Page 68 of The Cruelest Chaos
Tell me I’m not alone.
“You fucking hate your life? You wish you were someone else? Anyone else? You wish you hadn’t done what you’ve done? You wanna start over? You want to be someone somebody could love?”
I twist around, throw the knife across the fucking room, a strangled cry coming from somewhere deep inside of me. The knife clatters to the floor. I grab her by the throat, jerk her into me and smooth back her hair as her eyes fly open, locking on mine.
Malachi was running, because she was coming after him next. He was running, and my mouth was dry. My stomach hurt. I was…empty. My eyes adjusted to the bright lights outside of the closet, and my pants stuck to me, wet and cold. She was laughing, and I heard their footsteps on the stairs.
I couldn’t hear him, save for his quick little feet.
Just her.
She’d thrown the closet open after I’d been in there for so long, the day had slipped into night and then morning. I could see it, the sun rising outside of the bay windows of my parents’ house.
I pushed myself to my feet, feeling woozy.
Malachi.
I ran after him, even though the world was spinning. I sprinted up those steps so fast my shaky legs were burning, but I saw her. Saw her maid outfit, the black hem of her skirt just above her stout ankles. I saw veins in her calves.
I heard her laugh again and I wanted to die.
But she wasn’t going to hurt him. She wasn’t going to get to him. She wasn’t going to put him in that closet.
I flew under her arms, and she tried to grab my shirt, but she got a hold of my shorts instead. She screamed, feeling how I’d soaked myself in that closet, and she let go, and I kept going.
I saw his blonde head, his little legs churning as fast as he could, but she was still after us.
“Keep going, Mal!”
He looked back, and there was a slow grin on his face as he saw it was me. His big brother. I’d come to save him.
But he listened. He pumped his arms, his striped shirt loose on his small body, and he kept going. He skidded down the hall, into my parents’ room. I watched as he threw open the balcony, and I glanced back.
She was only a few feet from me, her eyes bright with joy.
Joy at our fear.
I turned back around, kept running.
Malachi was on the balcony, his back against the railing as he stood on one of the wicker chairs from the patio set my parents had their breakfast on every morning they were here.
“No!” I screamed. “Get down!”
But I kept running.
And she kept running.
And when I reached the balcony, I felt her fingers grasp my shirt, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t let her take him, too. Not again. I couldn’t listen to his screams in that closet. Listen to his little fists beat against the door. His feet kicking against the wood while she laughed.
I couldn’t.
I didn’t stop running.
I didn’t push him.
But I didn’t stop running.
“Maverick!”
