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Chapter 7

The next few hours were a blur. One minute turned into the next which turned into the next. I remained motionless as my father’s security arrived at the medical center, guns drawn.

The boys moved into a protective circle around me. I was too weak, too numb, to tell them that they didn’t need to baby me.

But, maybe I did. After all, I could barely stand on my own two feet without collapsing. The only thing that kept me upright was Ronan’s hand around my waist. It was both a mental comfort and a physical one. I was sure I would’ve fallen face first if he hadn’t been there to hold me up.

My heart beat erratically as the body was removed and questions were asked. I don’t remember what I said. Probably something stupid like “Buttlicker”.

The doctors arrived shortly after the security. I didn’t recognize them, but from the way they surrounded my father, I reasoned they must’ve worked for him. I was put into a room separate from the males, and the lady doctor asked me to strip off my clothes.

I felt immensely relieved that it wasn’t some pervy old male attempting to cop a feel. That had happened to me once. Apparently, Dr. Johnson wasn’t a real doctor.

After I washed off the blood, the lady doctor, who didn’t provide her name, searched me for any injuries. She poked and prodded me to the point that I wondered if I had been abducted by aliens. She rebandaged my arms, her brow furrowing with something akin to disapproval, but did not comment on the red, raised skin.

When she finally dismissed me, I saw Ryder sitting in the waiting room, playing on his phone.

“How are you doing?” he asked when he saw me emerge. I was still dressed only in a hospital gown, the flimsy material doing very little to cover my body, yet I didn’t feel sexualized in any way (surprising, consider that this was Ryder). A look of tender anxiety softened his handsome face.

“Usually I like stuff in my butt,” I deadpanned. When Ryder began choking on his own spit, I added, “Too much?”

Despite my light words, I couldn’t erase the image of Buttlicker in my mind. For some reason, it occurred to me that I didn’t know his real name. I didn’t know if it made me a horrible person or a sane one when I realized that I didn’t want to know.

In my mind, I saw his eyes, the whites surrounding a red abyss. The feral snarl marring his features. The black, almost inky, blood pooling around him.

Had he felt any pain when he died? I imagined that his death hadn’t been pleasant. He had been stabbed and, evidently, shot. How long had he been alive before death finally claimed him?

Ronan assured me it wasn’t my fault, but that didn’t stop the guilt. It felt pronounced and all-consuming, as if something heavy was pressing on my chest.

Suffocating me.

Was this what it felt like to be buried alive? Was there any relief?

One part of my mind scoffed at that word. Relief. No matter what Ronan said, I stabbed a man and, unintentionally or not, killed him. A life had been cut short because of me. Did I deserve relief? No.

I caused Ducky’s death and now Buttlicker’s. I deserved whatever punishment the universe wished to inflict upon me.

I got separated from the guys once again sometime during the interrogation. That was okay. I didn’t deserve their friendship or their comfort.

No outside help came during the investigation. There were no police, no doctors besides my dad’s hired staff, no FBI.

The conclusion they came to was simple: ecstasy. He had been on drugs, they told me, and wasn’t in his right mind. I had questioned whether ecstasy could cause black marks on faces, cracks throughout skin, or blood red eyes. They had just exchanged wary glances before assuring me again that everything had been handled.

Hours later, I found myself sprawled across my bed. My eyes were heavy, but I found that only nightmares greeted me when I slept. It was beginning to get difficult to discern between reality and fantasy; both were hell.

I barely flinched when I heard footsteps pounding through my kitchen, heading towards my bedroom. When my door slammed against the wall, I didn’t even blink.

You deserve this, a sly voice whispered inside my head.Murderer.

Ducky’s face flashed through my head, and I stifled a sob. I was beginning to see his face everywhere again.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” Dad demanded. Before I could even speak, he grabbed my foot and pulled me from the bed. My body clunked against the rail, head turning at an unnatural angle. Pain. I felt the pain. It broke through the hazy sheen like tiny, penetrating needles. More. I needed more.

“Stupid!” Punch. “Bitch!”

His hand fisted in my hair, pulling it back. The pressure made me whimper, but I quickly tried to keep it contained. My body ached everywhere - my back hurt from yesterday, my cheekbones stung, my scalp felt as if it were on fire (ironic, considering it was my back that had gotten burnt).

“He attacked me,” I managed to wheeze out between kicks to my stomach. From the darkening of his eyes, I realized that was the incorrect thing to say. In his eyes, the man couldn’t do anything wrong. It was my fault.