I scroll through my messages, staring at the last text she sent me: *I love you.* The words gnaw at me like acid, twisting the knife of guilt deeper into my gut. As I pull out a cigarette and snatch the list from Kill, Ash hands me a cherried blunt, and I rip it hard over and over, just wanting not to feel.

I look over Kill's chicken scratch, blended in with the creases of the paper, trying to read each name clearly. Grabbing a random uncapped pen from the cup holder next to me, I shake it a few times, hoping it still has some ink.

"What are you doing?" Five asks, peeking through the gap in between the front seats.

"Adding some I think we need to check out," I mumble, scribbling a few names on the list.

1. Jackson Gray

2. Adam Moretti

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