Chapter 44 #2
My mouth tastes bitter. My jaw aches. My throat burns. My knees tremble beneath me, weak and raw.
At some point, I collapse, unable to hold myself up
But they pull me up right again.
And again.
And again.
They laugh. Pour liquor on my face like it’s a joke. Smack me when I gag or flinch. Call me the most degrading names.
Time blurs, and I don’t know how long it goes on.
All I know is I’m still breathing.
Somehow.
“Not so bold now, huh?” Tim sneers, crouching close. His breath is hot against my cheek. “Open your mouth for me, Lucas. I’m sure you can still take me again.”
I shake my head — barely. It feels like lifting a mountain, A weak sob slips out before I can stop it. I can’t. Please, I can’t.
But my voice doesn’t work. It’s like my throat is collapsing on itself, like there’s something lodged in my chest, choking me from the inside. The air won’t come in. My vision swims, a dull blur of dim light and shifting shadows. My body is heavy. Numb. Like it’s not mine anymore.
“I think he’s about to pass out,” Josh says somewhere near the wall. His voice wavers, unsure. Like he’s only just now realizing what they’ve done.
“Oh, shut the hell up, Josh,” Nate snaps. “Stop talking like you didn’t enjoy it the most.”
Laughter erupts—loud and ragged. It slices through my skull. Raw. Cruel. Like dogs barking over something half-dead.
“Shit, my dad just texted,” Caleb mutters. “I need to go.”
“We’re out of alcohol,” Nate says flatly, as if that’s more urgent. “We need more.”
“Guys, I really need to go,” Caleb says again, more desperate this time.
“Yeah, no shit, Caleb. The door’s right there,” Tim snaps. “We’re not done with this Boytoy yet. Go ahead and leave. Nobody’s stopping you.”
“Since you’ve got the car, drop me off at Lily’s,” Nate adds casually. “She’s the only one who sells tequila to us.”
Their voices smear together in my head, melting into one muffled noise. I can’t follow them anymore. I don’t want to.
I just want it to stop.
A sharp, stinging slap crashes against my cheek.
My eyes jolt open. I didn’t even know they had closed.
“You’ve got such a smackable face,” Tim whispers, his voice unhinged now, full of amusement and something worse. “Don’t even think of passing out. I’m not done with you.”
I blink into the dim light, my vision still fuzzy, disoriented. The room is quieter now — too quiet.
My brows knit together.
Where… where are the others?
“They went out to get more alcohol,” he says casually, voice low and dripping with intent. “So… it’s just me and you now.”
My breath falters, then quickens — shallow and ragged like I’ve been sprinting, though I haven’t moved.
My heart is pounding so loudly, I swear it echoes in my skull.
Tim shifts closer. I instinctively flinch, but my body won’t cooperate. Every limb feels heavy, like soaked cloth.
“Now that we’re finally alone,” he says, crouching in front of me, his eyes dark and gleaming with something twisted, “I can try something I’ve been dying to do.
” He smiles, wide and sickening. “Every damn time you walk around the house in those tight shorts… You don’t even know what kind of control it takes not to slip into your room at night and do it then. ”
I freeze. I know exactly what he means, and he knows I do.
The recognition must be all over my face, because his grin sharpens like a knife.
“There we go,” he whispers. “You get it now. So be a good boy and don’t struggle… unless you want me to strangle you.”
I barely have time to react before his hands are on my suit jacket, yanking at it roughly, trying to peel it off. Panic floods me like fire, sharp and all-consuming.
And somehow — somehow — my body chooses to fight. I push him with as much force as possible, and he stumbles back.
My legs wobble under me as I try to get up, my knees nearly giving out.
But Tim is stronger. Much stronger. He grips me like I weigh nothing and slams me back down.
This time, he does it with so much force that my head smashes against the side of the bench and then the wooden floor with a crack, pain detonating behind my eyes like a firework.
The world tilts violently.
Then the ringing starts again, but this time much louder.
It’s piercing — a shrill, glass-shattering whistle that burrows straight into my skull. I cry out, my voice so raw it makes my heart ache, hands flying to cover my ears, but it doesn’t help. The sound isn’t coming from the room; it’s coming from inside me.
Then the sound becomes muffled, like I’m underwater. My head pounds where it slammed against the floor, and the wood beneath me feels sticky with sweat, or maybe blood, I can’t tell anymore. I just know I’m spinning.
Tim’s face is suddenly above me—flushed, twisted, hungry. He’s talking, his lips moving fast, but the ringing in my ears drowns it all out. I can’t hear. I don’t want to.
His hands are on me again. Clumsy, fast, desperate. Yanking at my trousers. Fingers fumbling at buttons, trying to peel me apart.
I try to move, but everything is heavy. My limbs won’t obey, and my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. I can’t scream. I can’t even cry.
No
I feel it then, something deeper than fear, deeper than pain. It’s bitterness, outrage, and hatred. It claws its way up my spine like fire.
No, no more, I will not let him take this.
And then, somehow, I see it.
His knife.
It’s lying just a breath away, half-hidden in the dark crack between the floorboards and the bench—the knife he used to threaten me earlier.
Tim shifts, and just when he’s about to shrug off my slacks, I lunge.
My arm jerks forward, weak but desperate, my fingers curl around the base of the knife, and before I can think, I drive it into his shoulder; it sinks in deep.
His body jolts. His mouth opens wide, and this time, even through the muffle in my ear, I hear him.
A scream. Loud, raw, and real, that almost pulls a smile through my lips despite the pain in my head.
He scrambles off me, stumbling back like he’s been shot, clutching at his shoulder. The knife sticks to his shoulders like a reward for me, and his face twists into something I can’t name—confusion, pain, rage.
I don’t wait to see which one wins.
A relieved sound escapes me, and I push myself up, palms slipping on the floorboards. My muscles shake so bad I almost collapse again, but I drag myself upright.
My vision blurs, but I see red. Literally and figuratively. And then I see the bat.
The wooden baseball bat that’s leaning against the bench.
I don’t think. I move.
I stagger to it, fingers gripping around the handle, heavy and rough with old splinters. Tim groans from the floor, pushing up on his elbows.
His lips move, slurring something I can’t hear. Maybe it’s a threat. Maybe it’s a plea. It doesn’t matter.
I don’t care.
Because I’m already lifting the bat, already swinging, pouring every drop of rage, fear, and hatred into that motion.
The wood cracks against the side of his skull before he can fully rise. The sound cuts through the fog in my head, a thick, brutal crack that I feel in my chest. His body jerks sideways and slams to the floor with a heavy thud.
I hear a groan, wet and guttural. There’s blood on the bat now, on the floor, on him. It’s dark and smeared, and it only fuels something inside me. Not panic. Not regret.
Survival.
I drop the bat.
My hands tremble, but I climb on top of him anyway. My knees pin his sides. He’s dazed, half-conscious, blood leaking from his temple and painting his face in something that should make me sick. It doesn’t.
The knife is still lodged in his shoulder, the handle glinting like it’s daring me.
I grab it and yank it out.
Warm blood gushes over my fingers and down his clothes. It’s thick, slippery. He gasps—a gurgling sound that barely registers.
“Lucas—w-wait—” he chokes out.
But I’m not listening. Not anymore.
I don’t wait.
I use that same knife and stab him again.
It sinks into his stomach like it belongs there. His eyes bulge, and his mouth opens in a shocked, wet cry—blood pools on his lips.
And again
My arms shake from the effort, but I push down harder.
And again.
His body convulses, trying to fight, but it’s too late. It’s far too late.
Somewhere in the blur of movement and muffled sound, he’s groaning, struggling, but it all feels far away, like I’m watching someone else do it. Like I’m outside my own body.
His breathing hitches and slows.
His eyes are wide and frightened as I stare right back.
For a second, I think—I should feel something. Guilt. Horror. Something human.
But I don’t.
All I feel is… numb.
And alive.
My hands are stained with blood. His blood. It’s warm and tacky. My legs are shaking as I stand, knees knocking together. I look down.
Tim’s still alive. Barely.
He’s clutching at his stomach and choking on his own blood; it seeps between his fingers, pooling around him, soaking into the wooden floor. The light in his eyes flickers. It’s fading, dying.
And I feel nothing.
Just the sound of my own breath, shallow and jagged, and that constant muffling noise in my ears, like water trapped inside my skull.
Then—I see it.
A flicker of light outside the window.
Then another.
My body locks.
Two flashlights. Close. Moving. Getting closer.
I don’t move.
My limbs won’t work. My breath catches in my throat.
They’re coming back, Nate and the others.
My vision tightens, the edges going dark. My ears ring louder, pressure closing in like a noose.
I can’t move. I’m frozen.
They’re going to see me. They’re going to find me standing over him—blood on my hands, the knife still in his stomach.
Nate will kill me.
I’m going to die.
A whimper escapes my throat, small and raw. My knees threaten to buckle. My chest is heaving, lungs squeezing like they’ve forgotten how to work. My body is trembling, but I can’t do anything.
And then I hear Tyler’s voice.
Soft, sharp, terrified. Not real—but I hear it like he’s right beside me.
“Move, Lucas. Go. Now.”
My head snaps up.
“Move,” he says again, like he’s scared. I can hear it, as it clouds my pounding head.
And that’s what breaks me.
My limbs jerk back to life, clumsy, automatic. I stumble toward the back of the treehouse and come to a halt because there are no steps, just the balcony.
I blink through tears, through pain, through the chaos in my head. My jaw still burns. My throat still aches. I can barely stand.
I look down.
The drop is high. Too high for someone like me in this state.
I hesitate.
I can’t. I can’t—
But I feel their presence. They’re close. I feel it in my bones. In everything they did to me, their presence feels like a pain in my gut and almost makes bile rise to my throat.
Panic swells like a tidal wave, crashing over me.
I’m going to die here.
Tyler’s voice, again, loud and angry this time, fills my head, “JUMP!”
So I do.
The fall knocks the breath from my lungs. I hit hard, my ankle twisting with a sickening snap that sends white-hot pain tearing up my leg. I bite down on a scream, the taste of iron flooding my mouth, tears blurring everything.
But I don’t stop.
I limp. Stumble. Then run.
I run into the trees like a madman, all the survival instinct I have in me pushing me forward.