Chapter 2
Quill
“Hey!”
Piper turns, and I can tell her face has grown several shades paler, despite the bruises that coat her skin.
But I don’t give her a chance to react beyond that.
My hand flies to her neck and I slam her back against the lockers, far harder than I mean to.
In fact, I don’t mean to slam her back at all.
I don’t mean to do anything, really, but apologize, because the bruises on her face seem to serve as confirmation of the monstrous thing I must have done last night.
I came home with bloodied hands, and I spent the next few hours spiraling, wondering if I had finally followed through on my urge.
It was all I could do to show up at school today, wondering how I was ever going to enter that classroom and allow my eyes to fall on her chair. Would it be empty? Because of me? Because I… killed her?
The thought was unbearable. I didn’t care, I shouldn’t care, there was no reason to. And yet, I suddenly realized, when my eyes fell on the very bruised, yet very present, face of Piper Day, how inexplicably entwined our lives are.
Had she been dead, I would have gone straight home and shot myself with the gun Dad gave me for training.
Why the hell would I end my life over a girl whose guts I hate? There’s no explanation for it, and yet, it’s the undeniable truth.
She’s okay, and that means I am too.
Only she’s not. She’s hurt. I must have attacked her last night when I was blacked out. I spend my days at high school making her life hell, because it somehow quiets my dark urge. But I’ve never yet crossed the line to real physical violence.
I should be grovelling at her feet, begging for forgiveness.
But I don’t know how to do that. Instead, I stand stiffly in front of her, pinning her to the lockers, my hand wrapped around her neck, squeezing very lightly.
It’s dangerous. Horribly dangerous. Just a bit more pressure, and I could snap her neck. I grit my teeth with the effort of not doing that.
She stares at me in frozen shock. “Please, Quill… please…” Her voice comes out in a husky whisper, very different from her usual high-pitched squeaky tones.
“Yo.” Liam’s snivelly voice behind me actually makes me apply a tiny bit more pressure, and she opens her mouth a few times, trying and failing to speak. Which at first feels like a miracle. If there’s anything more annoying than her, it’s her voice.
But if she can’t even speak, that means I must be applying too much pressure. I should stop. I really should stop. But how? It’s like my brain is broken, and I can’t figure out a way to not squeeze her neck.
“You should probably, like, not kill her, man,” says Liam. “Why don’t you just… undress her or shove her head in the toilet or something? But, uhm, strangling her is like… not cool, man.”
I’m not sure what it says about me that I wouldn’t think twice about killing the guy who’s supposed to be my best friend.
But when Liam says even one word about Piper—regardless of the nature of that word—it’s all I can do to not kill him.
The only reason I don’t is because I can’t be bothered to deal with the shitshow that would inevitably follow.
So instead of turning around and ending his pathetic life, I apply even more pressure to Piper’s neck.
“Shut up, Liam. Quill, listen to me.”
Dane’s clear, calm voice brings me back to reality.
“You’re hurting her.”
I am. The sudden realization of what I’ve been doing is like a gut punch, and I let her go. She falls to the ground, gasping loudly.
“Screw you!” she squeaks out as soon as she’s gained her incredibly annoying voice back. “I didn’t do anything to you! You freaking psychopath! Haven’t you already hurt me enough?”
Yes, I have. I hurt her. I crossed the line last night, and hurt her. And now, instead of apologizing, I’ve nearly killed her.
I have no right to be anywhere near her. I have no right to be anywhere. I should go home and lock the door and never leave my room again.
But that would mean not seeing her, and that feels even more intolerable than… well, seeing her.
So instead I stand still, watching her wheezing for breath and gagging on all fours. At last she musters up the strength to stand up, and then, she shoves my chest as hard as she can with both of her hands.
“I hate you,” she screams. “I hate you!”
I grab her left wrist, and she stops talking at once, her anger melting, replaced by actual fear.
I terrorize this girl.
Usually, that knowledge makes me weirdly hard. But right now, the only thing I’m feeling is guilt. All-consuming guilt.
I have no idea how to handle that guilt. I’m at a loss. I’ve gotten a lot better at speaking in high school, but right now, under the weight of my emotions, all I can do is stare at her. And yet she flits her eyes down, as though my stare frightens her far more than the rest.
“I’m sorry, Quill,” she stammers.
Why the hell is she apologizing? She hasn’t done a thing. I’m the one who’s a monster.
“I’m sorry. Please let me go.”
And, at last, I do.
_
“What the hell, man? That was awesome!”
“Liam.”
“I mean… it was cool. It was fine. Obviously, you would never have actually, well, killed her. It’s just that…”
“Liam!”
Dane has always understood me far better than Liam.
I’m aware they’re both scared of me, just like everyone else is.
But whereas Liam has dealt with that fear by turning into a yes man, Dane seems to have a bit more sense.
Especially where Piper is concerned. I have patience for just about anything except hearing her name in another person’s mouth. That’s enough to turn me homicidal.
“Where is she?” I growl.
We’ve just walked into history class, and my eyes scan the room for her. She’s not in her usual seat, and disappointment mingles with anger and anxiety, as I wonder if I’m the reason for her absence. And as I realize it means I’m going to have to spend one full hour without her.
What a fucking psycho I am.
“Where is she?” I insist, my voice hard.
“She…” Dane licks his lips nervously. He must realize that talking about Piper, even when it’s in direct answer to a question, is risky. “She went home.”
“Why?”
“Well… I saw that she had some bruises, so I guess she got injured.” I sense him side-eye me, as if he’s wondering whether I’m responsible for that. “And with what happened earlier…” He clears his throat uncomfortably. “I guess she decided to go home.”
I turn around immediately.
“Uhm… Quill? Where are you going?” asks Liam.
“Out.”
“But we have class!”
I merely shrug and leave the room. What’s the point of history without her? What’s the point of anything?
I leave the building, find the motorcycle parked by the sidewalk, and drive away in a cloud of dust. I don’t hesitate about the direction to take. There’s only one place she would go. There’s only one place she could go.
To her bedroom, with its books littering every inch of her floor and bed. I’ve spent enough time watching her to know that she looks to books for comfort. I can just imagine her lying on her bed, her nose stuck in a book, wiggling her butt to find just the right position—
No, stop. Don’t think of that now.
I have no idea when I started getting hard at the thought of her. Well, not her. At certain things she does. Like when she wiggles her butt while lying on her stomach in bed. Or cries, her face blotchy red, after I’ve stuffed her head in the toilet.
Not that I’ve done that in a long time. These days I stick to more verbal forms of bullying.
Maybe I should get more inventive. Maybe that’s why I’ve been blacking out. Maybe my urge is getting out of control, and I need to be more cruel. Bullying her has always helped before, but now, somehow, it doesn’t seem to be enough.
I park the bike and stalk to her house with murder on my mind. My hands fist at my sides, and I stop by the tree by her window, breathing hard. Maybe I should just climb up there now… just put my hands around her neck… just… just get it over with…
No!
Suddenly, through the haze of my seething anger, I hear a loud hiccupy sound. Then another one. I lift my eyes up, and through the window, I see her lying on the bed. Only she’s not reading. Her head is in her hands, and I realize… she must be crying.
The tears have a strange effect on me. I creep closer to the side of the house, leaning my head against the shingles. I suddenly feel cold. So cold. I rub a circular, insistent pattern on the wall, but the rough material doesn’t calm me. It’s like I’m on the outside, looking in, utterly helpless.
Helpless to comfort her.
Helpless to understand why I’d even want to.
Helpless to do anything but watch as my world spirals out of control.