Page 179 of Scrimmage

“…Eighteen…”

Remember Ashland. She was a person. She still could be.

“…Nineteen,” Yang finishes.

“Ashland!” Damien barks. “Get the fuck up!”

I don’t get up. I don’t move or even acknowledge that he’s spoken. I keep my eyes shut tight and listen. I’ve learned to be good at listening.

Damien stomps over and grabs my hair, ripping some of it out of my head as he yanks it back. The star is clutched so tightly in my hands that warm blood is dripping down my palms, making it slippery, so I grip it tighter. Damien is so enraged that he isn’t even paying attention. As the tears threaten to spill, I try to focus.

Summer nights. Stars. Damien.

No.

Honeysuckles. Yang. Damien.

Fuck.

Remember summer nights where Yang and I would catch fireflies and play hide and seek.

I can smell Damien. Gun powder and hay.

Remember picking the honeysuckles with Memphis and tasting the nectar.

I open my eyes. Damien is inches from my face with his pupils blown out, per usual.

And remember Ashland. Ashland. Fucking Ashland.

Damien studies me. He’s waiting for the tears to flow, but they won’t. Not this fucking time.

“Where is your little star?”

I stare at him, etching his face into my mind.

“Speak!” he demands.

“Fuck you.” I stab the star into his neck, right where I think his jugular might be.

He looks at me. Just stares at me without a fucking sound. Then he laughs. It’s a little gurgled, but it’s there.

“Baby girl,” he says. “You’ve stabbed me with my own disappointment. Poetic.”

I try not to panic. It’s confirmed. He’s fucking immortal. Damien will never die, and he’s not going to let me either. He reaches up and grips my throat right over my trachea, digging his gunpowdered fingernails into my flesh. I want to cry, but the fear is running so rampant that I can’t.

I choke from the lack of oxygen. He won’t kill me quickly, if at all. I know he won’t. He wants me to suffer. Blood slithers from the wound in his neck in streams, seeping into his shirt. I stare at where the star is sticking out in horror. There's more blood than there should be, but it’s also not enough.

It’s never fucking enough. I take my hand, which is weakening with every millisecond that passes, and pretend to struggle for air. I grab the gun at his waist, and while he’s so full of fury choking me, I shoot him in the stomach point blank. At least I think it’s his stomach. The pop of the gun echoes off of the cinder-block walls. Damien releases me, and blood spreads through his shirt, blooming like a flower. I try to pull the trigger again and the clip is empty. I guess he knew I would try this some day.

He coughs and gives me a terrifying grin. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Damien falls to the floor and Yang springs into action, dragging him into the bathroom. There's a trail of blood, and I follow in complete shock.

I just killed Damien.

I can’t stop thinking that sentence over, and over, and over, even as his chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. Yang hoists him into the bathtub.

“Yinny, I need you to change the clip on the gun. The pocket on my leg.”

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