Page 57 of Almost Ravaged

Almostis the antithesis of hope.

We almost had it all.

But almost will never be enough.

Chapter twenty-one

Tytus

“Sawyer, I swear to god.”

I jog a few feet to catch up and loop an arm around her waist, tugging her to the opposite edge of the sidewalk.

“You’re too close to the goddamn road,” I scold.

She giggles, the soft sound making my dick twitch with interest, and slinks out of my hold, resuming her silly game of pretending the line where the sidewalk meets the grass is a balance beam.

Atty falls in step, side-eyeing me. “She’s fine, bro. Why are you so worried?”

Because that’s who I am. Because worrying is what I do. Because we’ve all had several drinks. And I can’t help but wince every time her steps fall out of rhythm and she stumbles. Because I’m going out of my goddamn mind imagining her staggering into oncoming traffic, terrified that I won’t get to her in time.

I can’t look at the road beside us without seeing her mangled body lying in a pool of blood, her limbs twisted at unnatural angles.

“She’s drunk,” I reply, keeping my tone even.

Attysnorts. “We all are.”

No shit, and I’ve regretted my participation for the last hour. I scrub my hands down my face to keep from screaming.

Had I not been intoxicated, I may not have reacted so poorly to the loud noise that tore us apart back at Mae’s.

I had her. I fucking had her.

She was in my arms, leaning against me, tilting her head back, practically begging to be kissed.

But then some fucker knocked over a barstool.

The crash triggered a visceral response, just like loud noises always do, forcing my limbs to go numb and my brain to lock up. It was only seconds, but it was enough to ruin the moment.

That single noise sent me back to a time I work so hard to forget.

Small, naked, cold, and fucking starving.

Trapped in the recesses of my mind.

Locked in a goddamn cage.

I was back in the dog crate my dad put me in any time I did something he didn’t like. Or got in his way. Or just because he felt like it. I learned early on to make as little noise as possible. He kept blankets over the crate to block out the light. A blessing, really, since he was less likely to notice me.

If I whimpered or cried out, he’d come back. He’d rattle the crate. Turn it on its side so I was forced to lie against metal grates.

The only way out was to wait until he decided I could be free.

I learned early on to stay quiet.

He put me in there because I was a piece of shit he didn’t want to deal with. Reminding him of my existence only meant he’d leave me there longer.

I rarely lock up like that anymore. I never freeze up on the ice. But one crash, a loud boom, or flash of unexpected stimuli, and I’m seven years old, being shoved into that goddamn cage.