11. Jeffrey

The party raged around us. Couples pressed against the walls, hidden in seedy corners with their hands down each other's pants and their tongues tangled. I had hickeys all over my neck, and my red solo cup had been filled four different times—but somehow still was empty.

When I spotted Blair's fuzzy black head, I relaxed, wandering toward him.

"Yo!" Trevor, our left fielder interrupted me, reaching out and latching onto my shoulder. His hand was sweaty and he smelled like tequila and something fruity—probably the jello shots Becky, his girlfriend had made for the party.

We'd just won the state championship and all of us were on cloud nine. Becky and Martha were friends—Martha being head cheerleader, and my at-the-time girlfriend. Like a sweaty, web, we were all tangled together.

It was all very…exhausting, if I'm being honest.

It was hard enough keeping up the front at home—and out here it got even more difficult. Especially at times like this, when the alcohol was flowing in my veins and I was seventeen with a cross to bear.

"Fuck off," I managed, words slurred. I tried to shove Trevor off of me, but failed. He just laughed.

"Dude you're fucked up," he snorted, like that was funny.

It didn't feel funny.

None of this did.

"Need…" I wasn't sure what I needed. I'd forgotten. What had I been about to do? It felt important.

"Martha's over by the stairs."

"By the stairs," I repeated, squinting and looking around. Trevor latched onto my other shoulder and spun me, pointing me in the correct direction. "Just don't fuck on Becky's bed," he said cheerfully before shoving me off.

I stumbled a little.

"Where are my shoes?" I frowned down at my bare feet, and where the sticky tile clung to them. "And my socks." I frowned even more, wandering the direction Trevor had pointed me. "Someone stole my socks," I muttered to myself, annoyed. "Who does that?"

"Who does what?" Seth, our shortstop, asked me as I squeezed by him. He had his hand on his phone, and the other was holding a half-empty beer. I wasn't sure where he'd gotten the bottle. No one had given me a bottle. I'd just had cups. I frowned at my cup next, betrayed.

"Uhhh shit," I hit the corner of the door and Seth laughed, smacking me on the ass and causing me to stumble. "I dunno. I forgot."

That was true.

I had.

By the time I reached the stairs I'd been slapped, prodded, and pushed by half the baseball team. I couldn't remember why I'd come to the stairs in the first place—and when I discovered they were empty, I felt kinda…relieved if I'm being honest.

So I sat down, heavily, on my ass.

"Oof." My cup spilled, and I stared at it—flabbergasted. Could've sworn the fucking thing was empty—but, hey. Maybe someone had filled it for me? In fact…I was pretty sure Seth had. Or maybe that had been Rodney? Fuck.

Didn't matter anyway.

This was my party.

If I wanted to get fucked up, I'd get fucked up.

I deserved this.

I deserved this.

I just wanted…

I just wanted to forget.

Let me forget.

Please, please, please.

Let me just ? —

I downed the cup in a few, painful sips. The acrid alcohol burned on its way down, lighting my veins up from the inside out as the room spun and spun and spun. I pressed my forehead to the bannister, trying to catch my breath.

And when I closed my eyes all I saw was it.

The thing.

The big, bulbous thing—with warts and—fuck. The way it'd popped. The wheezing hiss sound it'd made when I'd sunk my knife into its neck and blood had spilled up my forearm. It'd scratched at me, scratched, and scratched, and scratched. Its claws tore into my arms but still, I pushed. Pushed deep past the fat layer beneath its skin. Into muscle. Into warm, slippery heat.

Its heart had bumped my fingers as my knife slid inside it.

And it'd gasped—this awful-awful-awful-awful sound as it died.

As it died beneath my hand.

And I just ? —

"Need more…drink."

Trevor was passing by again, this time with a six-pack under his arm. He must've heard me, because he handed me a new beer and I grinned up at him, thankful. He looked blurry. But that was okay. I didn't mind.

I didn't mind much right now.

Things were soft and fuzzy—and they didn't hurt so much.

There were no monsters.

There was only this beer and—oh. Wow. It felt so good pressed to my forehead. So so good. Yes. I liked that. I liked that even more than drinking it. I chugged the remainder of my solo cup then tossed it to the side, beer still in hand.

"Jeffrey," Blair's voice broke through the fog in my head. At first, I thought I imagined it. Because Blair shouldn't be here. This was a party. Blair didn't go to these—he hated my friends. If I was being honest, I hated them too. They were dumb and vapid and they thought high school was forever.

They thought any of this mattered.

But it didn't.

It didn't, it didn't, it didn't.

Not when there was blood out there. Blood and knives—and monsters—and the sounds they made when they died.

"Jeffrey," Blair tried again. And this time I felt his hand on my shoulder. I flinched away, eyes fluttering open, my beer falling to the ground with an annoying clink. "I think you've had enough, man."

"Fuck off," I reached for the beer, but Blair beat me to it. He curled his fingers around the neck, pulling it away.

"Stop being a bitch," I huffed out, flapping my hand out for the beer again, and missing—spectacularly. Which was not like me. I had impeccable aim. If I didn't, I'd be dead. The scratches on my torso itched, scabs barely healing over.

"I'm not being a bitch," Blair laughed, though he had this judgy look on his face that pissed me off. Like he was looking down on me or something. Like I was pathetic.

Hell, I knew I was.

But I didn't need him to look at me like that.

"Just let me—"I reached for it again, and he batted my hand away.

"No."

"Fuck." I glared at him, struggling to my feet, though I stumbled a little and hit the bannister. A pained hiss escaped, one of the scratches on my torso pulling to the point of blistering—white hot pain. Fuck. Ow. Fuck. "Ow—" I gasped, wheezing as I held onto the railing, eyes pinched shut.

"Are you ? —"

"I'm fine—" I managed, somehow holding on long enough to get the words out. "Fuck off."

"No."

"I'm fine—" my voice didn't sound like my own. It was manic, and high, and twitchy. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine."

"You're not fine." Blair frowned at me. I could hear it in his voice. Didn't even need to look at him to know what his face looked like. He was in this annoying phase lately. Seemed to think if he did whatever Lydia wanted him to, things would get better. That she'd change. That we'd be a happy fucking family and la-dee-dah.

Fat chance of that.

She was just biding her time.

Because she was evil, she was evil fucking incarnate. It was like he'd forgotten all the shit she'd done to him. All the times she'd locked him up. The violence. The nasty words. The cuts and bruises—the night terrors ? —

The—

The—

Everything—

"Lydia's not gonna like it if you show up at home like this," Blair said gently. But it felt like a slap to the face, hearing her name out loud. In a place like this, where things were supposed to be bright and I was, for once in my fucking life, something other than her secret protege.

Blair didn't know.

It wasn't his fault.

I knew that.

He didn't know what she made me do. The creatures I'd killed. The blood on my hands. The places she'd hole us up in—just the two of us. He didn't know about the days spent training, the blisters on my hands, the scars, the gun I shouldn't know how to use. Didn't know about the way I'd lie in my bed, pretending to sleep, because there was no way I could actually rest with her lying three feet from me.

No way I could rest when I knew the pain that waited for me the second the sun rose.

The guilt.

The terror.

The blood.

The monsters.

The way I couldn't breathe most of the time, but I breathed anyway. Always trying to be strong because if I failed even once , it was Blair who took the brunt of Lydia's fury. He was her bargaining chip, and maybe he knew it—maybe he didn't. But that didn't make it any less true.

The sun would rise and the torture would start all over.

"Again," she'd say, watching me—her eyes green as the money she coveted, when they might as well have been red. She never got dirty. Never touched a corpse, or held a gun herself. Making me repeat the drills she'd arranged over and over and over till they became so second-nature, I barely had to think about them at all.

"Again," she'd say as she forced me to shoot targets in proxy of living creatures.

"Again," she'd say, holding me steady, her nails biting into my shoulder, her breath hot on my back.

Then later, just as I'd suspected, on the day my gun wavered, the beast it was pointed toward staring at me, terrified, its heart thumping, its eyes wide with fear. There would be no sympathy from Lydia.

"I can't, I can't–"

"You're a coward, Jeffrey. Take the fucking shot."

Bodies, bodies, bodies. Hairy, scaly, wet with blood.

Over and over and over ? —

Dead dead dead.

Because of me.

Because I didn't say no.

Because I was ?—

You're a coward, Jeffrey.

You're a coward, you're a coward, you're a coward.

You'reacowardyou'reacowardyou'rea—you'rea—you're ? —

Nononononono.

I didn't want to be there anymore. Trapped inside my head. The alcohol was supposed to help. It was supposed to help —I was supposed to be able to breathe here, at this party, with my friends. I wanted to celebrate—I just wanted… I just wanted ? —

God.

I just wanted to be seventeen.

I just wanted to be normal .

I just wanted to make stupid mistakes like everyone else. Mistakes that wouldn't get me killed. Mistakes that didn't make me a murderer. Mistakes that didn't haunt me, hanging like a noose around my neck. Scars made into weapons so I could never forget where they came from.

"She's gonna be pissed," Blair was still talking. Talking. Like he could convince me to come home. To come to heel. To be her loyal dog, even now. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair ? —

"You're a coward, Blair," I hissed out, and then jolted, the words falling like an anvil between us.

Blair flinched.

What little was left of my heart broke then, the second I realized what I'd just done. Because Lydia may have taught me how to load a gun, but I'd never pointed one at Blair before.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I was…fuck.

I'm no better than Lydia.

"I'm sorry—" I managed, but Blair was already pulling away. He let go of my shoulder, his expression pinched. His dark hair fell across his brow, and I couldn't breathe—couldn't breathe—couldn't breathe—"I didn't mean it–"

"I'm gonna go home."

"I'll go with you ? —"

"Don't."

Blair left.

Blair left and he took my beer with him.

And I…watched him go. Because my dumb legs were too wobbly and wouldn't work—and I felt heavy and scared and shaky and I just…I just…

I hated myself.

I hated myself so much.

So I drank and drank and drank. Until I emptied my stomach into Martha's bathtub and half the baseball team crowded in the bathroom to make sure I wasn't dying. I wasn't—somehow — alcohol poisoning aside. But I wished I was.

I wished I was.

Because living hurt, and this was all my fault—and I hurt Blair and I ? —

And I ? —

And I ? —

I was a monster.