Page 10 of Saving Sparrow
We’d unknowingly moved closer to him. We weren’t touching Elliott, but only a few inches separated us from him now. Quentin and I settled back in, drifting off again.
The next time we woke up, the sun had set, and the empty spot between us was cold. I ran my hand over it, feeling weirdly sad he was gone. I should’ve been happy to be alone with Quentin again.
“What are you thinking?” Quentin asked, laying his hand on top of mine.
“I don’t know. I mean, I know, but it doesn’t make sense.”
“Tell me anyway.”
I scooted closer. “Why do you think he can’t remember how his parents died?”
Quentin shrugged. “Maybe he was too young when it happened.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I frowned, going over our interaction with Elliott, remembering him in that dress. “I’m thinking he’s even weirder than we are.”
“Agreed.”
I smiled at that. “If he’s living here now, he’ll probably be attending Locklier High in the fall.” It was the best high school for miles, even if it overflowed with spoiled, rich pricks. “I’m thinking he could probably use two friends.”
What did Quentin and I know about being someone’s friend? The only friends we ever had were each other. I mean, we treated each other well, so there was that. But did we know how to share? Could we learn? Something about Elliott made me want to try.
I expected Quentin to get all territorial about it, especially after his earlier comment about my curiosity. Seemed like all he needed was a nap to calm his possessiveness, or maybe he was finally ready to admit he was curious about Elliott too.
“What areyouthinking?” I asked when he didn’t respond.
He moved in close until we almost touched, surprising me even more when he whispered near my lips, “I’m thinking you might be right.”
Miguel
Now
Pain radiated through my body. My eyes were too swollen to open any wider than slits, my arms and legs too battered to move. So, I lay here on the cold floor for hours, maybe even days, hoping Sparrow would show mercy on me. He never did. Each time he returned, he brought with him more anger, more paranoia, and a deeper need for vengeance. My body paid the consequences for them all, each and every time.
“You’re nothing to him. You tried to kill him. You wanted him dead.”
The accusations hurt more than the numerous beatings he gave; the pain in my heart more acute than anywhere else.
It hurt to breathe, but not breathing felt like dying, and I couldn’t die without saving Elliott first.
I tried to remember the last time I ate or had something to drink—other than my own blood—but couldn’t. The pain kept me distracted from my hunger and thirst, though.
Blood crusted my swollen lips, the inside of my cheek still sore from where I’d bitten into it after Sparrow’s gun made repeated contact with my head. I wasn’t missing any teeth, but the blow from his fist left one of my molars loose.
A piece of glass from the shattered nightstand lamp was embedded in my finger from when I hit the floor and tried to crawl away. My ribs were inflamed, and I knew if I had the strength to lift my shirt, I’d see the imprint of Sparrow’s boot there. My eyes stung with the need to cry, but I was too dehydrated to produce tears.
The wind whistled through the darkened room again, the curtains flapping about. My body twitched involuntarily from the cold—or fever—causing me to lose control of my bladder.
Sparrow would be upset. This would be the second time he’d have to drag my body to a fresh patch of carpet to scrub away my blood and filth. I almost panicked, but then remembered I rested on a piece of tarp now.
The door opened, and I cracked my eyes open as best I could. Sparrow’s tall, lean frame filled the doorway, the dim light from the hall backdropping him. He didn’t hold a gun or a bat, and his fingers weren’t ensnared in brass knuckles this time. My heart picked up speed anyway. Weapons made him more deadly, but Sparrow was dangerous with or without them.
He stepped in, closing the door behind him and sealing us in darkness again. I tried to quiet the rattling in my chest so I could hear where his footsteps carried him.
His boots hit the tarp, and pain shot up my spine when I tried to inch away. “P-please,” I wheezed. “N-no more.”
He crouched in front of me, as dark as a shadow. “Are you ready to tell the truth now?” Sparrow wanted me to confirm his suspicions about the event that brought us here. If circumstances were different, I’d have appreciated the irony in his search for the truth. Sparrow wouldn’t accept my version of the truth, though. Not without hearing our full story first.
“Wait!” I cried out, agitating the cut on my bottom lip. Blood trickled to the corner of my mouth. Sparrow’s fist halted, suspended in mid-air. “What if you’re making a mistake?” I took a second to catch my breath. Talking intensified the pain. “What if hurting me will hurt him? What if you’re making a mistake?”
