Sidetracked: Part 1

by S. K. Kelley

  Why?

  Why say that now?

  I stare into the fabric of his grey button-up.

  For the first time since I met Ice, I wish he would shut up. The familiar, honeyed sweetness of his voice isn’t nearly enough to mask this new condescension or the clear indifference behind his words. It’s like scaring the shit out of me doesn’t bother him at all.

  I feel sick.

  “As for James, I was thinking I may kill him.”

  My eyes dart up to his face. “What?”

  “Don’t tell me you care.” He laughs before releasing my arm. “I’d be doing us all a favor, really.”

  I rub my roughed-up skin. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why?”

  He frowns and glances around the otherwise empty hallway. Then he refocuses on me with lazy eyes and a crooked grin that makes my skin crawl.

  “Well, why not?” he asks. “You listened to him, didn’t you? You sought him out behind my back and dragged him here, to my house. James is an idiot, but you aren’t innocent in this either. Don’t forget that you got yourself into this mess. You signed that paperwork.”

  Boy am I regretting that decision.

  “I’m in too deep, Jayde. I’m too invested in you.” His voice is level, conveying both sincerity and contempt. But for whom? For what? “As your sponsor, relinquishing you to another man without consequence doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t want you to suffer, but, ah...”

  But what? What does that mean?

  “You want to go home so badly. Very well.”

  My back presses against the wall as he leers at me. His eyes glint, fierce and cold, and he smiles.

  “One last thing, before you go—”

  fifty-four

  ICE TAKES A SINGLE step back.

  A knife appears out of nowhere.

  One moment, it didn’t exist—his raised hand was open and empty. The next, something was grasped in that same hand, and time slowed to a crawl as I recognized it as a folded pocketknife.

  A mottled, silvery blade flicks out of the handle at the press of a button. My arms shoot up as if by instinct. The knife completes its downward arc, and time returns to normal as a sharp pain scores my forearm. I slam a hand over it, but the burning doesn’t stop, and a thin trail of warm red oozes toward my elbow.

  What?

  I look up.

  A weak smile. Glazed, blue eyes watch the clean blade but quickly sharpen, and I recoil as our eyes meet. All muscles tense. I can’t move.

  He laughs. Then he swings the knife a second time.

  My other arm deflects the blade, and I scream—at least, I think I do. Several drops of bright red blood splatter the cream carpet. My blood. On the floor.

  Another flash of movement.

  Without thinking, I shield my face with my hands. A thread of fire turns into a dull throb, and my eyes snap open. Dark blood pools in my palm. More drips onto the floor from both elbows.

  This can’t be real.

  Am I dreaming? Is this another nightmare?

  “I pictured this differently in my mind,” Ice says. His clear, level voice cuts through the static buzz, but it still doesn’t feel real.

  This isn’t possible.

  The blood dripping from my hand.

  The blood staining the carpet.

  “Oh, well.”

  No.

  I turn to run. The den at the end of a tunnel. The light from the sliding glass door. The scent of blood overtaking the faint citrus.

  A hand catches my shirt and slams me against the wall again. The back of my head connects. My vision goes black. My arms flail uselessly.

  I’m gonna throw up.

  Something hits my chest, snapping me back to awareness. The blade sliced clean through my shirt and the camisole underneath. The River Sapphire is fine, but my bra is exposed, and blood blooms along the knife’s diagonal path.

  Eyes watering furiously, I bring my bleeding arms over my chest. I say, “Stop,” but my voice is so weak and soft I hardly recognize it.

  And Ice does not stop.

  Instead, seemingly unimpressed, he grabs ahold of my arm. He squeezes. Squeezing. Squeezing. Fingernails dig into raw flesh, the pressure like hot metal forced beneath broken skin.

  No—

  Desperate. Frantic. I try prying his hand away, but my right hand is unsteady and slick with blood. I can’t gain any traction. Touching his hand only makes the pain worse. Only makes his grip tighter.

  This is impossible.

  I search his face. For an explanation. For help. For mercy. But he flashes a crooked smile and meets my gaze with passive eyes before he glances down the hallway.

  James.

  Is he still out there? Waiting for me? Is he wondering where I am? If I called for help... Would he come? Or would he run?

  Ice’s hand makes a mess of my injured arm. Tearing pain. Red blood on my hands. My chest. My arms. It drips from my elbow and soaks into the cuff of Ice’s shirt.

  How did it come to this?

  I just wanted to go home.

  Hot, bitter tears fill my eyes. I squeeze them shut, forcing the beads of moisture out.

  This has to stop. I’m sorry.

  Drawing my arms as close as I can, I cry out for help. I scream as loud as possible. I beg Ice to stop, and I call James by name, hoping he can hear me from his car on the curb. Hoping he won’t drive away at the first sign that something went wrong.

  Ice chuckles, so soft it’s almost a sigh, and I fall quiet.

  “Good,” he says, finally releasing my arm.

  I’m free.

  A dull, aching throb and a strange sense of relief replace the sharp pain. I slide down the wall until I’m sat on the carpet, and I look at nothing in particular. The blood on the floor. The space between Ice’s legs. Through the bedroom door behind him. The corner of my duffel bag, on the floor at the foot of his bed.

  Then down the hallway.

  If he wants to hurt you, I’m sorry. There wasn’t anything else I could do. There’s no one else here, and I need help. So... Please.

  My hands—

  Oh, god.

  Warm, wet crimson coats my arms and chest, leaking from wounds I can’t make out through the blood. Staining my shirt. Dripping onto my jeans. So much. Too much. The metallic tang assaults my nose, sticking in the back of my throat. A bleeding hand presses against a bleeding arm. Pain flares in both.

  In the awful darkness as hot, sticky blood fills my lungs. Choking me. The compulsion to claw at my throat.

  My lungs are clear, but I gasp for each breath.

  The dream—

  My vision goes dark for a second.

  Then Ice kneels in front of me. I remember where I am, and remember what he’s done, and I blink to clear my vision. Our eyes lock. Hands cup my cheeks, but I can’t move.

  He’s still holding the knife.

  I feel the cool metal near my eye. Light glints off the blade in my periphery. And I still can’t breathe.

  “I never wanted to hurt you, Jayde. Not like this. Truly, I’m as surprised as you must be.” His voice is strange, gentle and pitying, but his overall expression is mild and neutral.

  I don’t understand.

  “Please,” I gasp between breaths. “Stop.”

  “Haven’t I?” he asks.

  His frown grows more pronounced. Vacant eyes look past me, as though he can see straight through to the wall behind my head. He looks at me like I don’t exist—like I never have.

  And the sharp edge of a blade brushes against my cheekbone.

  “It’s remarkable.” His voice is so soft and breathy, it’s almost a whisper. “I thought I would feel something, but I don’t. I don’t feel a damn thing.”

  With a sigh, his eyes refocus on me, cool and indifferent. The blade presses into my cheek, pushed by his thumb. Threatening to break skin. I hold my breath.

  I can’t—

  Finally, a noise breaks the tension. The front door. The crack of
a doorknob hitting drywall.

  The slow increase of pressure on the knife pauses, but the blade doesn’t leave my cheek. I open my eyes to find Ice staring down the hall with wide, expectant eyes.

  When he looks to me again, I burst into tears. But he smiles and leans back. As he moves away, his hands—and the knife—leave my face unharmed.

  James calls my name from the great room.

  Ice chuckles, his eyes narrowing, and he stands as James skids to a stop at the end of the hallway. I can’t make out his expression through my tears and the hair falling into my eyes, but his voice and guarded posture is telling.

  He’s afraid.

  “James Reid.” Ice’s voice is conversational as he wipes his bloodied hand off on his jeans. “I seem to recall I promised to kill you if I caught you sneaking around here again.”

  James doesn’t respond. Then I hear a sharp inhale. He takes an awkward step back. A physical recoil. I can’t see, but I imagine his face twisting in horror, the same as in my dream.

  “Oh, god— What did you do?”

  What do I look like to him? On the floor. Slumped against the wall. Covered in blood. Can he even tell I’m still alive?

  Murmuring reassurance, I lift my head and brush the hair out of my face with the back of my hand. Ice looks down on me with a grimace—a mask of disgust. I ignore him.

  I need to go. I’m ready to go home.

  Can I stand in this condition? Can I still walk?

  I press both hands to the wall. They slip down the smooth surface as I drag myself to my feet. My legs tremble. Standing takes more concentration than it should, but I...

  I think I can do this.

  Then James says my name again—a weak, despondent sound that I hate more than anything.

  I wipe the tears blurring my eyes. Warm liquid tracks across my face—whether it’s blood or tears, who really cares? At least I’m steady enough to look up from the smears of red my hands left on the wall.

  James’ attention flicks between me and Ice. Eyes wide. Face pale. He still hasn’t moved from the far end of the hallway.

  This is my fault.

  I should have listened to him. I should have been more careful. I should have said, “Screw my duffel bag,” and gone home without bothering.

  “I’m fine.” I force a smile. “Honestly. It doesn’t...even hurt.”

  My hand falls away from the wall. I take my first step, but I glance at Ice as I pass by. Our eyes meet. A mistake. His glare is hostile. Animalistic.

  He says something, his voice rising.

  And the knife hits hard, slicing through my shirt and into my side. This is bad. I cry out, but I don’t fall back to the floor. Somehow, I’m still standing.

  I lean against the wall and struggle to catch my breath.

  Wow. It stings.

  My shirt grows damp and heavy. The warm, wet fabric sticks to my skin. This is very bad. But I don’t look. I don’t have time. I need to get out of here, so I can get help.

  Forcing each movement, I continue down the hallway.

  Ice doesn’t stop me, but James doesn’t do anything either. He merely watches in mute horror, tracking me with wide eyes. Frozen in place as I stumble closer.

  I can’t believe he came inside to find me. Even if he heard me scream, I’m not sure I could have done the same if I were half as afraid as I was a moment ago. And, after what he said in the car...

  I stand in front of him for a second, unsteady and wavering.

  Well... Is Ice done? Are we okay? Can I go home now?

  I open my mouth to speak without knowing what question to ask, but my legs buckle under my weight before I figure it out.

  Oh.

  James drops to his knees to catch me before I hit the floor. A hand brushes my injured side, but he quickly retracts it and pales further, his eyes locked on the blood staining his fingers.

  “Why?” he asks blankly.

  I cough. “So much for...taking off without me.”

  He says nothing, but he bares his teeth and turns his attention on Ice, who is still standing outside the open bedroom door. After adjusting his grip on me—careful not to touch my side again—he stands up.

  My head spins at the altitude change. I close my eyes.

  I feel warm. And...strangely light.

  “Why would you do this?” he asks, his voice shaking. “Why go this far? Why hurt her?”

  “It’s nothing,” Ice replies with a short laugh. “I simply felt damaged goods would better suit someone like yourself. Consider it a favor, James.”

  “You’re sick! What the hell did she do to deserve this?”

  Jostled by James’ movement, I open my eyes.

  He’s still yelling at Ice, who calmly counters everything he says. I don’t hear the exact words, but James is clearly upset. I’m upset. Angry tears form in his eyes as he bares his teeth in response to whatever was just said.

  “She trusted you!”

  Ice’s cold voice comes clearly: “Get out of my house.”

  James steps back, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He glances down at me, frowning as our eyes meet. His brows furrow, and he looks up and away.

  Then he turns to leave.

  Wait—

  I crane my neck to see down the hallway. Ice is still standing there, watching quietly. But I look past him.

  “My stuff?” my voice asks.

  James shakes his head. “We have to go.”

  Why did I say that? I’m bleeding to death, and I asked about my stuff? Ugh... What is wrong with me?

  My neck threatens to stop supporting my head. I hold onto James’ dark jacket and rest my cheek against his chest. He’s warm. His heart races through the fabric. I stare at my hand, mere inches from my face.

  Why is there so much blood?

  My weight shifts in James’ arms, and I open my eyes again. A drop of cold water lands on my face. When did we get outside? I don’t remember passing through the great room, but we’re beside the car now. His hand trembles as he tries to open the back door without dropping me.

  “Can you stand?” he asks.

  My vision tracks over the car slowly to meet his concerned gaze. He wasn’t able to open the door. I mumble something in agreement, and he carefully sets me on my feet.

  I lean against the side of the car and glance back to the house. Ice stands in the doorway across the small front yard. I can’t make out his expression. Only the dark red blood staining the sleeve of his grey shirt. Then he turns away and closes the door, and he’s gone.

  Will this be the last time I see him?

  “Here,” James says, resting a hand on my shoulder.

  With his help, I crawl into the backseat, tracking red on everything I touch. I don’t bother with the seatbelt. I situate my legs and hold my hands over the wound on my side. My shirt is saturated near the tear. A red stain on the pale fabric seat where I touched it. My body aches, pulsing with an uncomfortable warmth.

  James shuts the door.

  Footsteps race around the car, and he hops into the driver’s seat. He curses under his breath. Punches something. My attention leaves my side, wandering toward the front seat, where the bottom of his fist is still in contact with the top of the steering wheel.

  “We’re going to the ER,” he says, his voice low.

  I echo half of what he said as a question.

  If he answers, I don’t hear.

  The last time I went to the ER, I was young. I had pneumonia. I collapsed in the cafeteria at school. I barely remember it.

  Smoke could heal this, couldn’t he?

  Where are the twins? Why weren’t they here?

  The car sputters to life. Everything grows fuzzy—or...fuzzier. The sounds. The sights. The artificial lemon from the air freshener mixing with the coppery blood.

  My hands tremble from the effort of maintaining pressure on my side. But I think it looks worse than it is. Somehow, I know I’ll be okay. Somehow.

  Even so, time passes
slowly. Too slowly.

  I feel like I’ll wake up any moment—like it was all a dream. Another crazy nightmare. I’ll touch the tears on my cheeks and run my hands over smooth, undamaged skin. I’ll breathe and drink some water and—

  If I woke up, where would I be?

  The manor house? Ice’s bed? Home?

  Maybe I died when I hit my head on the Fourth of July. Maybe I’ve been in a coma, imagining everything that could have played out since then.

  Oh, good god.

  I stare out the window and watch the blurry world outside. My eyes don’t register the buildings or streets. I feel like I’m here—covered in blood in the back of James’ car—but I don’t feel like I’m anywhere. It feels like I don’t exist. Like I’m not real.

  Like none of this is real.

  A sound startles me to alertness.

  I open my eyes as James says something I can’t quite make out. Our surroundings seem greyer than when I last looked. Are we downtown?

  Did I lose more time?

  James continues speaking as he drives with one hand on the steering wheel, but I can’t hear clearly. I make out one word. Half a word. A single syllable. But I don’t understand. I don’t think he’s talking to me, anyway.

  Is he on the phone?

  I can’t tell.

  Suddenly, I’m outside, hobbling along with James’ help. A raindrop lands on my nose. My legs feel like jelly. Then I’m standing inside a brightly lit room—well, partially standing.

  And I still have no idea what’s going on.

  We’ve stopped moving, so I lean on James for support. I look around, trying to soak in my new surroundings. Plastic chairs and pale counters. Several people sitting or otherwise wandering about. There are a few posters on the walls. It’s familiar, somehow.

  I look to James again.

  Oh.

  He’s talking with someone. The woman, her brown eyes on me, glances away before replying, an urgent worry etched into her soft features.

  What were we doing?

  Wait, is this the hospital?