Page 27 of Hide From Me

It's not the wear and tear from the week that I see staring back at me; it's something worse, something that only surfaces when my little ray of sunshine is around.

It's that damn smile.

Too wide. Too white. Tooreal.

The one people try to draw out of me, the one that's all too rare.

I should never have walked into that worn-down building that day. I should never have looked at the woman who gave birth to me as she smiled with a knife pressed firmly to Cordelia’s throat. I should never have studied the creases at the corners of my grandfather’s face as he demanded I look at the woman who was supposed to love me most in the world, sprawled out on the floor after Caspian shot her.

It’s their smile.

Before I can stop myself, my fist slams into the glass.

Crack.

It fractures under the impact.

Crack.

Shards hit the sink.

Crack.

Blood mixes with the reflective shards like a warning, but I keep going until the mirror’s a mess of silver splinters and my knuckles are split open.

I hate that smile.

I never asked to be this way but maybe it’s justinme–encoded into my DNA like some haywire virus.

Maybe there’s no fixing what I am.

“This is rude, especially from you, Moe!” Sharkie screams, pulling me from my thoughts. I shake my head as I look at the mess I've created. Panic.

“Shit!” I mutter through uneven breaths, frantically wiping up as much of the glass from the counter as I can, sending pieces to the floor.

How long has she been out there? How much did she hear?

I scramble, heart hammering, and swipe the blood into the sink as quickly as I can. The faucet rushes over my busted knuckles, stinging like hell. I try to nudge the worst of the glass under my towel with my foot.

It’s a useless effort.

“Uh–J-Just a minute,” I rasp, still breathless.

Pathetic. I’m a grown man having a panic attack over my own reflection.

God, this proves it—I’m so out of my mind that I should be committed to an institution, yet everyone lets me walk free like a lost puppy.

Rushing out of the bathroom, I slam the door behind me and quickly pull on a pair of jeans and a black shirt, buttoning it haphazardly.

“I said hold on!” I snap, flinging the door open. Cordelia is already mid-eye roll, arms crossed, but her expression softens when she sees me. I try to play itoff with a smirk, leaning against the doorframe while gripping the handle at the back.

I know that looking like a mess right now won’t help my case—I definitely don’t want her running to Caspian to inform him that his brother is a complete psychopath. So, I count each drop of blood that beads on my knuckles, sure that it will stain the handle and the linoleum floor.

“Whoa,” she whistles. “Someone’s in a mood.”

“Sorry,” I push my damp hair back with my free hand. “Lost track of time.”

“I heard things got chaotic,” she says carefully, eyes flicking toward the bathroom. I shift to block her view, heartbeat still racing.