Jonah
“Show me who you are,” I demand, pointing my gun directly at his covered forehead. “Remove the mask. Take it all off.”
A low, husky laugh escapes his lips. “Even my uniform?”
My body shudders as a wave of heat causes my stomach to churn.
“Do you want to die?” I ask, clicking the gun.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, slowly, he lowers himself onto his knees with his hands in the air, arms bent at the elbows.
“Not necessarily, but I will have you know, I do look good naked, too.” he tells me, and I can hear the grin in his voice.
My voice shakes lightly as I threaten, “Take the fucking mask off, or I will shoot you.”
His shoulders sag as an audible sigh sounds from him. Moving his hands to beneath his chin, he unclasps the helmet.
He takes it off, tossing it to his side without care. After that, he slides his eye protection up and off of his head, revealing a pair of cold, blue-gray eyes.
Blinking, he flutters his blond lashes, and I repress the urge to shiver again.
They are unsettling, to say the least.
I swallow thickly, thankful for the head gear still hiding my face.
The sound of them hitting the floor echoes in the room, dragging me out of my panicked thoughts.
“Are you enjoying this?” he questions.
I furrow my eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
Without saying anything further, he pulls the black balaclava down, leaving the fabric bunching together around his neck.
He shakes his head and runs a hand through his sweaty, messy, dark-blond hair. It remains dishelved even after his attempt to tame it.
Thin but full, straight eyebrows, highly defined cheekbones, and fair skin with pink undertones. I cannot deny that he is handsome.
There are a few faint freckles scattered along his nose. Shaped in a cupids bow are his lips. Dull pink but reddened where he bites them.
He has prominent eyebags, which add to the uneasy feeling his dark demanor brings to me.
Standing up, he decides to close the gap between us. The end of the gun presses into his chest.
“I asked if you were enjoying this.” he repeats himself from a minute earlier. “And you didn’t give me an answer.”
The corner of his lips tick upwards into a small grin, and I don’t realize he managed to retrieve a handgun from the strap-on on the side of his uniform.
Tilting my head upwards with the chilling metal, he makes me look him directly in the eyes.
Fully smirking now, he replaces the gun with his hand as he is now angling it at my head.
My heart races in my chest, anxiety beginning to cloud my thoughts.
“I’ve showed you me,” he states, staring down at me with an uncomfortable amount of intensity and obvious amusement. “Which means it is your turn. I want to see you again, Jonah.”
My body goes limp.
How does he know my name?
And what does he mean by ‘again?’
Another hollow laugh comes from his mouth.
“Do you want to die?”
Jonah
“I will kill you,” I warn him, my breathing uneven as I press my left forearm against his chest, holding him in place with his back to the wall.
Huffing out a breath of air, he suggests, “Do it,” his tone genuine and his voice gruff.
Forcefully, he takes my wrist and brings the edge of the blade closer to his skin, hovering it near a bold scar.
“Make me bleed.”
Gracie Mendez
Smoke stings my eyes.
Wincing, I struggle to hold back a cough.
“Andres, seriously?” I ask a moment later while waving my hand around to clear the gray clouds in my bedroom.
Arching an eyebrow, he lifts his eyes to meet my gaze.
After pulling out the cigarette from his mouth, he tilts his head downwards, giving me an off-putting look.
“What, babe? You want me to stop?”
“What I want is for you to quit smoking in my room.”
He grins, then puts the cigar back into his mouth. A moment later, he removes it and inches forward, close to my face.
I watch him with obvious annoyance; my eyebrows are furrowed, jaw is clenched, and nearly every part of me is stiff.
Parting his mouth slowly, he swiftly blows the smoke into my face. It burns. And stings.
Pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth, I choke back the tears stinging my eyes.
This is just who he is, I remind myself. He does not mean to hurt you.
“Andres,” I begin, but he cuts me off by making an easy shot outside of my window, getting rid of the cigarette.
My eyes follow his movements—his hands and the sharpness of them. Each of his nails are short yet neat, but his fingers are thick, manly, and marked with small scars.
Turning to me again, he softens his features, and I suck in a sharp breath.
He truly is beautiful; a melancholy masterpiece.
“I love you,” he tells me, giving me that familiar doe-eye look. “You know that, right?”
My head protests. Meanwhile my heart seizes in my chest.
I nod, swallowing thickly.
Mirroring my nod, he slowly inches closer, crawling on top of me and eventually pinning me to my bed.
The heap of pillows beneath my head dip in, and I gasp quietly when he comes down on top of me.
“Let me show you how much I love you,” he pleads, trailing gentle kisses against my jawline.
For a moment, I reel in this feeling, the rush of it, but then my stomach churns with a feeling I do not recognize, and I immediately retreat.
“Not now, Andres,” I smile up at him, silently praying that he does not get worked up as usual.
And he doesn’t.
But he continues kissing me.
Aggressively. Hungrily. Desperately.
I try to push him off of me, but I am not strong enough. He will not budge.
“Andres,” I breathe, fear and panic gnawing at my gut.
A frustrated groan tears from his throat as he pulls away.
“Fuck, Gracie. What?” he questions, clearly irritated by my indecision.
“I don’t want to do this,” I whisper. “I’m not ready.”
His face goes cold, unreadable then, and I am unsure of how to feel.
Gripping the sleeves of my sweater tightly, he stares down at me before completely turning away.
“Will you ever be ready?” he mumbles, leaning over the edge of my bed.
Heart racing, I go to move closer to him, but he decides to stand up.
“Are you leaving?” I ask, watching him with widened eyes.
“I’ll be back,” he whispers, offering me a half-smile, half-frown, before heading toward my bedroom door and exiting.
“See you, Mendez,” he calls from the hallway.
I choke back a cry.
“Bye, Andres,” I whisper.
Owen Moore
“When you phoned me and asked to meet up with you, I wasn’t expecting to commit an entire crime!” Reese whisper-hisses, her nails digging into my forearm.
Stifling a laugh, I navigate us around the open building in the dark. Our steps are quiet, careful, but a faint echo continues to sound from each thump.
“You told me you wanted to feel alive. Is the adrenaline rush here not enough?” I question, turning around to face her.
She rolls her eyes and then narrows them. “Do I detect tone, Owen?”
Grinning like a dope, I shake my head.
“No, ma’am, you do not.” I tell her, prying one of her arms off of my arm and raising it to my mouth, placing a soft kiss to it, all while looking her in the eyes.
Her features seem to relax a bit. “Good. I didn’t think so.”
“Never,” I agree. “But, if it came down to it, meaning we get caught, you’d look real good in an orange jumpsuit.”
The corner of her lips tick upwards. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
She snorts, fully smiling now, as she loosens her death grip entirely on my arm. “You’re such a romantic.”
I shrug nonchalantly. “It happens when I’m with you.”
Without responding, she glances around, then swallows thickly.
“I hate the dark.” she admits, and I find my eyebrows raising.
“I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.” I exclaim, stepping closer to her,
Her head snaps toward me, and she cocks a brow.
“I’m not, typically.” she responds.
I am about to say something when the sound of a door slamming shut startles both of us.
“What was that?” she whispers, clinging to my side again, most definitely terrified.
“A guard, most likely,” I suggest truthfully, sliding a hand around her waist and tracing aimless shapes. “We will be alright,” I reassure her. “Just don’t scream or do anything stupid.”
“I’m not stupid,” she protests, and I mentally curse myself for wording it that way. “But it’s kind of hard not to panic, Owen.”
“I’m here with you, aren’t I?”
She huffs out a breath of air. “No, actually, I’m with a ghost—“
“Stop being stubborn, Turner,” I warn, glaring slightly at her.
She returns the face.
“Don’t push me, Moore,” she presses.
A moment later, I shake my head.
“Wanna play a game?” she asks after another minute passes.
Peering sideways at her, I tilt my head. “I don’t play games.”
“It’s a new one,” she continues, smiling up at me while moving in front of my body. “You might like it.”
“Reese,” I say in a low voice, shivers causing my body to shake lightly when she slips a hand under my t-shirt. “What are you doing?”
“Owen,” she replies. “I really want to play this game.”
I pause momentarily, simply watching her watch me. Her blonde, bouncy curls rest at her mid-back, even though they are pulled into a rushed ponytail, loose and messy.
After sighing, I decide to give in.
Wrapping my arms around her waist na dback, I pull her flush against my chest.
“What are the rules?” I ask, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, which happens to be coconut and vanilla.
Standing on her tip-toes, she leans in close, her breath hot against my ear.
“You’ll figure them out as we go along,” she whispers, teasing me with her fingertips by brushing them along my bare skin.
And I’d be lying if I claimed that didn’t intrigue me.
!!! This scene contains harsh topic(s) that may be extremely upsetting !!!
Nathaniel Graham
The shower is running, I have a shattered piece of glass in my hand, and I am staring at the reflection of someone who is not me.
The stranger follows my moves, chest rising and falling at the same time I breathe.
We share the same everything; chocolate-brown, curly hair, electrifying blue eyes, and scars all over.
I want to scream at him.
My body needs to cry.
I don’t do either.
Tightening my hold on the makeshift-blade, I press it deeper into my palm until I feel a knowing warmth—the sign of blood.
Narrowing my eyes, I glare at myself.
Nearly the entire mirror is fogged up from the steam-filled air.
Perspiration plasters small sections of my hair to my forehead, and all the sensations and sounds are beginning to overwhelm me.
My head becomes fogged, clouded by the overstimulating thoughts racing through it.
Closing my eyes, I focus on the darkness.
Earlier, I had church, and we had a sacrament meeting where we spoke about God and sang.
I despise singing.
The sounds of everyone’s voices are too much, and sometimes it makes me want to tear my clothes off of my body and take my cracked mask off.
Bruises. Scars. Cuts. More scars.
I am ugly underneath it all.
Clutching the blade so firmly that it shakes, I strangle out, “Heck you.”
Sniffling, I lift my arm and hold the blade to my chest, hovering it over my heart.
Pursing my lips, I hold my breath, letting all my emotions drown me inside.
Then, reluctantly, I inch the blade closer.
It feels like a needle against my skin.
I drag it along my skin horizontally, and slowly, desperate for the pain in my body to silence the pain in my head.
The jagged edges pull at my skin, leaving a faint sting as I continue.
Small specks of blood begin to appear, and I push harder, forcing it into my flesh.
With clenched teeth, I tug the shard out and watch as red liquid drips down my chest. It tickles, and the exposed wound throbs with a familiar feeling.
I smile at myself in the mirror, although I am not completely satisfied yet.
After exhaling a heavy breath, I raise it again and repeat the action, except this time the cut is overlapping the other, and it is going up and down instead.
I pause when I reach the intersection point, hesitant to follow through.
No, who am I kidding?
Heck it.
Finishing up my work, I admire it in the mirror.
I carved a cross into my skin, over my heart.
Tears rim my eyes, though I don’t dare shed them.
Lowering my gaze, I stare at the now-tinted-red glass. A small droplet slips off the corner.
I toss it onto the counter, and my ears ring when a clink sounds as it hits the marble countertop.
A shiver racks my spine when the pain suddenly increases—or maybe I am just more aware now—and my attention darts back to the open cut.
Blood trickles down my bare chest and stomach, glopping at the top of my waistband, soaking into the fabric.
It hurts.
But is it enough?
Frustraion begins to build in my stomach, the pressure unbearable.
I am so used to the pain hurting myself brings me that it doesn’t faze me anymore.
How far do I have to go?
Turning to the shower, I make a rash decision to head over and push aside the shower curtain.
Adjusting the temperature, I turn it all the way to the right, all the way hot.
Inflicting pain on myself feels good. It brings me pleasure.
I shove the shower curtain back, then yank the other end open.
Right as I am about to step in, I freeze, the intensity of my situation dawning on me.
This is going to hecking hurt, but that is what I want.
It is what my body craves—what my head demands.
My head spins around to make eye contact with the blade sitting near my bathroom sink.
I understand that if I do not do this, I will retreat back to that and destroy my body further.
Facing the shower once again, I decide that I rather this scar than something else.
My feet feel like they are set on fire almost instantly when I step into the tub.
I wince, cringing internally.
Somehow, I manage to get myself under the water, my entire body protesting against me.
Frantically flailing an arm around, I lean slightly toward the wall of the shower. Body trembling, I sqeeuze my eyes shut.
“Damnit!” I shout a beat later, anger and sadness mixing together in my chest.
Opening one eye, I peer down and see the outbreak of bright red, blotchy skin—patches of it all over my stomach and legs.
The water is red, too.
But it eventually fades back to a light pink, mostly clear.
The tension in me eases slightly when I dig my nails into the wall, dragging them downwards.
It only takes another few seconds before I snap out of this daze.
Pathetically, I rush to twist the handle toward the left, causing the water to go freezing cold.
Chest heaving, I take a few steps back, my hair now soaked. While blinking rapidly, I glance around me, feeling panicked.
I huff out a breathe of air, feeling oddly accomplished—and refreshed.
Relieved, even.
It must not take death to feel alive, but only a little pain.
I am okay again, for now, I determine.
I am me.
The mask is ready to be put back on, and I am prepared to play the part.
“Kiss me,” Kaitlyn breathes against my lips. “Make me forget about all of the bad things.”
Reaching a hand up, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and the shorter face-framing pieces fall back against her face.
I look her in the eyes, and my stomach burns when I see she is already staring, watching me with a desire of longing and lingering sadness.
My entire face flushes, cheeks fading to a deep red that I am thankful she cannot see in the darkness of the car.
“You’re beautiful, Kaitlyn,” I whisper, gently sliding one hand up and down her right thigh as I drag my fingertips along her left arm.
Leaning her forehead against mine, she closes her eyes and tells me, “My heart hurts with a heaviness I can’t carry anymore.”
Pursing my lips, I bite my bottom one and then lick it before deciding that I need her closer to me.
I wrap both arms around her back and pull her flush against my chest.
She adjusts her hips on my lap, and a small jolt of pleasure causes my legs to tense up.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I cup her jaw and lift her face from mine.
“Then let me carry it for you.”
“Go home, Rhett,” I mumble shakily, refusing to look at him.
Elbows resting on the dining room table, I allow my head to drop into the palms of my hands. My left leg bounces restlessly beneath the counter.
I can sense him shaking his head, the frustration and heat of his body oozing off of him.
“Oh, fuck you,” he spits out, voice low, and betrayal is evident in the way he speaks.
It makes me shamefully wince.
“You want me to leave?” he presses. “Mason, damnit, look at me while I’m talking to you.”
My stomach ties itself into knots.
“Please.” he begs, yet I cannot get my body to move.
There is a moment of silence.
Then another.
“Say something, Mason,” he demands. “I need to hear your voice.”
With tear-stained eyes, I manage to lift my head and meet his gaze. Narrowing my eyes, I glare at him.
“What do you want me to do?” I question, every part of me slowly breaking.
Trembling, I push the chair back and stand up. “I don’t fucking understand what I am meant to do!”
Fully facing him now, I choke out, “What am I supposed to do,” all of my emotions resurfacing.
He flinches away from me, and I freeze.
I blink.
Realization dawns on me, followed by an uneasiness that makes me want to vomit.
Rhett Houston just flinched because of me.
“No,” I breathe, desperation clawing at me, tearing me apart when he retreats his footsteps.
“Rhett, no,” but he isn’t listening to me, and my chest is heaving.
He turns around, and I chase after him.
“I am not him,” I whisper, feeling like the helpless kid I was at nine again. “I am not my fucking father, Rhett!”
I am unable to breathe.
My lungs are burning.
Itchiness at the back of my throat causes me to gag.
“Do you hear me?” I yell after him, reaching for his hand, but he yanks it away. “I promise I’m not him.” I cry, finally breaking down.
He pauses at the entryway, hand on the doorknob.
“I am not my father,” I repeat, imploring him to hear me. “I refuse to be.”
There is an unsettling edge to his voice when he tells me, “I never said you were, but the fact you feel the need to convince me anyway speaks volumes.”
My surroundings are blurring together, a mess of colors and shapes.
“Look at me, Rhett. Do you see any of his DNA in me?”
Hesitantly, he oblidges and peers at me, but his expression is unreadable.
“Do you?” I push.
Biting his bottom lip, he twists the handle, and it clicks.
And without another word, he leaves, closing the door behind him.
My legs give out beneath me as I wail, and I collapse onto the wood floors in a heap.
“Fuck you,” I bite out a minute later, biterness seeping into my head, my thoughts.
Regret swallows me whole almost immediately.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize to nobody.
Sobbing, I begin to tear at the floor, anger and a thousand other emotions threatening to pull me apart even more than they already have.
I am weak, rendered helpless.
Hopeless, too.
“Get me out of here,” I practically shout, sitting uncomfortably in my body.
This skin does not belong to me.
The backdoor creaks, but I cannot stop the tears from falling down my face.
Thumps from boots echo down the hallway.
Hyperventilating, I rub my eyes, trying to see who it is.
“Mom,” I strangle out, even though she isn’t here anymore—with me anymore.
A figure appears in the archway.
“Hey, son,” the shadow slurs, and my memory racks my brain for the correlating face.
It registers, and fear paralyzes me entirely.
My body goes limp.
“Get away,” I whisper, too tired to raise my voice.
A lazy grin takes over his features.
“Get the fuck out!” I attempt to scream, voice hoarse and surprisngly quiet.
“Your friend isn’t here anymore, is he?” my father ignores my protest.
For a breif moment, it feels as if my heart stops beating.
I know exactly what is going to happen.
Eyeing the bottle of alcohol in his right hand, I decide it will be better if I break it and use a shard of glass to slit my wrists.
That way, I can be done with it all.
Rhianna’s “Shut Up And Drive” had been playing when Gracie and I entered the stadium.
Now, I need everyone to literally shut up so I can focus and drive.
“Fucking helmet,” I mutter, nervously fidgeting with the straps and shaking my head when I tighten it too much, desperate to ease the tension in my body.
My hair is a mess beneath it, plastered to my forehead from anxiety-induced sweat.
Once I finish adjusting the gear on my head, I glance down at my gloves.
Rolling my shoulders backward, I pull the leather up for good measure.
A tap on my shoulder causes my guard to go up, and I find my head whipping around only to see what I am assuming is an instructor.
My guess is as good as my reading skills.
In other words, they are shit.
God damnit! I should not be thinking about fucking English right now.
“You ready, Reyes?” the man asks, eyes crinkling when he grins.
Offering him a stiff nod, I declare, “I’m always ready.”
His smile widens, and he gives me a clipped nod before jotting something down on a clipboard and moving past me.
My eyes follow him until a certain voice catches my attention.
Frantically looking around for the culprit of the sound, I catch Gracie—my Gracie—leaning over a railing and cheering for me.
I can’t help but smile.
What am I meant to do?
Dark brown, silky-as-hell hair flows down her back, a braid twisted and pulled back on the right side of her head.
My eyes trail over her, and pleasure electrifies itself in me when I check her outfit out for what is probably the fiftyth time.
She is wearing a custom-made jersey, and my name is featured both on the front and back in bold lettering.
Cupping her mouth, she shouts to me, “Nice uniform!”
Smiling like a dope, I yell back to her, “Nice everything!”
With a wink, she leans further over the railing and questions, “Wanna go for another ride later?”
Thank fuck for this helmet, because if she were to see how red my cheeks just turned, it would be over.
“Yeah,” I decide to engage in her teasing. “We’ll see how many different gears you know—and by the way, hun, I’ll have you know I am able to switch them pretty quick.”
“Lucas Reyes!” comes a gruff voice from somewhere near me.
Spinning around, I realize that the race is about to start.
“Good luck, Lucas!” Gracie shouts from the stands. “I hope you’re wearing your good luck charm!”
My stomach does a little pancake flip when I remember the bracelet Gracie made me a while back.
It has different beads and gems that match our eye colors.
Hers are a gorgeous blue, light and icey, both soft and piercing.
Mine are a duller shade of blue—yet still relatively light—with specks of brown in them.
“Come on, Reyes.” the guy gestures for me to walk over toward him.
I listen as instructed and close my eyes, shaking the nerves out and then making a silent plea.
Fuck me.
“You do you,” Lucas nods his head in my direction, eyebrows raised. “I’ll do me,” and then, with a grin, he decides to toss out, “And we’ll do each other.”
Stifling an annoyed groan, I settle for rolling my eyes. Resting the side of my head against my palm, I have to force myself to focus on the sheets of paper in front of me.
There is the sound of shuffling for a few beats before I feel Lucas’ huff of air on my ear.
A tingly sensation takes over, and I have to battle the urge to look at him.
“Hey,” he begins, teasing me by playing with my hair.
Unable to hold back, I reluctantly turn to face him.
“I’m busy, Lucas.”
He smiles. “So am I.”
I cock an eyebrow. “With what exactly?”
He returns the look, the strand of hair curled around his finger slipping off when he retreats his hand.
Swallowing whatever is in his mouth—which I presume to be a snark comment—he simply stares at me, fluttering those blond eyelashes as if to soften my exterior.
“Watching you watch your homework.” he finally answers.
My face betrays me by flushing a most-definitely prominent shade of pink, and it pains me when he notices because an accomplished expression sharpens his features.
“No need to be flustered, hun, I just like to speak my truth.”
I bite my bottom lip, repressing several sarcastic remarks.
“Yeah, and you also have a tendency of over sharing, but I guess that’s a side affect of being honest, isn’t it?” I jokingly question him.
Brows furrowed, he rolls over onto his side, staring at me with a challenging look.
“I cannot help the fact I have a lot of thoughts,” he starts, and it is difficult to repress a laugh because I already know where this is going. “My brain is like fireworks, new ideas constantly sparking and lighting up.”
I have to cut him off. “You sound ridiculous.”
My observation doesn’t prevent him from continuing his ramble.
“Sometimes my head feels like it has layers, and each one is a different thought—or something.” he explains while sitting up, and I realize he is about to give me a rundown of how his mind functions.
But in all honesty, it is quite amusing.
Using his hands to add dramatic effect, he rants, “Basically, one layer is a thought, the next is a song, the third, well, more thoughts, and the fourth is just there for extra space.”
Blinking, he waits for a response.
All I am able to come up with is, “Uh, what…?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “But there is no fifth layer because I dislike the number five.”
Delicate hands weave through my hair, the feeling of freedom fading into despair.
Fingertips brush my skin softly, egniting a flame that burns ever so brightly.
I push them away, my heart intangible, a mess that remains full of trouble.
Their breath stays softly, drawing out breaths of air, skulled ghostly.
Aravicious demands hidden beneath, and I mourn my own grief.
Hugging my knees, I close my eyes, silently begging, please, uncover these lies.
A silent plea, imploring to be free.
