Page 6 of Pray for Scars
I hear the door close behind me and I don’t dare look as I sprint down the hall, toward the stairs, because I’m going to be faster than any elevator, even if the world is fucking spinning around me and I feel like I’m going to be sick.
But I hear him.
I hear him call my name, I hear his footsteps as he chases me, and I’m not halfway down the hall yet.
He’s in shape.
But so am I.
And I feel quite certain Jeremiah Rain has never had to run for his life.
I have.
My heart races, nerves raw, and I feel like if I don’t reach this fucking door, if I don’t get down these stairs, I’ll never be rid of him. Of this.
He calls my name again, but my ears feel muffled, the sound distorted, and I crash into the door. It opens with me and I stumble out into the stairwell, nearly losing my balance as I try to take two at a time, gripping the handrail so hard my palms start to sweat, aching as I hurry down.
I’m one flight down with two more to go when I hear him crash through the same door.
“Sid! Stop!” His voice echoes in the stairwell.
I don’t stop.
I keep going, and I’ve got one floor left when he fucking jumps.
He jumps the entire set of stairs, landing hard on his feet beside me as I make to go down the last flight.
He doubles over, panting, and I use that opportunity to move.
But I don’t get far.
I never get far from my brother.
He grabs my wrist, my backpack falls from my shoulder, and he pushes me against the railing of the stairs. My arms windmill as I try to steady myself. It’s only one flight. I’ll live, but at this angle, I’ll probably land on my fucking head.
He leans over me, forcing my back to bend, forcing me further over the edge. He’s got my shirt in his fist, another hand around my waist.
He’s still panting, and so am I.
I close my eyes.
I don’t want to see him.
He, at least, can’t force me to do that.
“Sid, I…” I can smell the stench of alcohol on his breath, probably not much different than mine. “I’m sorry, I just…”
Save it,I think. But I don’t say it. What’s the point?
What’s the point of any of this anymore? Running? Fighting? Living?
“Sid,” he says again, his voice cracking. He jerks me upright, but I still don’t open my eyes.
“I’m so sorry for what happened but—”
At this, I meet his gaze. He must see something in mine because he stops talking.
“You think you were the only one?” I ask him quietly, and I can feel the fucking snarl on my face, and I know he sees the hatred in my head, in my heart, because he suddenly let’s go of me and backs up, his shoulders sagging.
