“You f**king bastard!” He screams, and lowers his shoulder, running for me. I laugh and step aside at the last moment, and he crashes into the dresser, disoriented for a few seconds by the impact. I use those moments well.

I cracked his gun hand. He was so shocked he just looked down at it, like it was a riveting TV show instead of something that was happening to him. And I swung again. The bones cracked, his hand split open, blood and meat spraying over the pine needles. He cried. He crawled away from me and cried, begging.

“Please, man, we didn’t mean – we weren’t gonna –”

“L-Listen, kid, I’ll just leave, okay? There’s no need for –”

I swing again, into his gut. And again, between his legs. He keels over, howling, and I step on his chest and look down at him.

“There are crimes. And therefore there is a need,” I say. “For punishments.”

“Please –”

I smile and tap his nose with the end of the baseball bat lightly.

“No begging. Die with some dignity.”

I raise the bat, level with his head, and he screams and shields his face with his good arm.

The thing in me laughs with delight.

-15-

3 Years

23 Weeks

2 Days

I wake up in Satan’s butthole. Everything is white – white walls, white beds, white light. Or Narnia. It could be Narnia. Did I die and go to Narnia? Because that would be rad. But then I see the IV attached to my arm and hear the steady ‘beep-beep’ of my heart monitor and all hope deflates out of me quickly. Nope. Satan’s butthole, aka a hospital.

I sit up from the pillows and my head tries to turn itself inside out and run off my neck. The headache splits me down the middle and sews me back up again with electric pain.

“Hairy monkeyballs!” I hiss. “Dogshit on a stick! Puke pancakes!”

A head pokes in. Wren, green eyes smiling, walks over to my bed.

“I knew you were awake. Who else spews such original and captivating swears?”

I feel my head. A massive, turban-like bandage wraps around it. There are flowers on the small table at my side, and a smiley-face balloon cheerfully watches me from a corner, slowly rotating just to get a better view of me. From all angles.

“Where am I? Other than hell.”

“St. Jermaine’s Hospital,” Wren offers, pulling up a chair and sitting on it. “You’ve been out for a week or so.”

“Mom!” I sit up. “Is Mom –”

“She’s fine,” Wren puts his hand on mine reassuringly. “She went to work today, but she said she’d be back at night. We’ve all been taking turns coming to see you. Me, Kayla, Avery –”

“Avery? Like, red-head Avery? Avery who hates me? The Avery we threatened?”

“It’s weird, I know. But she brought flowers.” He motions to a bunch of white camellias on the desk.

“What about Leo? The guy who broke in –”

“The police said he knocked you out, and then went upstairs. And then –”

Wren’s expression cracks with uneasiness.

“Then what? What happened?”

Wren’s eyes slowly move up to meet mine. “Jack. He said he came over to talk to you, and found you on the floor passed out.”

“Who?”

“Who what?”

“Jack who?”

Wren smiles. “C’mon, don’t play dumb. Jack. He came over, and he took care of Leo. Four broken ribs. A broken arm. A burst eardrum. Fractured skull.”

I suck in a breath. Wren shakes his head and tries to smile.

“You have one too, you know. Skull fracture. You hit your head pretty bad on the wall. For the first few days the doctors didn’t know if you were going to slip into a coma or not. But you pulled through. There was some internal bleeding, and bruising. But they patched you up and you pulled through.”

I look at my hands, and lift the sheet to look at my body. Almost-healed bruises cover my legs and arms.

“Leo’s in custody,” Wren says. “Jack’s mom got him a lawyer. He’s not locked up or anything, but he’s on watch. The police say he’s got a really good chance of getting away with no charges if you and your mom testify, but Leo’s going to jail, definitely.”

“I should hug this Jack guy. Show him my gratitude. Give him, like, a gift card to Starbucks at least.”

Wren snorts. “Really? I thought you and Jack were at war. Do they typically give hugs during war?”

“War? No, I’m not fighting anybody. Well, I have to fight on a daily basis not to marry myself, but no. I’m not at war with anybody,” I laugh. “And definitely not with this Jack guy. I’ll figure out a good way to thank him. He saved me and my mom’s butts after all. Is he old? Is he young? Does he go to our school? ”

“Okay, Isis, cut it out. It was funny the first time.”

“Cut what out?”

“You know Jack Hunter. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“Jack Hunter, huh? What a name. Sounds like the kind of name a pretentious ass**le on Wall Street would have. But, uh, he saved Mom. When I couldn’t. So I guess he’s more of a really remarkable not-asshole.”

The door opens and a doctor comes in. He smiles at me, and checks the monitors.

“Good to see you awake, Isis. Are you feeling up for some cognition tests?”

“Do I get an unbearably bright light shined in my eye?”

“Yes.”

“Awesome.”

“Doctor,” Wren says, and pulls the doctor away by the elbow. They whisper in the corner.

“Hey, I am right here! That is kind of really rude!” I shout. They ignore me and keep talking. I huff and put my arms over my chest and look out the door.

There, in the doorway, is a hot pretty-boy. I say that with equal parts disgust and admiration, one, because pretty boys are usually insufferable, and two, because he’s so good looking even someone like me who dislikes pretty boys has to admit he’s hot. He’s tall; six two? Six three? He’s lanky, not built, but the barest muscle definition stands out under his black shirt and jeans. His bone structure is something out of a Roman pantheon, but his nose is perfectly straight and his lips softer-looking. His hair is golden-brown, cut to barely grace his narrow, ice water eyes that pierce right into me. Even if they’re cold and unreachable, I can see dark shades of sorrow in them.

We stare like that at each other for a good four seconds before I yell;

“Okay, I know you want me all to get better, but ordering a stripper is going too far!”

The guy, instead of getting offended, smirks. The sorrow in his eyes softens minutely, and he walks in. Wren looks up from his place in the corner, and he rushes over to the guy.

“Jack, there’s something you need to know –”

Jack pushes past him and offers me a black rose.

“I figured you’d hate flowers, so I decided to get one that matched your soul,” He says. I take the flower, careful not to touch any of his long fingers.

“Gee, thanks.” I smile. “You must be Jack. Nice to meet you. Also, thanks for saving my butt. And my Mom’s butt. From what I hear you went pretty apeshit on the guy. Claps to you.”