There was blood.

There was that spilling, seeping blood.

I just hadn't seen it because it had been hiding out of sight.

That was what the doctor told me after they completed a CT scan on Madie's head. I wasn't even sure that they should have been telling me about it. Maybe it was the look on my face or how I'd carried her into the emergency room or some other reason that persuaded Dr. Martinez to report back to me.

But blood was there. It was filling that narrow space between Madie's brain and her skull. It had been there, seeping beneath the bone when I'd found her in the hallway. I just hadn't seen it because it had been hiding out of sight. Everything was always hidden with Madie, wasn't it?

Nessa had gotten there as Dr. Martinez was telling me about the procedure they would do to remove the blood—the intracranial hematoma.

It wasn't a lot of blood.

But it was there.

They asked if I knew her parents and if I could give them a call. I didn't. I couldn't.

Dr. Martinez then said they were already prepping Madie for surgery. There wasn't time to go see her or talk to her or tell her anything.

Nessa's hand was now wrapped in mine, and I wasn't sure if I was comforting her or if she was comforting me. It didn't matter. Nessa, usually so full of banter, was eerily quiet. Her leg bounced restlessly, and it seemed to shake the entire row of waiting room chairs that we were sitting in.

But the jostling was almost comforting, like the motion of a slightly broken rocking chair.

Luckily, the emergency room lobby was relatively empty while we waited for news of Madie. Our only company was an overwhelming, sterile scent, the faint beeping of distance machines, and the chattering of bored secretaries. It was numbing.

But then Quinton flung open the doors to the emergency room, and a violent anger surged through me, breaking through my unfeeling state.

He stormed toward the front desk. His haunting, dark eyes were narrowed in, intently focused on his destination. Quinton's concentration provided my only advantage as I escaped Nessa's grip and intercepted his path, forcing him to rock backward with surprise. Without hesitating, I landed a punch to his face, and it crunched satisfyingly.

Pain shot up my arm from the impact. It was hard to know if it was my bone or his that broke, but I had no intention of stopping either way.

I grabbed the collar of his stupid football polo just in case he planned to escape. His whole body jerked forward with the motion. Quinton didn't even attempt to stop it. So I kept going, throwing punch after punch until his shocked expression turned slack, tainted only slightly with pain. Quinton was everything I hated, everything I dreaded, everything I came from.

"You fucking piece of shit," I seethed as I drew back again. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I realized that Quinton was taking it all without even attempting to fight back. His face was just a blur, a messy image in my head of the thing I wanted to destroy. But Quinton was letting me destroy us both.

Blood ran again, only this time I saw it all. It was on me. It was on him.

"Bren!" Nessa screamed, and I felt her small hands grab at my arms. I tried to shake her off as I blocked out everything besides terrifying rage. But then more hands grabbed at me, restraining my movements. More voices yelled at me, screaming to knock it off—to stop. But I didn't know how to stop.

It didn't take long before I was pushed out the hospital door, dumped onto the curb. I heard a faint warning, an angry voice threatening to call the police if I tried to go back inside. I waved a hand toward the voice, not caring about the police. Everything was blurry, but the view of my hand was clear as I lifted it. The blood was clear.

"You can't let him go in there!" I yelled toward the voice. I didn't try to fight my way back into the waiting room; I wasn't that stupid. But I still shouted. "You don't know what he did, okay?"

A loud ringing filled my ears, and I tried to shake it away.

"You're right. I don't know what he did," the voice said back, and this time it was accompanied by a hazy picture of a blonde woman in scrubs. "But I know what you just did."

I threw my hands up in the air, wanting to hit something again but not having anything to punch with Quinton gone—inside. And I was outside. "He did that to her." I jabbed my fist in the direction of the emergency room doors. "He smashed her head into the goddamn wall!"

"Sir, I'm going to need you to calm down, or I'm going to have to call the police."

I walked away. Because I didn't know how to calm down. I skirted along the edge of the hospital, occasionally hitting the brick wall. My vision began to clear, everything starting to focus, but my heart continued to pound. The ringing in my ear subsided, and I heard Nessa's voice calling me.

"Bren! Bren, stop!"

I did, turning to face her, my chest still heaving under the weight of everything.

She opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off. "He fucking deserved it, Nessa."

"I know he fucking deserved it, Bren," Nessa snapped back. "But now he's in there, getting patched up from the rearrangement you made of his face, and we're out here."

"You don't think I know that?" I asked lowly. "You can go back in, Nessa."

"I will." She softened her voice. "But I had to check on you first."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine."

I lifted a hand with the intent of covering my face with it, wanting to hide from everything. But when I tried to open my fist for the first time, a spasm of pain attacked my nerves. So I stopped, balling my fingers up by my side instead. Gritting my teeth, curling my toes, balling my bleeding fists—everything was tightening.

And then I exploded, my voice tearing from me in a sort of foreign growl. "You're right, Nessa. I'm not okay. Is that what you want to hear? I'm not fucking okay."

"Bren." My name was quiet on her lips, and she lifted a hand toward me. I swatted it away.

"I can't do this," I said, leaning back against the hospital wall and sliding down it. "This was all my fault, Nessa. I texted her, and he saw it. He saw it, and then he smashed her head into a wall. And what? He left her there afterward but now decides to show at the hospital like he fucking cares? He knew she'd be here because he knew what he did."

"Yeah, Bren," Nessa said, throwing a hand on her hip as she looked at me exactly like Caroline would. "But he did it. He smashed her head into a wall. Not you."

"Doesn't matter. I can't do this." Staring down at my hands, I wondered whose blood I was looking at. Was it mine? Was it his? It was all red either way. "I failed, Nessa," I finally whispered. "I failed again."

She slid down next to me. "Bren, you didn't fail. You—"

"He owns me now," I cut her off, swallowing. After a deep breath, I added, "just like her."

There was a long pause between us. The only sound was cars honking and the sirens of an ambulance growing closer. And I wondered if someone else out there failed, too.

"You should have stopped when he didn't fight back, Bren."

"I know." After closing my eyes for a long moment, I knew had to happen next. "Will you come tell me when she's out of surgery?"

"Of course."

I nodded. "And you'll make sure she reports him?"

Nessa snorted. "Do you really need me to answer that?"

I didn't, but I had wanted to hear her say it. So I was thankful when she added quietly said she would.

"Thanks," I said. "After I know she's okay, I'm leaving."

"Leaving?" Nessa repeated me, and I glanced at her confused expression. "Where are you going?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Home, I guess."

"Back to the dorms?"

"Nah," I said and began to wipe the blood from my hands onto my pants. "I'm done with Oakland."

I didn't look at Nessa when I said, "I'm done with all of this."

🖤
welcome to bren's demons I guess
xoxo