Page 113 of Vicious Saint
“Great.” I flash him a smile. “Now kindly fuck off.”
The sound of Rick’s sneakers screeching against the floor is still in the distance when I reach the elevator, and with a ding comes the return of a happy Saint.
Nobody freaked out.
Lost a limb.
Died.
See? I got this no violence thing in the bag.
At least that’s what I tell myself the entire ride up to the eighth floor, where both much needed silence and a warm bed await.
There’s the residual scent of pine wafting through the air as I make my grand exit into the hall, and I breathe that shit in like my life depends on it.
I hate this school most of the time, but after spending weeks in a padded room? Being alone to sleep, maybe screw, and pig out in my dorm seems like a slice of fucking heaven.
My brain is busy picking toppings on a pizza as I fish keys out of my pocket, twirling them around my finger.
Pepperoni.
Sausage.
Chicken.
Mushrooms.
Two liters of Coke and a couple calzones.
Fuck. Yeah.
My stomach growls just thinking about eating real food again.
I approach the door and slide the key into the lock, humming the lyrics to “Superman” by Eminem as I twist it and push. The song, along with my good mood, falls by the wayside the second my room comes into view. Clothes are thrown on the floor next to boxes, and my bed is a mess.
Who’s looking to die today?
Because that’s the only logical explanation for any motherfucker to come inside my room, let alone make it filthy.
My molars are grinding to shavings as I step inside, lowering my duffle to the floor. I peer around, finding open wrappers ofmyHershey chocolate scattered on the counter, along withmyempty water bottles.
It’s quiet, so I assume whoever it is with the death wish is gone, leaving a pair of Chuck Taylors and an Avenger hoodie behind.
A piece of paper on the desk snags my attention, so I snatch it up.
Every ounce of self-restraint bursts into flames as I take in what’s on it: blue eyes and a big head with two horns poking out of a Yankee fitted. Royals’ jersey with number three on the front. Wearing Jordans that aren’t even fucking retro.
There is only one person on this planet who hates me enough to draw a cartoon version of me in a pair of shitty Spizikes.
And it’s the same person I’ve spent two weeks convincing myself to go easy on. Forgive and forget.
The whole water. The bridge. Not drowning her underneath it.
Well, drowning has a beautiful ring to it now.
I shred the paper into pieces, my eyes burning as they drill a hole in the empty pack of Newports on my desk.
This. Fucking. Bitch.
