Chapter Thirty-Nine
Kane
Eleven Years Ago
I shut my headlights off as I pulled into the Sleepaway parking lot, and when I climbed out, I didn’t bother shutting my door all the way.
What was I doing? I just wanted to be with Helene. I could go to her place. That’s where I was supposed to be. She needed me there, and I needed me there too.
My feet had stopped moving, and I was standing there like a fucking idiot. I turned back to my truck, stuffing my hands in my pockets and even taking a step back toward it. My body ached, my lower back throbbed, and everything felt bruised inside and out. Every time I moved, I could feel the gash in my side seeping more blood, and I wanted to bathe as much as Hell had needed it.
I imagined going back to her. I was going to. I wanted to. I was going to touch her and hold her and do all the things she needed me to do and that I needed to do too. And tomorrow when we woke up … what? Would she ever be able to look at me again? Would I be able to look at her? Would she ever want me to touch her again? How were we supposed to go back to being friends?
I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering what I’d done to her less than two hours before. I’d raped her, forced to or not, I’d fucked my best friend against her will. She’d opened her eyes. She’d seen me doing it. She’d looked at me even. And I’d done nothing to stop it. I hadn’t even tried. I hadn’t refused to touch her. I hadn’t fought back. Instead, I’d cried like a baby and bent over like a bitch.
My hands were balled into fists by the time I opened my eyes again, and I turned back toward the hotel. The light in the one hotel room was still on, and I walked up to the side of the window, peeking in. It was empty. The bed had clearly been slept in, and the only light on was one bedside lamp. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe the stranger was long gone. Maybe he’d never been here at all.
Knowing just how quiet the Sleepaway usually was, it was entirely possible this light had been on for days, and the owner of the neglected old place had simply not gotten around to cleaning the room since the last occupant. I turned around, facing the parking lot and resting my back to the wall next to the window. I inhaled deeply, slowing the race of my heart as I let my eyes close again.
This had been a mistake. I should be with Helene right now—not out in the middle of nowhere looking for strangers, so I could do … what?
Hurt him.
I took a step back toward my truck, and that’s when I heard it. A cough. Nothing more. It was far off and distant, but it was outside somewhere. Then I heard something else. Twigs snapping, branches moving, and something being tossed off into the forest, rattling as it hit the ground and came to rest.
I peeked back into the room, but nothing had changed. It was empty, not a cup, not a bag, not a single thing that suggested someone was inhabiting the space. I crept toward the end of the building three doors down from the window I’d been looking in. There was a narrow dirt walkway that led to the back of the building, and I could see fluorescent lights illuminating the space.
When more branches rustled, I cocked my head to the side and listened. My heart was racing again, and when I took the first step down the path, I paused for a half a second and then started walking. I hugged the side of the building, keeping my outside shoulder away from the branches next to me, and when I reached the back corner, I edged up to it, listening some more.
I could smell cigarette smoke, and when I heard another cough, it was nearby, and I pulled my body back from the edge of the building for a moment. But then I leaned out, peeking around the corner.
And he was there.
I had to hold my breath to keep the gasp inside my lungs, but I stared, unable to look away. He was standing along the tree line, smoking, and the high overhead fluorescent light lit up the line of concrete slabs that sat just outside the backdoors of each room. There was a green canvas knapsack sitting on the ground just outside the back door to the room with the light on. I could see the handle of the knife the man had been carrying when he’d assaulted Helene and me sticking out of the trim that surrounded the door. I was guessing the gun was in the bag, because I couldn’t see it tucked into the waist of the man’s pants.
The man had no idea I was there, and I watched him. When he turned toward me and I saw his face, I recoiled around the side of the building. I crouched down and held my arm across my stomach as I fought the need to vomit again. The very sight of him was disgusting—his scruffy facial hair that ran too far down his neck, the pot belly that sat on top of spindly knobby looking legs, his ill-fitting clothes that hung on him in places and stretched over his skin in other places. I’d never been more disgusted by the sight of a person in all my life.
I inhaled and exhaled deeply until the nausea passed, and when I stood back up, I peeked again. The man sauntered easily as he smoked, and when he lifted the very bottle of vodka Helene had sold him to his lips and took a swig, he paused and swayed on his feet. He stubbed the cigarette out on the side of the vodka bottle and then flicked it into the woods.
When he adjusted his crotch, my jaw clenched tight. He chuckled quietly to himself as he lifted the bottle to his mouth again. I could feel my nostrils flaring as I breathed through my nose, and when I made the mistake of recalling the sight of him shoving himself down Helene’s throat as she choked, I took a step out from behind the building before I knew what my feet were doing.
Tingles of hot rage flushed my skin, and I walked, foot over foot toward the man, feeling bile rise in the back of my mouth as my throat constricted. I wanted to kill him. I was going to kill him. I was going to make him suffer the way he’d made us suffer. And I was going to make it hurt.
When my fingers closed around the handle of the knife, I yanked it from the wood trim. The man was still facing the woods with his back to me, but when he heard me grunt as I dislodged the blade, he turned slowly toward me, staggering off to the side as he did.
He smiled when he saw me, laughing as his eyes moved down my body. “Back for more.” He slurred his words, and when his eyes lit on the knife I held in my hand, he broke into a loud bout of laughter as though it was hysterical to see a deranged seventeen year old kid standing in front of him threatening his life.
“Shut the fuck up!” I screamed, spit flying from my mouth. My hand was gripping the handle of the knife so tightly it hurt.
But the stranger was too drunk to care or maybe he just wasn’t capable of caring drunk or sober. “You gonna make me, bitch boy?” He slapped his leg as he laughed, nearly falling over.
“Shut up,” I spat again. “Don’t say another word.” I could barely speak through my gritted teeth.
“Or what?” the man asked as he smiled. He took a step toward me. “What are you gonna do?”
I took a step toward him, holding the knife up.
The man held his hands up, but it was mocking, and he didn’t retreat nor did he stop smiling as though this was nothing more than an amusement to him. All I could think about was how much I wanted to cut his dick off and how terrified I was to get close enough to do it.
God, I wanted this man to hurt.
“I hate you,” the words whimpered out from my mouth pathetically, and I could feel the warmth at the back of my eyes threatening to unleash into tears again. That couldn’t happen right now. No matter what I did, I could not give this man one more tear.
The hand I was holding the knife in was tremoring, and the stranger’s eyes glanced to it, his eyes widening and then narrowing as he tried to focus. He laughed again. “You’re scared shitless, kid. Chill. Have a fucking drink.” He held the bottle out toward me. “I swear, I ain’t gonna fuck ya again.” He raised his free hand. “Don’t get me wrong, that was a hell of a tight ass. But if it makes you feel better, you saved your girl from getting it up hers.”
I was breathing through gritted teeth, trying to suck and release air through my clenched jaw. My lips were pulled back, and the rage consumed more of me by the second as I glared at him.
“Should be thankin’ me,” he said with a nod as he tipped the bottle to me. “You really think that bitch woulda given it up to you? She was a virgin, dude. You weren’t gonna get that cherry.”
I took another step closer, and the man’s eyes shifted to my feet as the bottle paused mid-way to his mouth. He stared at me, his lips parted. His body was suddenly rigid and unmoving—even the drunk sway was stilled for the moment. He was sizing me up. I’d been in enough fights to know exactly what he was doing. It was the pause before the pounce.
My grip tightened on the knife. Could I do this? Could I kill this man? I wanted to, but was wanting enough to make me do it? I needed Helene here. I wanted to hear her voice. I needed her to tell me what to do.
Kill him. I could hear her speaking quietly against my ear in a cruel tone not at all befitting of her. Make him suffer for me. Make him pay for what he did to us. Make it hurt.
Yes, I could kill him.
Don’t do it. This time her voice was pleading with me, and I could feel her imaginary hand on my arm, pulling me back from him and back from this place into her arms. Her arms. That’s what I needed. Not this. Just her. You don’t want to do this. Her voice was so gentle against my ear, pleading softly. Come back to me. Let me give you peace.
I whimpered, and it turned into a groan of intense frustration. I shook my head trying to get her out of it so I could focus on this place and the stranger standing in front of me. He was still frozen, but as I watched him, the corner of his lip pulled up in a subtle smirk.
He dropped the bottle, lunging toward me, and before I knew what I was doing, I was lunging right back. I planted my fists in the middle of his chest, my hand still tightly holding the handle of the knife, and I threw all my weight into pummeling him backward.
And I did.
I shoved him straight over the edge of the embankment, and I watched his body fall as his eyes widened and his hands clutched at the air between us. He landed ten feet down the steep hill on a jutting chunk of rock that broke through the earth. It was a sickening sound of bones breaking when he hit, and the air from his lungs was expelled in a huff. His body tumbled hard and fast down the hill out of sight into the dark. I could hear it crashing and bouncing, but the man made no conscious sound. The last thing I heard was a loud crack of hard on hard.
And then nothing.
I stood there, gasping as I stared down into the darkness. I couldn’t see where the dark ended, and I had no idea how far down it went. I listened, trying to hear over the roaring pound of my heart and the desperate pant of my breaths. I didn’t move a muscle as I waited for something to happen.
But nothing happened.
Not a sound stirred the leaves down below—no snapping twigs, no groans of pain, no scrambling hands trying to claw their way up to me. Silence. A shiver ran through me, physically sending a tremor out from my chest to my limbs, and when it passed, I finally moved. I picked up the nearby rucksack, and I threw it as hard as I could down the same path the stranger’s body had fallen. I kicked the vodka bottle down too.
And I ran.