Chapter Nine

Treyton

My heartbeat radiates through my body. It pounds against my ears, chokes my throat, twists my stomach. It is everywhere, flashing in front of my eyes with each pulse. My breaths are sharp, but useless. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

"Please. I'll do anything." The words don't feel like mine. I would never beg for mercy, not to the enemy.

The girl's eyes drop from my face and travel down the length of my body. I wait for her to say something—anything. But she just keeps staring with this calculative look on her face. I glance at her gun. Mom taught me years' worth of knowledge on Lieth weaponry. I should know every detail about this gun from its model to its bullet size to its stopping power. Yet the only detail I notice know is the black pit of the barrel. It'll probably be the last thing I see.

"Just please—"

"Stop talking," snaps the girl. Her fingers tighten on the gun as it begins to shake in her hands. Her mouth is slightly open and her lips quiver. I can see her chest heaving, jerking with about as much force as mine.

Something breaks inside me. I always knew my death was inevitable, yet I never thought it would come. I would defy the odds; I always have.

"Don't move," she says. She pushes from the ground and takes a few backward steps, never lowering her gun.

I don't know where she's going, but right now, I don't care. As soon as she turns her back, I'm going to make a run for it. I'm closer to home now than I was before my first attempt. If I can just make it into the trees, I might make it home.

I don't know where she's going—or why—but I don't care. Any reason that increases the distance between me and that gun is a good reason. Especially with an escape route only feet away. If I make another run for it, I just know I could beat her home.

The girl is now about ten feet away, pacing the strip between forest and river. I wait for her to turn, but she never does. She keeps her gun and her eyes locked on me. Then, she stops, wearing an expression all wrong for murder. She doesn't have crazed eyes or a snarled lip; nothing like I've seen in the movies. Her face is utterly blank, almost like a mask.

She walks toward me, gun still raised.

"Anything?" she says.

The way she looks at me...it's like she expects me to understand her question. She repeats herself, louder.

"What?" I say. She's too close. I swear I can smell the blood she's about to spill.

"You said you'd do anything." She presses her lips together. "Did you mean it?"

"Yes," I say, forcing the word through strangled vocal chords.

"I won't kill you. For now." Her voice shakes as she speaks. "But you have to meet my conditions."

I don't say anything. I don't think I can.

"Will you meet me here, tomorrow night?" she asks. Her eyes are cold, daring almost.

I nod before she finishes the question.

"That's the first." She runs a finger over the barrel, but I can't decide if it's a threatening movement or a nervous one. "The second: you can't tell anyone about this. Understand?"

There's only one person I could possibly tell. And between every moment from first seeing the girl to now, this is the only time I think of Mom. This whole time, I have been concerned with me and only me. It didn't matter that she is still at home, innocently sleeping in her bed. It didn't matter that I would've led the girl straight to her, had I been successful in my escape. It didn't matter that Mom would've been killed...as long as I would've gotten those few extra seconds of life.

"Understand?" The girl presses the cold barrel against my forehead. "Do you understand the conditions?"

"Yes."

"Good." She slowly lowers the weapon again. "Same place, tomorrow, midnight."

I nod, but there's no way in hell I'm coming back. I would be insane to accept a condition like that—or to follow it anyway.

"And remember: I know where you live."

She suddenly lifts up her second gun and fires a stun bullet into my stomach.

This time hurts even more than the first as an intense pain explodes through my torso. Poison seeps through my blood and takes control over my entire body. I collapse into the dirt, losing vision with each passing second. The bullet paralyzes my body and sight, but lets my mind run wild. I want to scream and cry and yell for Mom. But I am alone and in the dark. The girl could be cutting my skin open as I lay here, and I wouldn't know it. She could be anywhere for that matter. She could be sprinting through the forest, killing Mom before returning to finish me off.

It feels like hours before my control returns. I'm not exactly sure how much time has passed, but the girl—and her handcuffs—are nowhere to be seen. I quickly glance in every direction around me. From what I can tell, I am alone in the forest.

I stagger to my feet and start running as soon as I gain balance. A harsh dizziness clouds my vision, but I push past it. I feel like if I don't run hard enough, the girl will attack again. And I swear I can feel her presence. I can feel her large eyes staring at me and her cold gun pressing against my flesh.

When I finally break from the trees, I stop just before my backyard to check my surroundings. I know where you live. My pulse rattles as I move across the empty lawn. She could be here. She could be in my house, firing a bullet into Mom's head and reloading for me. The thought courses through my body, making it near impossible to open the window. And as soon as I do, I realize how truly wonderful the glass box is. There are no unleveled grounds, no brutal winds, no lurking shadows.

I silently move into the house, shutting the window with a triumphant click. I made it. Mom is still sleeping and the psychotic woman is nowhere to be seen. This simple fact brings me to my knees with relief. I press my hands over my head and let the tears wash out of my body. With them goes the fierce heartbeat and choked throat. But the tears do nothing for the memories. They spin wildly through my mind, finally letting me accept the death I narrowly escaped.

It isn't until hours later, when I am in bed but still wide awake, that I finally come to terms with reality. My attacker is the blonde new neighbor, the one that has stood on Mom's porch multiple times. She lives only houses from mine, and she knows where I live. Most importantly, she let me go. And I have no idea what she expects why.

As I stare at the ceiling, I wonder what Mom would've done in my place. Had she been the Brute, and I the woman, she would've immediately given her life for me. I know she would, yet I couldn't do the same for her. The longer I think about it, the more I wonder why I am surprised. Mom's literally given up everything to raise me, and what have I done? I've been nothing but a pain; and now, I am going to get her killed.

That's when I realize I have to meet the girl at the river tomorrow. If I don't show up, she's going to know exactly where to find me—No; not just me. She knows where to find Mom, too. And for once, it's time for me to protect Mom instead of the other way around.

#

The next morning, I'm up before Mom, which pretty much has never happened in the history of ever. But since I've somehow been given this second chance at life, I'm going to do it right. I start with my room, making the bed and finally washing all the dirty laundry. While the load is running, I go upstairs for cleaning supplies. I scrub the floors and spray the walls until they're perfectly transparent again. After I pull my clothes out, fold them, and start another load for Mom, I go back upstairs and click off Mom's alarm clock. Then, I start making breakfast.

Mom's favorite is easy enough, at least in theory. I've never really cooked before, but pancakes and eggs don't turn out to be all that difficult. About halfway through, I decide if I'm going to be a new man, I may as well do it right. I start a pan for bacon and another for biscuits. It takes a bit more skill to balance everything at once, but somehow, I manage to get everything prepared (and non-burnt) within thirty minutes. A line of breakfast foods cross the counter, starting with bacon and ending at scrambled eggs.

I consider carrying a plate up to Mom's room, but knowing my luck, I'll probably just drop it all over the floor.

"Mom?" I say, standing at the edge of her bed.

Her eyes wearily blink open. No more than a second later, she jerks upright with a horrified expression.

"What's wrong?" She flips the covers back and swings her legs to the floor. "Is someone here? Why aren't you downstairs?"

"Shhh," I say, grabbing her shoulders. "Everything's fine."

I flinch at my own words.

Mom stares at me, her face not yet relaxed. I guess you could call this moment an epiphany. The terrible moment that I realize I've made Mom's life a living Hell, and I haven't even been grateful for it. I've spent my entire life hating these walls and everything within them. Being held at gunpoint makes you reevaluate the things you take for granted.

"I made breakfast," I finally say. I look away from Mom and scratch the back of my neck, trying to busy myself. The entire thing kind of seems dumb now.

"Breakfast?" repeats Mom, suspicion leaking from her voice.

"Yes," I say, and then force a laugh. "Pancakes, eggs, bacon. You know, the food people eat in the morning?

"Why?" asks Mom. Before I can answer, she slides past me and heads downstairs.

"Because I know you've been stressed out lately," I say with an innocent shrug.

I watch her walk down the stairs. It's strange that the girl shouldn't have let me go. She should've killed me, so that I would never have this moment. I shouldn't be following Mom down glass stairs and into a kitchen filled with mediocre breakfast foods. No, I should be floating face down in a river, and Mom should be in an interrogation room with a cluster of policewomen. Either that, or crying in my empty bedroom, wondering where I am.

I continue studying her throughout breakfast. I want to memorize everything about her. Her dark hair, her green eyes, her slight wrinkles.

"Alright." Mom suddenly breaks off mid-sentence and chucks her fork onto the counter. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," I say, but my voice cracks. I am suddenly desperate to confess last night to Mom—every detail of it from sneaking out to having a gun against my head to being shown mercy for mysterious conditions. But I can't tell her. She'd never forgive me if I did.

"Treyton, don't you dare lie to me." Mom's eyes narrow, but I don't let her phase me.

"Mom, I'm not lying. I just feel bad, okay?" I say, tossing my fork down with equal force. I try my best hand at acting, and luckily, she seems to take the bait.

"About what, baby?" asks Mom, tilting forward.

"I just...I feel like sometimes I take this all for granted." I swallow. That part didn't need acting. That part only needed the memory of a gun to my head, of nearly leading the girl to Mom. "I guess I just forgot how much I have to lose."

"Things are not bad," says Mom. She stares at me for a long moment, as though trying to look through my eyes and into my thoughts. "Is something going on, Trey?"

I chew slowly, not wanting to rush my answer. I've never outright lied to Mom, but there's no way around it now.

I gulp down my food and calmly answer, "No."

"You wouldn't leave without telling me, would you?" asks Mom. Her green eyes brim with tears. I've only seen Mom cry twice, so I'm not used to the sight. It practically kills me just looking at her.

"No." It's all I can manage.

"Because I'll come. No matter what, I'll always go with you." Her words are slightly choked.

"I know."

"Promise me you'll be here when I wake up, okay?" asks Mom. She sniffles slightly before speaking with her usual authority. "Promise me."

"I promise."

And she smiles, a sight much better than I remembered.