This Is War, Baby - K Webster Page 0,57

my pocket knife and gouged a deep hole just under my ribs, shoved my hand through the bloody flesh, and gripped the black organ in my fist. Then, I wanted to rip it from me, detach it from my soul and inspect what was left. My guess was, nothing. Black, rotten pieces but nothing as it was before.

Dr. Weinstein said these gruesome thoughts were normal for my condition. That, through therapy, we could talk through these grim imageries.

But I didn’t want to talk about any of it.

Not what happened to them.

Not what I was always thinking.

Not how I was too much of a fucking lunatic to hug my girlfriend or sit on the bed next to my father without my head crushing in.

Dr. Weinstein was wrong. I was not fixable. You couldn’t fix what was wrong with me. It wasn’t mental—it was fucking tangible. I could feel the dark, twisty parts of me infecting every cell, membrane, and bone in my body.

I was tainted.

With her blood.

Their blood.

And the disease of my despair.

There was no cleansing something so tainted.

This was who I was now.

This was War.

I STARE AT the clock on the nightstand and when it reaches exactly three in the morning, I make my move. Soundlessly, I creep out of the bed. Along the way to the dresser, I shed my gown and open the drawers hunting for clothes in the dark. I’m sure I could turn on a light but I don’t want to clue him into what I’m doing. A sliver of light could wake him. I need a head start, not for him to catch me in the act.

Once I’ve located jeans and a sweater, I dress with haste. I’m annoyed, once again, that I don’t have shoes. Running away is going to be hard without them. Frustration threatens to let a sigh out but I choke it back. Instead, I snatch out two pairs of socks and double up for the protection.

Slipping out of my bedroom is easy and quiet. I’ve managed to make it to the front door undetected. My fingers hover over the keypad of the alarm. Panic causes my chest to constrict and my heart to nearly pound out of it. Pushing those numbers will make a sound. How far will I get before he realizes I’m out the door?

I’ve peeked through my bedroom window enough times to know the driveway is about a hundred feet to the street. Across the street are bars, restaurants, and shops. If I can just make it across, I can blend in and hide.

But everything will be closed.

I swallow down the fear of running alone along the storefronts. Right into the arms of Gabe.

Clenching my eyes closed, I shake my head.

If Gabe were here, he wouldn’t wait. I know him. He’s arrogant enough to come right through the front door. I’m not going to run into him.

Someone will find me.

A passing car.

Someone taking a late night stroll.

Drunks trying to make their way home from the bars.

Anyone.

I snap my eyes back open and grind my teeth together. I can do this. I’m a fast runner—shoes or not. War isn’t going to count my steps—I mean, he probably will—but not in an effort to punish me should he catch me.

He’s not going to catch me.

He’s too afraid.

My germs will eat him alive.

The thought urges me on and I have to stifle a maniacal laugh.

1-2-0-0.

The beeps as I mash the buttons are like blasts on an air horn in the silent house. A dull roar resounds in my ears as adrenaline kicks in. Run, Baylee!

I’m out the door and charging down the driveway before I even realize what I’ve done. I just ran away. From War. My heart sinks and I push away the unusual feeling of loss as I distance myself from the house.

Seventy-seven steps.

I have been counting them—a lingering memory of Gabe reminding me of every step I take. My knees buckle and I nearly stop. But then a voice jerks me back to life.

“Baylee!”

War’s booming voice thunders from behind me. Despite the loudness of it, I sense the pure anxiety in the way he said my name.

“Please!”

One simple word, and my legs slow to a near stop on their own accord. Ninety-two steps. I’m nearly to the desolate street. Risking a glance over my shoulder as I retreat from him, my mouth opens in surprise to see him charging for me. If things were different, I’d ask him how he’s managed to come outside without his respirator