Page 4 of Pretty When He Bleeds

Roman didn’t look like he recognized me, but he will. He has to. I didn’t come to Blackthorne to visit, or even to learn. I came to burn the place down with Roman in it.

The ride back to my apartment is cold even with this leather jacket on, but I don’t care. It’s not far, just a shitty one-bedroom close to campus, but it’s all I need right now while I redo my final year.

By the time I park the bike and kill the engine, I’m completely fucking jittery. I hate feeling like this, like I’m not in control anymore. It’s times like these I wonder if I should have stayed on my meds; maybe things would be easier and I wouldn’t feel like breaking Roman within an inch of his life.

I don’t bother locking up the garage. If someone steals the bike, good luck to them. I drop my helmet and keys on the counter and lock up. Inside the apartment is quiet, the kind of silence where I can clearly hear the whispers so I walk to my bedroom and put on some Sleep Token to drive out the voices.

Heading to the bathroom, I splash my face with water and look at my reflection in the cracked mirror. The splintered image is exactly how I feel, but I can still make out my reflection: unruly black curls, green eyes, a dimpled chin that runs in the family, and dark circles under my eyes.

“Miss you, little brother,” I breathe out, looking down at the yellowed sink. He would probably be here with Roman right now, playing on the same team, still best friends. If it weren’t for—

No. I don’t want to think about this, but my mind always seems to pull me into the past.

I see flashes of Caleb’s easygoing smile, his laughter, and the way he used to mess with me when I was trying to study. He was the only person who could make me feel like I wasn’t completely fucked up.

Then Roman took that away from me.

I grip the sink, my knuckles turning white at the memory of Caleb’s funeral and my mother’s sobs. I remember staring at his casket with my hands in my pockets so no one could see them shaking. Caleb didn’t belong here. He had just turned eighteen years old, not even out of high school for fuck’s sake. Now he’s just another name etched onto a headstone.

Guess who didn’t even bother to fucking show up. Not a call, not a message, just fucking nothing.

His best friend was dead and he couldn’t even show his face. I waited for him, half expecting him to show up with a cocky smirk of his, to hear him crack a joke like all our lives weren’t falling apart. But he never came.

I feel the anger burning in my chest again and try to will it down but the fucker doesn’t stay. Walking into the kitchen, I grab the half-empty bottle of Jack and down some while sputtering. The second shot goes down smoother, numbing the memories threatening to drown me.

I slam the bottle down harder than I mean to, the sound reverberating through the empty room. The voices are still there, whispering that this is pointless, that it won’t change a fucking thing. But I don’t care.

“Shut the fuck up,” I say to no one and run my hands through my curls, pulling them until the voices subside.

Roman

Firstdayofthesemester and I’m in a fantastic fucking mood.

Not really.

When I open my eyes on the first morning of the new semester, it feels like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to my brain. At first, I can’t remember why, and then it slowly comes back to me. The bar and the fight with a guy who couldn’t even throw a decent punch if his life depended on it.

My head is pounding like a fuckass drumline thanks to the half a bottle of whiskey I downed to ease the pain in my ribs. Big fucking mistake, I know. But I needed to be numb and not think for five goddamn seconds.

I groan and cover my eyes with my arm to block out the sunlight streaming through the blinds. It feels like my body was run over by a truck, and then the truck backed up to finish the job. Honestly, I probably deserve this.

“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging myself up and hanging my head in my hands. The room tilts and it feels like the emptiness in my stomach wants out. Shit, why do I keep doing this to myself?

A flat hand bang sounds against my door and I groan louder. “Get your ass up, Bishop! Practice starts in an hour!”

“Fuck off!” I shout back, but he doesn’t respond and in Killian Speak, that means I have about ten minutes before he barges in here to drag me out by my hair. Yes, he has done that before, the fucker.

With a groan, I get to my feet and the world tilts again. Everything fucking hurts, goddammit. My cheekbone is tender from the hits I took, my knuckles are scraped raw, and my ribs ache like a motherfucker.

But then again, I play my best when I’m in pain and if that doesn’t make me fucked-up, I don’t know what does.

I shuffle to the bathroom that adjoins Killian’s bedroom, and I look at myself in the mirror. I truly look like shit. Dark circles under my eyes, a bruise forming on my cheek, and a split lip. I can’t help but laugh because the dumbass couldn’t even break my nose or give me a fucking black eye for all my trouble.

After a quick shower, I brush my teeth then throw on my black ripped jeans, a band tee, my sneakers, and my Timberwolves hat pulled low over my face. Hey, I’m not trying to impress anyone.

By the time I make it downstairs, Killian’s waiting with a protein shake in one hand and his phone in the other. He looks way too chipper for someone who was drinking with me last night, but that’s Kill for you. A fucking psycho.

“You look like shit,” he says without looking up.

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