Page 109 of A Forgotten Mistake

The cut doesn’t look too deep, so I wrap it in my shirt before slicing at the tire again. This time, I actually make progress and hear the subtle hissing of the tire.

Quickly, I rush back into the bar, knowing that every second counts. I rinse the blood from my hand and then clean my knife with the cleaning products under the sink. Then I scrub the sink cleaner than it’s probably ever been in its life. When I finish, I wind paper towels around my hand so not a drop of blood can escape.

I’m fucking up. I’m fucking up. I need to reassess this. I need to…

I need to focus. I need to do this and stop fucking up.

I slide my gloves on so it keeps the paper towel in place and then walk back out into the bar where the girl is chatting with some friends. She finishes the food she was eating and gets up to reach for her coat.

I swiftly head out of the door in front of her and see a half-smoked cigarette on the ground that I pick up. Of course I don’t put it in my mouth because I’m not a psychopath, but when she comes out, she simply sees a teenager smoking as she makes her way to her car.

I’m nearly shaking, my entire body is so packed full of energy. I should just shoo her away from the car and wash my hands of it, but I can’t. I tell myself it’s out of fear that he’ll go find someone else to take with him. That the night is long… but a part of me knows it’s the darkness inside of me talking. As she goes for the car, I flick the cigarette and crush it into the ground.

“That your car?” I ask.

“Yeah?” she responds, already wary.

“Your tire’s flat.”

“What? Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck. Fuck. No…” She rushes over to it. “I didn’t even hit anything. At least I don’t think. I don’t know… fuck. Do you know how to change a tire?”

“Uhh… no? Sorry. I can ask if someone in the bar does?”

“Fuck,” she says. “It’s fine. I think my friend does.”

She hurries back inside, and I make myself scarce, giving Ted a chance to leave the car. His plan’s been fucked. If he’s smart, he’ll abort it. He must not have heard the tire deflating, but it really wasn’t as loud as I thought it’d be. I just make sure that the moment he gets out of the car, I’m heading back around the corner.

He doesn’t know whether I saw him get out of the car or not, so he turns his back to me, unidentifiable with his hood up, and starts through an alley back toward the police station.

I need to turn around. I need to go home. I need to fuck off.

I walk after him, unable to look away. Driven forward with the realization that if I don’t kill him, Abby could ruin me…

But is that what makes me step up?

I can’t tell whether he hears me or not, but he sure doesn’t expect me to walk up behind him and drive my knife into him. He sure doesn’t expect how tonight will go. He had everything planned out. I had nothing… and still, he staggers from me, so I take one more swing before it all ends.

For some reason, I find myself at Spades.

“ID?” the bouncer asks as he eyes me, likely immediately spotting that I’m not eighteen, the age set to enter the club.

“I’m a friend of your brother and Abby,” I say.

“Jesus Christ. I swear Anthony’s trying to get me fired,” he grumbles. “Give me your right hand.”

“What for?”

“It’s a stamp. Green means you’re twenty-one, red means you’re not so people can’t be buying you drinks,” he says.

My right hand is currently wrapped in paper towels in my pocket, wound aggravated by stabbing Ted, so I offer him my left.

“You can’t tell your right from left?” he asks.

“Does it matter?” I question as he stares at me. His look tells me it really fucking matters but that he doesn’t get paid enough for this job, so he smashes the red one on my left hand with a dose of irritation before sending me inside.

I step inside as the music roars around me, immediately reminding me why I hate places like this. But I’m on a fucking high. I’m on the biggest high I’ve ever been on. Jonah’s dead and now Ted is too. How can things get any better than this?

I see Abby at a high table, drink in hand with a green stamp on her even though she sure doesn’t look twenty-one. Christa and Anthony stand sandwiched between about six other people, some of whom I recognize as Abby’s friends.

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