Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
Emilia
There’s a sharp knock on the door the next evening. Claudia jolts beside me, and Jordan’s brow furrows. He’s on his feet before I can react.
A flicker of impossible hope sparks in my chest, a prayer that the State might admit they made a mistake. That it’s Zac at the door, bloodied and beaten, but alive. Not imprisoned for the next twenty-nine days.
“What?” Jordan barks. From the sofa, I lean forward to see. A lanky teenage boy with wiry glasses stands on the street, eyes darting between us, terrified.
“I... I’m just here to deliver this,” he stutters. “One for every household.” He holds out a sheet of paper, hand trembling. Jordan snatches it and slams the door so hard that the walls shake.
“What is it?” Claudia asks, rising from the sofa.
Jordan stares down at the page. His jaw tightens, and his knuckles whiten.
“Jordan?” she presses.
“Fucking assholes,” he snaps, tearing at the paper.
“Stop!” I lunge forward, ripping it away before he can destroy it. My eyes dart across the page, and my stomach twists.
Grainy mugshot photos of Zac and Kayla stare back at me, both faces swollen and bruised. Beneath it, there’s a description of the trial, warning people about the consequences of breaking the law.
“They’re using them as propaganda?” Claudia’s voice is laced with disbelief, hand slapping over her mouth. “I’m going to be sick!” She bolts upstairs.
I can’t move, can’t tear my eyes away. My finger smooths the creases across Zac’s face, as if doing so might save him.
“I need a walk,” Jordan mutters, storming out. The door slams behind him.
My eyes drift to the final words, only a few sinking in:
‘Committed the worst of crimes,’
‘Will suffer the consequences of their actions,’
‘Their punishments won’t be taken lightly.’
I fold the paper so that only their faces remain visible. Despite the nausea swirling in my gut, I set it gently on the mantelpiece. It’s all I have left of them. I want to see them every day, even if it is like this.
Above it, in the mirror, a sad, hopeless girl stares back at me. A small nick in the centre distorts my image. Reaching up, I trace the chip with my fingertip, letting the roughness bite into my skin. The girl who made that mark when she threw her key had no idea what was coming her way.
Even if she should have expected the worst.
My hand drops and I take a step back, stumbling into the kitchen. Behind my eyelids, Zac and Kayla keep flashing, bloodied and broken, over and over again. I need it to stop, need something to numb the images in my head, even if it’s only for the rest of the day.
I open the cupboard under the sink, quickly finding the vodka Rayden brought for before the trial. Twisting the lid off, I lift it to my lips.
Are they still alive? Tortured so brutally that they wish they were dead?
These days it’s weaker than it used to be, but the alcohol still burns, searing my throat, and I keep going, gulping it back until I can’t feel the fire anymore.
I haven’t done this since I was a moody eighteen-year-old, on the eve of my birthday, when I found out I was destined for farmwork the rest of my life.
Within five minutes, the bottle is empty. I hurl it at the bin, watching as it clangs off the rim and rolls onto the floor.
“Emilia?” Claudia calls from upstairs.
“Sorry!” I croak. “I just dropped something.” I shove the bottle in the bin and lean back against the wall. My eyes close. The drink hasn’t numbed a fucking thing. It’s not enough.
I need more.
The sound of the toilet flushing upstairs spurs me into action. Claudia will be back any second, and she’ll stop me. Hauling my boots onto my feet, I launch myself out the back door and through the back gate into the alleyway behind.
I walk along the back of the terraced houses and once I’m a safe distance away, turn back onto the street. First house on the left. I don’t hesitate. My hand pounds against the door before coiling into a fist and continuing. Once. Twice. Three times—
The door swings open.
Nina’s glare could make a normal human fall to the ground, dead. Unfortunately for her, I’m already intoxicated. “What the fuck do you want?” she snaps.
“I’m not here for you,” I retort, pushing past her into their homely living room.
Goddamn, it’s different. Orange rug. Soft, yellow cushions. Red curtains. Couple of china dolls on the sofa. Look at Rayden, living in domestic bliss.
I scoff, tearing my gaze back to the bitch. “Where is he?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Nora, Nicole, Nolan… whatever you are. I’m not here to fuck him.”
“What’s going on?” a voice calls from upstairs.
My lips stretch into a fake, smug smile, and Nina sneers at me.
Rayden appears, towel slung low around his hips, bare chest and solid abs gleaming in the low light.
I raise a brow. The sight’s familiar, almost comforting.
Somehow, though, my body doesn’t react the way it used to, the way it does with Zac…
But Nina doesn’t need to know that.
I smirk, letting my eyes trail over his muscles. “Looking good, Ray. I’m glad I stopped by.”
“You little—”
“Nina,” Rayden interrupts, sliding in front of her with his arm outstretched over her chest. I cock my head, smirk still in play.
“Seriously?” she snaps.
“What do you want, Mils?” Rayden asks.
“I can’t just stop by to say hello?” I say sweetly. Nina steps closer to her husband. “Alright. I need you to hook me up.”
“What?”
“I don’t have any alcohol. I’d just like a little.”
He frowns, and Nina scoffs, shaking her head. “I could report you for that—”
“And then they’d find out that your husband is the one responsible, Nolan, and you’d end up in prison,” I snap. “So shut the fuck up.”
She glowers at me, crossing her arms over her orange tee, and I turn my attention back to Ray. “Please?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says quietly.
“Well, there’s your answer, Milly,” Nina snaps, her hand coiling around his bicep.
I roll my eyes. “Shut up,” I retort. “Jealousy is a terrible look.”
“I’m not—”
“Has he played the body shot game with you yet?” I press, tilting my head. “Used to be one of our favourites.”
Her face reddens, and I pout.
“No? That’s a shame!”
“Enough!” Rayden snaps. “Nina, there’s nothing going on here. Let me deal with this.”
“You’ll regret this,” she snaps at me, ignoring him.
“No, I won’t.” I look back at Rayden. “Now, seriously, Claudia wants to play a drinking game.”
He eyes me warily. “She does?”
“Yeah. Apparently, it’ll keep my mind off things.”
“You know what else would do that—”
“Shut up,” Rayden cuts his wife off, wrenching his arm from her hold and using it to point a singular finger towards me. “Fine. But if you’re lying, you’re cut off, Mils.”
“Makes sense,” I mutter.
“Stay here,” he says to Nina, before nodding at me to follow. I give her another fake smile on my way past and am impressed by the restraint she shows by not pulling my hair.
I follow him out to the garden, swaying a little. He opens the tiny shed that takes up half the yard, lifts a loose board, and pulls out a hidden bottle of gin.
“Thank you,” I say, voice breathless.
He frowns, holding the bottle against his chest. “Why are you trying to cause shit?” Rayden asks. “With Nina?” I shrug. “She’s just insecure. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Whatever you say, Ray,” I reply.
He’s still frowning but slowly hands over the alcohol. “Here,” he says. “But this is it, Mils. Don’t make it a habit.”
I grin, leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “I won’t.”
His nose wrinkles, and he pulls back. “Have you already been drinking?”
“Bye, Ray,” I blurt, quickly diving out of the shed and through the back gate.
“Mils! Come back,” he shouts, but I’m already gone, halfway down the alley, giggling to myself, even as I stumble. I’m such a good runaway.
I avoid the rest of the street, instead making my way down a war-wrecked road towards the husk that used to be the shopping centre, taking long, burning gulps from the bottle as I go.
The world tilts. Everything’s blurred. Softer. Calmer.
There’s nowhere in Nottingham that makes me happy. Not anymore. Nowhere that isn’t tainted by the State or the Enforcers. I wish I’d died in the war. At least, then, I’d be free from this utter shitstorm.
I lift the bottle again and miss my mouth. Alcohol spills down my chin, dripping onto my pink top.
I just giggle, stumbling into a pile of rubble.
The bottle lies beside me, drained. Empty.
Flat on my back, I force myself to feel every ache, every burst of pain as the pebbles dig into the black bruise on my spine. The ache reminds me that I’m still here. That I’m doing better than Zac and Kayla.
Above me, the sky stretches wide and endless. The stars aren’t that bright tonight, with clouds covering Lyra.
Cassiopeia, though, shines through, and a smile tugs at my lips as I think of Zac.
I wonder if he can see it, too. Wherever he is.
Maybe they let them outside sometimes. Maybe he’s lying on some slab of concrete, head tilted towards the same patch of sky, tracing the same constellations with his eyes.
Unless they’re always outside. Sleeping in cages under the night sky, the stars his only company. I picture him there—bruised and cold, hands cuffed, eyes searching the sky. Maybe he’s looking for Lyra.
My lungs tighten until they hurt.
I’ve never met someone who’s come back from Killmoor. No one.
Sometimes I think it’s best that I don’t know what it’s like. Whatever the answer is, it’s hardly going to be a relief, and if I knew—if I really knew what he was enduring—it might break me entirely.
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes until I see stars. A tear slips free and runs into my hair. Above, Cassiopeia still gleams, shining strong and proud through the clouds.