Page 14

THIRTEEN

MORALS

SLOW DOWN: THE ACADEMY IS...

FIVE

T he click of the doorknob jolts me upright on the couch. Half-asleep, I grab my gun, instinctively bringing it to a ready position. Luckily for Ash, I don't shoot him as he slips silently into the apartment. Even in the dim light, I see the terror and shame etched on his face—a clear sign that something terrible has happened.

"Whoa, easy, Five," he whispers, his hands raised in mock surrender.

I lower the weapon, engaging the safety, and place it on the couch. Rubbing my eyes, I'm fucking stunned by his arrival, especially since none of us knew he'd been released from the hospital.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I ask, my throat dry. I walk to the kitchen for a drink, returning with a gallon of milk, which I gulp down directly from the container. "When the fuck were you discharged?"

"Earlier. I had things to do," he mumbles, avoiding my gaze. "But I need your help."

He gestures towards the balcony as I return the milk to the refrigerator. He retrieves something from the silverware drawer—a stash of pills—and swallows a handful without checking to see what they are before heading out onto the balcony.

Fuck, he's already back on the drugs .

A sigh escapes my lips. I know, with sickening certainty, that he fucked up badly and is now consumed by regret. The thought of another suicide attempt sends a wave of dread through me, my mind racing with the countless possibilities.

I roll a joint and throw on a hoodie, joining him outside. The cool night air envelops us like a blanket, protecting us from the darkness that was about to kick us in the ass. He leans against the railing, smoking a cigarette, his gaze fixed on the city lights below. I stand beside him, resting my elbows on the railing, choosing to look up at the starlit sky.

"How bad is it?" I finally ask, breaking the heavy silence.

His demeanor and tone speak volumes; even without him looking at me, I can tell his pain is far worse than any before.

"Shit. Pretty fucking bad," Ash admits, taking a long drag of his cigarette, delaying the inevitable.

"What did you fucking do, Ash? And what the hell do you need my help with?" I growl, hurt by his return to drugs.

He sighs heavily, a strange calmness settling over his features. "I need you to get rid of a car for me. And I need it done like fucking yesterday."

"Talk to me, Ash. Tell me what's going on," I urge, sensing he's withholding something significant.

"I killed a girl about an hour ago," he blurts out.

My jaw drops. Time seems to stop. His confession is delivered with an unnerving calmness, even a hint of a fucking smile. I, on the other hand, am fucking reeling, trying to process the enormity of his statement.

"Fuck, Ash," I whisper, finally looking down at the vibrant city below, unsure how to react. "Where? Why? What the hell, Ash?" I run a hand through my hair, taking the longest, deepest drag of my joint.

"It was the nurse from my room. I felt this overwhelming rage, a need to unleash it," he explains, pausing. "If I'd taken it out on Cali, something terrible would have fucking happened. I didn't want to hurt her. But the nurse... I couldn't stop myself." He hangs his head, giving me a moment to absorb his words.

"Jesus, Ash," I breathe. I'm fucking speechless.

"She offered me a ride home. We ended up at a park," his eyes glazed over as he continues. "I… I fucked her, and then I stabbed her... and then fucked her a little more until she fucking died. Then I set her on fire and watched her burn." He speaks of it as if it were an ordinary event.

I stare at him as he looks away, a chilling smile twisting his lips. But when his gaze meets mine again, the worry and shame return to his eyes, confirming his regret. His concern for Calista is evident, understandable, yet overshadowed by the horrifying act he committed.

A cold dread seeps into my bones, heavier than the night air. The city lights blur, shimmering like a distorted reflection of the horror he just confessed. My mind, usually quick and sharp, feels sluggish, struggling to process the sheer brutality of his actions. He fucking killed someone. Not just killed, but… the details were fucking sickening, the casualness of his recounting even more so.

“Where’s the car?” I finally manage, my voice a rough rasp.

The joint feels like ash in my mouth; the taste bitter and metallic. He points towards the parking garage up a block, across the street.

“Black sedan. License plate… I’ll text it to you.” He pulls out his phone, his fingers surprisingly steady.

I watch him, a storm brewing inside me. Anger, fear, revulsion—they fight within me, a chaotic symphony of emotions. This isn’t just about getting rid of a car or taking out another pedophile; this is about an innocent life, a horrifically extinguished life. And Ash, my friend, is responsible and seemingly proud of his actions.

“Ash,” I say, my voice low and dangerous, “you understand this isn’t just about getting rid of a car, right? This is... this is fucking murder .”

He nods, his gaze fixed on the flickering screen of his phone. The calmness is gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness that chills me to the core. He types the license plate number; his movements mechanical, almost robotic.

“I know,” he whispers, his voice barely audible above the city’s hum. “I couldn't help it.”

The text message arrives—a bold, cold string of alphanumeric characters. I shove my phone back into my pocket, the chill of the night suddenly biting deeper. The city lights, once a comforting distraction, now feel like mocking eyes, witnesses to the unspeakable. Ash stands beside me, a statue carved from guilt and something else—something colder, harder. A detachment that terrifies me more than his confession.

"We need to move," I say, my voice tight.

The casualness of his actions, the almost clinical description of the murder… it's a disconnect I can't fucking comprehend. It's like he's describing a particularly unpleasant chore, not the brutal end of a human life.

He doesn't respond, just continues to stare at the city, his face devoid of expression. I take a step towards him, the joint forgotten in my hand. The smell of burning weed is suddenly nauseating.

"Ash," I say again, my voice harsher this time, "look at me."

He slowly turns, his eyes meeting mine. There's a flicker of something in their depths—fear? Regret? Or is it something else entirely? Something that makes my blood run cold. It's a look that suggests a complete severing from reality, a descent into a darkness I'm not sure I can pull him back from.

"We're going to get rid of the car," I say, my voice firm, trying to project an authority I don't feel. "Then we're going to fucking forget this shit ever happened. You understand that, right?"

He nods, a slow, almost imperceptible movement. But the emptiness in his eyes remains, a vast, echoing void. The calmness is gone, replaced by something far more unsettling: a chilling vacancy. The thought of him facing justice and the consequences of his actions, doesn't seem to register. He's already somewhere else, lost in the labyrinth of his own mind.

We walk in silence towards the parking garage, the city a silent, indifferent observer to our grim procession. The night air feels heavy, thick with the unspoken, the unfathomable.

I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that getting rid of the car is only the beginning. The real horror, the true reckoning, is yet to come. And I have no idea how to face it, how to navigate the treacherous path ahead, with a friend who has become a stranger—a killer who seems utterly devoid of remorse. The weight of his actions, and the responsibility that now falls upon me, threaten to crush me. The city lights blur again, this time not from horror, but from the sheer, overwhelming exhaustion of facing the impossible.

By the time we get back to the apartment, I notice Cali's light is now off, unlike it was when we left. Just like the entire ride to Everett to drop the car at a buddy's chop shop, we walk up the stairs in silence, not knowing what to say to each other.

I didn't have an issue with them killing the ones who fucking deserved it—the sickos out there who ruin people's lives, but Ash crossed a line when he killed an innocent, and honestly, I don't know if things will ever be the same between us after this.

Expecting everyone to be asleep, my heart leaps to the floor as I open the door and practically collide with Calista, standing with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face, wearing one of Ash's favorite shirts.

"Where the fuck have you two been? And fuck, when did you get out of the hospital? We've all been waiting for you to call and never heard a fucking word," she sneers, clearly livid, but I can't tell if it's at both of us or just Ash.

"I've had a long, rough night, Cali. Can we talk in the morning?" Ash asks, defeat lacing his soft tone. "I promise I'll tell you everything."

"Fine, let's get some sleep, but I expect you to keep your fucking word, Ash. We didn't go through fucking hell and back just to drift apart over some bullshit." She leans in and kisses my cheek, flashing a small smile as she locks her fingers around Ash's wrist, pulling him with her as she walks away, disappearing down the dark hallway.

I collapse on the couch, sitting in the dark. The only light is the flicker of my zippo as I use the flame to spark another joint, needing to relax so I can get some fucking sleep. I lean my head against the top of the couch, my mind running a fucking muck.

Did I get myself in way over my fucking head when I joined them in their fight for justice?