Page 55 of Peep

They’re gone.

Overwhelmed with the need to be sick, I force myself up and stumble to the ensuite, crash to my knees, and empty my stomach. Once I stop heaving, I lift my weak wrist to check my watch. It’s 6:30 a.m. I’ve been out cold for hours. God knows what has happened during that lost time.

An influx of questions batter my fragile mind.Did Jahmar hurt my brother? Did he kill him? Should I have let Jahmar do it? Is Chris not who I thought he was?

Deep, gut-punching regret has me clutching my stomach. I shouldn’t have fought him. I should’ve asked Jahmar what happened and tried to understand. But I couldn’t think straight. Everything I had ever known and loved about my brother turned to ash.

I hate him for what he’s done; he’s destroyed everything and taken away my chance at love. Despite how utterly disgusted and ashamed of him I am, that doesn’t mean I want him to die.What if I’m too late?

Shoving to my feet off the icy tiles, I lean my head under the tap and glug mouthfuls of water, washing away the bitter aftertaste of sick.

I search for my phone, find it on the bedside table and call both of them three times without an answer.

“For fuck’s sake,” I yell, chucking my phone, instantly regretting it when it bounces off the wall and I notice the screen is cracked right down the middle.

I scrabble for it, shove on my shoes and jacket Jahmar must’ve taken off me and scour the apartment for any clue of their fate.

I need Jahmar back; I need him to let me love him. But more than that, and as twisted as it may seem, I need my brother to not be dead. At least not until I’ve looked him in the eye and he confesses what he’s done.

My car pulls up to my brother’s lavish home, which is perfect on the outside, but as I’m now aware, full of rot on the inside.

I want this not to be true and for it to be some kind of psychotic break because that would be kinder than living in this sombre reality.

The man I’ve fallen in love with was raped by my brother—my brother who could be dead right now. Mental images of his cold corpse oozing blood from a perfect slit along his throat assault me.

I run to the front door, wrapping my hand around the extravagant gold knocker and slam it against the door once, twice, three times. Nothing.

“Chris, open the fucking door!” I shout, not giving a flying fuck about his snooty neighbours.

I slam to my knees, pain shoots through them, then I flick the letterbox and call through the opening. “Are you in there!?”

The sound of heavy footsteps stumbling down the stairs makes me tense. I have no idea who I want it to be.

Scrambling to my feet as the door flies open, all the air leaves my body in a rush.

“Chris, you’re alive?” My voice quakes, and my heart punches my chest.

For a split moment, I’m relieved, and then I feel sick, angry and disgusted.

“Quick, get inside. You’ll wake the whole street up,” he hisses, dragging me by the shoulder and shoving me into the living room.

I fall backwards onto the plush leather sofa. I’m frozen in place. On my drive over, I planned many things I’d say if he were alive, but now it feels like the words are lodged in my throat, threatening to choke me.

My brother paces in front of me, eyes closed, rubbing his brow.

“Chris?” I murmur, almost too quietly for him to hear.

“Fuck, I feel sick,” he grumbles, collapsing in the armchair opposite me, closing his eyes and sucking in deep breaths, which I can only assume is to stop himself from throwing up. He repositions himself, hissing in pain while readjusting his crotch. Did Jahmar go through with it?

“Why are you here at the arse crack of dawn?”

“You know why I’m here,” I manage to force out through gritted teeth.

I twine my fingers on my lap to stop them from rattling.

“I don’t. I—” Chris’ words cut off, his eyes shift like he’s conjuring up a lie. “I had a lot to drink last night after work. I can barely remember making my way home, so excuse my bluntness.”

His eyes stay glued to mine as he effortlessly lies, a well-practised smile in place.

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