Page 134 of Seeing Grayscale

I try to breathe, but I can’t. I try to get out of my head, but I’m trapped there.

All the times I thought I hit the bottom, I never even took a single step off the ledge. Forever teetering, wondering when the time would come.

And this is it.

It’s time.

The best time for a predator to strike is when their prey is unaware they are even there.

FIFTY-TWO

Foramoment,I’mback in time.

I’m eighteen, fresh out of jail with only the clothes on my back. I have nowhere to go—no one to call—I’m alone. The fear that comes with that knowledge is so punishing that all you can do is cower beneath it.

You can run and hide, hoping that the gaping jaws of reality don’t catch you by the ankles.

Where will you go? How will you live? There’s no escaping the monster at your back, breathing down your neck, and ready to devour you whole.

The ground moves under your feet, but you never get very far. Amid this crippling terror, you find yourself frantic to find a way out, a bright light because that’s what always happened before. No matter how bad things were or how hopeless it all felt, an option presented itself as a saving grace—a silver lining in the bleak, dank, melancholy.

Only that moment never comes.

The alternative was never there to begin with.

And you drown.

Black slime slips down your throat, clogging your airways, oozing into your organs, and invading your veins. You’re a goner, and everyone knows it. There’s no one to save you. And just before that despair suffocates you completely, you manage to take a breath.

Then another.

Slowly, you’re breathing once again, and you crawl out of the hole with bloody fingernails and weak limbs. Half-alive, you get accustomed to your new world and accept it for what it is.

You survive.

But that was before.

I hold my head tighter, keeping it tucked as far as it will go, and fold my knees into my chest. If I had to pinpoint the exact source of my pain, it’d be my upper abdomen. Maybe it’s my stomach, maybe it’s my broken heart hanging by fragile tendons…maybe it’s my last hope.

We need to talk.

That’s never good, but when has Hunter ever hurt me? Am I overreacting?

Too scared to look or speak, I focus on breathing. I can hear the rustle of fabric, the soft hum of the heater kicking on, and everything unspoken. If I reach deep enough, I might have just enough bravery to listen to what Hunter has to say.

“Gray.” It’s a breath—a hesitant sound.

Impossibly, I curl my body tighter. “What?” I whisper.Please don’t do this.

“Will you look at me? Please, sweetheart.”

I ball my fists, not wanting to fall for it. But like it always does, his voice lures me out. And if I’m being honest, regardless of how I feel right now, I can’t bring myself to hate him over a possibility instead of a fact.

As slowly as I can, I lift my head. Hunter doesn’t look so detached anymore. He’s on his knees, leaning against his heels with his hands flat over his thighs.

The cat got his tongue because he doesn’t say a word now that we’re maintaining eye contact. The apple of his throat bobs while he swallows hard. “Can we go downstairs?” he asks after a while.

I shake my head.

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