Page 21 of What’s Left of You (What Left #2)

“You’re not doing a very good job surviving,” Fake Porscha tells me.

I’ve successfully left the downstairs area since Real Porscha left the house. It took me a ridiculous amount of time to cut my way out, and her psychotic episode both helped and hindered me. I wanted a knife, but I could do without the bitch stabbing me.

My subconscious apparently wants to really fuck me over as Fake Porscha glares at me. “You gonna go find my daughter now? Romance Jo off her feet? How does that work after you’ve tried to kill her?”

“ You tried to kill her,” I snap, trying to focus on not falling over. Since I haven't used my legs in God knows how long, it’s difficult to stay upright. Weeks . My muscles protest the movement, but there’s no time for complaints when I need to get the hell out of here.

“Just trying to help,” Fake Porscha purrs, batting her eyelashes at me.

“If you really want to help, just go away.”

She shrugs and watches as I stumble forward, using the wall to steady myself.

I take a few more shambling steps, then glance back—but she’s gone.

I blink a few times, half-expecting Fake Porscha to reappear like she sometimes does.

But this time, she doesn’t. My eyes fix on the door behind me at the end of the hallway.

The room where Porscha kept me, where I’ve been trapped for what feels like years.

It took her a long time to finally leave today; I think her date with Artemis had her all keyed up, more so than usual.

As soon as she was gone, I worked the blade out of my leg.

It took longer than I wanted and it bled like a bitch.

It took even longer to get the knife turned around in my hand so I could hack through the bindings.

It made me think way too much of Jo and that fateful day in the cellar. It’s almost like Porscha is trying to repeat history, except I refuse to be her victim.

“Porscha?”

I never come to the cellar uninvited. It’s one of her rules; she’s always been very specific about what I’m doing and when.

But it’s been months since Emeric moved with our foster parents, and the lonesome feeling won’t let go of me.

Jo and Vinny are otherwise occupied right now, and I don’t want to bother them.

Porscha and I always have fun together. I don’t always like what we do, but she doesn’t make me explain myself. Porscha lets the psychopath in me breathe, and curbs the need to kill with blood and drugs. It might be unhealthy, but she’s the only vice I have anymore.

Well, besides Jo and Vinny. They all help to contain the madness in my head.

My foster parents didn’t get that, they still don’t, but now that I’m a ward of the state it doesn’t really matter.

They’re just coasting me through the last few months of the year so I can finish high school and be no one else’s problem but my own.

“Porscha!” I try again, pulling back the doors. I’m not worried about anyone hearing us; I saw zero cars on the walk over, and Porscha’s SUV is the only vehicle nearby. It’s three long blocks over like usual, but she’s the only car around.

“Shh!” she hisses, reaching for me as I step into the cellar. Her grip is surprisingly tight as she pulls me inside and we’re cloaked in the semi-darkness as the doors close again.

It’s then that I notice the person on her table. She brought someone here without me, a sheet thrown over the poor girl. Immediately, I take a step back and look at her.

There’s nothing in my system right now, nothing to cut the edge off of the wave of horror that washes over me.

Without the added courage, the idea of killing someone makes my stomach roll.

I need a boost to be up to the task. Usually if Porscha has someone beforehand she lets me know so I can make my way over.

We’re supposed to be in this together. I look at her accusingly but it doesn’t phase her.

She doesn’t miss a beat, angling her knife towards me. It’s a weak attempt, and considering this would be… what? Body fifteen? She’s not going to scare me with this BS. I know what it looks like when she goes for a kill.

“I told you,” I begin, holding up my hands. I might not be scared, but I’m not excited either. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Well,” she snarls, her bright green eyes like two marbles in the dim room, “You showed up uninvited. I tried to honor what you said yesterday, but you decided to come back here yourself. Now you’re part of this. No backing out. That’s the deal.”

I eye the body again. There’s a slight rise and fall of the sheet so whoever it is, they’re still alive. “Why is she covered?”

Porscha tenses, her grip on my arm never lessening. “Our deal, boy, is that once someone is picked, we follow through. Promise it.”

I glare at her, the unease growing. “Who is it, Porscha?”

“Promise,” she snarls.

“No, tell me who that is first. You’ve never hidden someone before.”

She drops my arm, jabbing the knife towards me like she’s actually going to stab me. This time I almost believe it. “Don’t question me! Promise that we’ll follow through, like always.”

My fingers twitch. I seriously don’t know if I could do it without drugs. Since the first kill, there’s always been drugs. Or was it number four when I started? I lick my lips before responding, keeping my gaze on Porscha. “Tell. Me. Who. It. Is.”

“You don’t get to question me,” she growls. “You’ve never walked in on me in the middle like this!”

I snort, shooting her a glare. “We both know that’s a lie.”

The moment I reach the bathroom, I tear through it in a frenzy.

There’s barely anything inside, but I manage to find some soap and water to clean the wound.

Porscha stripped me down at some point after we got here, so the only thing in the way now is my boxers.

I grit my teeth and push the fabric up, wincing as I try to get a better look at the damage.

I poke at the wound. It’s not bleeding as much as it was in the beginning but it hasn’t clotted yet, either, and it hurts like hell. I hope it’s not deep enough that I actually need stitches.

“You need to make a plan,” Fake Porscha tells me, suddenly appearing next to me. “You need to be long gone when she returns.”

“If she’s meeting a friend and they aren’t imaginary like some people I know, she should be gone for a while.” The apparition has the audacity to look annoyed. “I need to see where we are.”

“You need clothes,” she points out. “The boxers are hot, but not helpful.”

“Better than a prison jumpsuit,” I hiss.

But Fake Porscha is right. I peered out the window at the top of the stairs when I managed to drag myself out of the basement, and it didn't look like we’re in town.

I didn’t even see her car outside, the one she got all excited about when we were still running from the prison.

My legs protested once I started moving, dragging myself around after laying down for weeks, and everything still hurts from where I tore out all the medical equipment.

The IV, the catheter, all of it was painful to remove, but I don’t think I’ll ever look at a hospital bed the same again.

Fake Porscha clicks her tongue. “You’re not in great condition.”

“I haven’t walked in six or seven weeks and my hydration was mostly handled through the fucking IV,” I snap.

Her voice sounds like it’s coming from behind my shoulder, but when I look into the mirror, there’s no one there.

I keep talking anyway. “I need to eat, but not too much that it makes me sick. Bandage the wound best I can. Clothes are a definite must. Then I’m taking all her shit and getting the fuck out of here. ”

Instead of responding, she starts to hum somewhere nearby, so maybe my brain is agreeing with me for once.

I choose not to question it, hastily wrapping the wound with a clumsy bandage job.

Then I gather up all the extra supplies I think I can manage to carry and begin the slow, painful trek out of the bathroom.

I catch my reflection in a mirror as I’m leaving the room. There are heavy bags under my eyes and the skin on my face, a horrid ashy color, droops. I look like a drug addict except I don’t get to enjoy the high that would numb the throbbing pain in my leg.

I’m also nearly naked—and as surprised as I am that I haven’t lost more muscle mass, I still look like an absolute lunatic: bleeding leg, standing in a rundown bathroom, wearing nothing but boxers.

There are people out there looking for me, and the second anyone catches sight of me like this, I’ll stand out like a flare in the dark.

“Clothes,” Fake Porscha reminds me. I can only nod in agreement. I don’t know why Porscha would even have clothes my size, but I’ll look. Even just a coat would help.

If all else fails I’d take back my prison jumpsuit over walking around like this.

I didn’t see any neighbors when I first looked out from the top of the stairs, and the bathroom window is tinted too dark to see much of anything.

I turn with my bundle of supplies and head onward through the strange little house, hoping Real Porscha doesn’t walk through the door anytime soon.

I know if I didn’t have a stab wound and six-plus weeks of lying tied to a bed working against me, I could take her easily. But she’s erratic and unpredictable – I find myself hoping that something will happen to her on her outing that will keep her away.

The door at the end of the hall isn’t locked, which is nice. It swings open easily, and I barely step in before my feet skid to a halt. This is a bedroom, but it looks like someone pulled it out of a horror movie.

There’s an old bed up against the far wall but it’s only an old rusty metal frame and a discolored mattress.

Dark stains mar one whole side and it’s no secret to me what made them.

I’ve seen enough dead bodies to know what blood looks like, even old blood.

There are no sheets and I wonder if they were used to roll the body in for transport or even burial.