Page 13 of Bleeding Hearts
Grabbing the warm beer, I drain the last of it, crunch the can, and toss it with the others. I started drinking on day four and haven’t stopped since. That’s one way of fighting off a hangover—just stay drunk. I have nothing left to lose anyway.
Evan has called and texted many times, but I just ignore him, especially after seeing him all happy with Skylar and Bones. How quickly he replaced our friend group and moved on. It’s a bitter, cruel thought, but it’s true.
They are living their lives, and I’m stuck here, rotting in self-hatred and grief.
I’m fucking drowning, and nobody knows.
I’m isolating myself, but I can’t seem to stop. Who would want to deal with me? It would hurt Evan and make his grief even worse. It would also ruin their newfound happiness.
I’m just a burden, that’s all.
No one would understand. How could they? I don’t understand my own feelings or why I’m lashing out.
It’s better to be alone. I can’t hurt anyone else this way.
I sit up to grab another can, and my phone slides to the bed. I leave it there as I search for an unopened beer in the litter of crushed cans on my floor, but they are all empty. I curse myself for not getting more.
I can’t even drink myself into a coma properly.
Vibrations fill the bed, and I jerk up as I grab my phone, peering at the screen in confusion. It shows an unknown number, which isn’t normal for me. I debate not answering and just googling the number to see who it is like I normally do, because who the fuck calls people these days?
Plus, nothing good ever comes from answering a phone.
Call it boredom or intrigue, but I hit answer.
“Hello?” I expect it to be Evan fucking with me or even Alice trying to talk to me, but a mechanical voice responds.
“You have received a message. You have one minute to check it before it will be deleted, and your entry will be disqualified.” Whoever it is hangs up.
My heart pounds in my chest. There is only one thing this could be.
I fumble with my phone, opening my messages with clumsy fingers, finding one from an unknown number at the top. I open it and click on the video that’s attached.
The screen glitches, and then the Risk logo comes up, asking, “Are you ready to risk it?” surrounded by bubbles.
When it stops, my phone goes black, even though I did nothing, and then the green Risk logo appears at the top before more text is typed below.
Are you ready to risk it all?
A box appears that reads “Yes,” and for a moment, I hesitate. I know what this means—I’m agreeing to participate. It’s stupid, but I have no other option.
I sign up.
My phone goes black again, and I wait, but nothing else comes through, and I blow a breath through my teeth. “That’s it?” I mutter. “How the fuck do I know where to go or what’s happening? You couldn’t send a fucking email with an itinerary? No, you have to do this creepy serial killer shit. Well, joke’s on you. I survived a serial killer before—wait, what if this is the sequel? Shit, the main girls always die in the sequel,” I blabber and then start to laugh.
I’m not bored now, but it looks like it’s time to fight for my future and place here.
I wonder what Risk will entail?
I took a shower, and I even washed my hair, which any girl knows is a fucking task, especially pink hair. I didn’t bother brushing it, though, because that took too much energy, but I applied some makeup to make me look normal and then dressed just in case. I need to be ready for when it starts, which means no more lying around, feeling sorry for myself.
My fishnets catch on my desk as I pace, my plaid skirt barely brushing my thighs. I glance back at my phone again. That can’t be all there is to it.
A noise in the hallway has me striding over in my thigh-high boots and ripping the door open. People are hurrying around, far too many for this time of night. “What’s happening?” I ask.
“Risk . . .” The girl looks around nervously. “The first game is tonight.” She hurries away.
“Where?” I call, but there’s no response.
