Scarred (Bullied Book 5) (Bullied Series)

by Vera Hollins

  “Shreya, darling, how about you play a game with Mateo?”

  Mateo and Shreya snapped their eyes to me. “Play with her?” Mateo asked as Shreya said, “I don’t know how to play chess.”

  I clapped my hands together. Hehe. “Perfect! Mateo, you can teach her.”

  He frowned. “Teach her?”

  Shreya stared at her lap, remaining silent. I met Mr. J.’s gaze as he observed me intently, his lip twitching. I communicated with my eyes, indicating he should pitch in.

  “Yes,” he said at last. His expression was serious, but his eyes twinkled with amusement. “You should teach this girl how to play.”

  Mateo’s frown deepened. “You’re a better player. You should teach her.”

  “Seriously?” I asked him, pressing my hand against my chest theatrically. “You’re going to refuse a damsel in distress? Surely you’re more noble than that!” He narrowed his eyes at me, and I blinked at him innocently.

  “It’s time for me to go to my room anyway. It’s getting late,” Mr. J. said and yawned with an exaggerated stretch. He moved his wheelchair to go.

  “Getting late? But it’s only seven,” Mateo said, crossing his arms over his chest, making his bicepses bulge and stretch the sleeves of his T-shirt to the maximum. I noticed Shreya covertly glance at them.

  Mr. J. halted, staring daggers at him. “Are you going to tell me when my bedtime is now?” Mateo snapped his mouth shut. “Good. You were losing this game anyway, so I just saved your pride in front of the girls.”

  He wheeled himself out of the room as Mateo gaped after him. I bit into my lip to suppress my laughter. Yeah, he’d saved Mateo’s pride only to shatter it with that comment. Nice one, Mr. J.

  Mateo met my gaze. He didn’t look happy at all.

  “Oh, come on, don’t be a Grumpy Cat. I’m sure Shreya would be happy to learn from you. Isn’t that right, Shreya, darling?”

  Shreya nodded, playing with the ends of her hair as she looked at some spot on the board. I couldn’t be sure because of her darker skin tone, but it looked as though she was blushing.

  “Okay, so are we playing or what?” Mateo asked gruffly, refusing to look at her.

  I tilted my head to the side. Why was he being so difficult about this?

  Shreya sat across from him, and they set up the board. As Mateo explained the rules, I studied his face, noticing he hadn’t looked at Shreya at all. Shreya didn’t say anything, acting like her usual bright self, but I could see that Mateo’s attitude bothered her.

  Since Mateo was playing as White, he made the first move and then started typing something on his phone as he waited for Shreya to decide how to open. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I fished it out. It was a text from Mateo.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  I played dumb.

  “Doing what?”

  His next text came after his second move. “Trying to hook me up with your friend.”

  I pressed my lips together so they wouldn’t curve up.

  “Gasp! I would do no such thing!”

  “Yes, you are. You know how it ended the last time you played matchmaker.”

  I met his serious gaze. A flicker of guilt passed through my chest because Shreya still seemed hooked on Barbie, and Mateo shouldn’t be anyone’s second choice. We didn’t need history to repeat itself.

  No, this time it would turn out well. Mateo and Shreya were destined to be together! They had to be.

  “Give her a chance. You’ll be blown away by her talent for knitting, fixing cars, and unclogging toilets.”

  His frown deepened as he read the message. He made his next move, his face twisted into the biggest pout possible, and then send me another text.

  “You’re just making all that up, and it’s not funny. Just stop. I’m not interested.”

  He pocketed his phone and focused all his attention on the game, speaking only when he needed to explain something to Shreya. I stared stubbornly at him, refusing to admit defeat. He had been withering away all these months since Sarah broke up with him, and I was done seeing him act as though his life had ended that day.

  Shreya was perfect for him, and I was going to prove it to him, sooner or later.

  It was past ten when I got home. I’d spent some time hanging out with Mateo, trying every once in a while to steer our conversation to the topic of Shreya, but he wasn’t having it. So, I didn’t push it anymore, deciding to try again next time.

  Mom had called me to tell me she was going out with her best friend, and knowing their tendency to drink wine until late into the night, I didn’t expect her home yet. The silence in the house was deafening, reminding me of how much I hated this place.

  I wanted my old home. I wanted my parents to reconcile and stop finding every single reason to criticize one another. I remembered the times when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They had kissed in front of me and Steven all the time, so we’d had to get over how gross they were, but they had been an example of a perfect marriage.

  So why the hell did it all go wrong? Why did their love for each other disappear? Why did they give up?

  Loneliness crept deeper inside of me as I climbed the stairs. Steven hadn’t texted me back, and as I neared his room, I hoped against hope he was in it and not drugging himself into oblivion somewhere out there.

  I squashed another wave of guilt and knocked on his door. There was no answer.

  I sighed. I should’ve checked if his car was in the garage. I knocked again, tapping my foot as I waited for an answer. Nothing.

  I gritted my teeth and entered his room anyway, expecting it to be dark, but it wasn’t, and my heart began pounding for some reason.

  “Steven?” I looked around his room. His jacket and shoes lay on the floor, thrown away carelessly. The door to his bathroom was ajar, and the light was on. “Steven, are you in there? If you’re pooping, let me know so I don’t have to stumble on that sight and be traumatized for life.”

  More silence.

  A tight knot twisted in my stomach. Something wasn’t right.

  I took slow steps toward his bathroom. “Steven?” I swallowed hard. “If you’re really taking a shit, I’d rather you tell me now than play a joke on me.” There was still no answer, and I stopped, reaching for the handle. “Okay, ready or not, I’m coming in.”

  I clenched my teeth together and pushed the door open. A gasp stuck in my throat.

  Steven was lying at a strange angle on the floor, his eyes shut and mouth wide open.

  “Steven!” I rushed in, sliding to my knees, and shook him. “Steven, can you hear me? Wake up!”

  There was no response. His body was completely limp. I shook him again. His lips were tinged blue on his pallid face. I looked at his motionless chest in horror.

  “No, no, no.”

  I leaned over his mouth and nose to check if he was breathing, straining to hear or feel anything, but he wasn’t breathing at all. I fumbled with my phone as I tried to take it out of my pocket, and I pressed my fingers to his neck to feel for a pulse, whimpering when I couldn’t find one. I put my ear to his chest. His heart wasn’t beating. No. I wasn’t doing something right. I had to be wrong.

  “You’re not doing this to me. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay,” I chanted as I pressed my fingers against his neck, feeling for his pulse again and again, but I found nothing, and my phone slipped out of my hand before I could catch it, clattering loudly to the floor.

  I stared at him, blind and deaf to everything but him as the truth settled in my chest like a knife that pierced me all the way down to my soul.

  I couldn’t help my brother. Not anymore.

  He was dead.

  I rocked back and forth as I held Steven’s dead body against me, staring off into space. I was cold. So cold.

  “Why?” I whispered. “Why, why, why?” I clutched him more tightly. “This is your worst prank, you idiot. Your worst.”

  I closed my eyes and rocked mysel
f faster, ice rushing through my veins and straight into my heart. My chest clenched.

  I tried to smile, but my lips refused to move. “You see? It’s not funny. Not even one percent.” My voice cracked. I swallowed the lump that had lodged itself in my throat.

  Why did I feel so cold?

  I ran my hand through his hair, tightening my fingers around his messy strands. “You’re going to wake up, right? You’re going to wake up and laugh in my face because you got me and you got me so good. Right?” I chuckled. Then chuckled some more. “Right?!”

  “Steven!” Mom cried out, rushing into the bathroom, followed by the paramedics I’d called several minutes ago.

  The world went hazy as someone pushed me to the side and shouts, cries, and utter frenzy filled the bathroom. Someone led me out of the room and made me sit in the chair, saying something, but I couldn’t hear anything.

  All I heard was the last conversation I’d had with Steven.

  The last conversation we would ever have.

  Because my brother was not coming back.

  I hadn’t shed a single tear since Steven died. Mom had compensated for that, or, I should say, overcompensated, because she hadn’t stopped crying since the night I found him, and she was turning into a shadow of the woman I knew. She’d aged overnight, and she spent all her time in Steven’s room, as if he would come back at any moment. At night, she kept calling out his name, weeping. She thought I didn’t know. But I knew. Because I’d been sitting outside his door, staring ahead into nothingness as I thought about death and tragedy.

  Steven had died of cardiac arrest caused by an accidental heroin overdose. That was what the reports said. I’d arrived too late, unable to do anything to help him—unable to turn back time and stop myself before I said those awful words that led him to his death.

  Because it was my fault. My fault for not listening to him. My fault for not understanding him. My fault for not having patience. My fault for saying those vile words. My fault for not coming home sooner.

  I parked my car in front of our old home in Somers and got out, staring at the clear sky overhead. It was sunny and unusually hot for mid-April. It didn’t feel right. Steven’s funeral was today. There should be rain, and clouds, and cold. It should be so cold, like the cold in my body that had seeped deep inside me and promised to stay there forever. It was good I wasn’t attending his funeral, anyway.

  I entered the empty house, which held so many happy memories. Pain hit me when I saw Steven’s old jacket still hanging on the wall-mounted coatrack, left there to collect dust. Right there, in the living room, were a bunch of framed photos of Steven on the walls, and a couple of his favorite movies lay forgotten on the bottom TV shelf. I knew that if I went into the kitchen, I would find his Hulk mug in one of the cabinets—his most favorite cup back in elementary school—along with other stuff. So many things left scattered around, left to fall prey to time.

  My steps heavy, I headed to the attic. Steven and I had spent a lot of time there as kids, playing and dreaming of the many things we wanted to do together when we grew up. That seemed like another life. Maybe it was. Maybe I’d entered some alternate universe, and I’d find a portal to go back, and everything would be fine. Steven would be there, laughing one of his hyena-like laughs that had always grated on my ears, and I would complain how annoying he was.

  I stepped into the attic, taking in the space, which was covered in dust and old dreams. He wasn’t here. He would never come here again.

  “We were supposed to sail around the world together, moron,” I whispered. There was no answer.

  I dragged my feet over to the wooden chest containing our toys and opened the heavy lid. Mom had refused to throw any of them away, keeping them as if they were some treasure. Only now, they seemed like an echo of a past that didn’t even matter anymore. How could it matter when he was dead? How could all those times we’d argued over who was a better Jedi or the smarter between the two of us matter, when nothing, absolutely nothing would bring him back to life?

  My chest tightened. I picked up his plastic lightsaber and swung it through the air, acting as if I were fighting against him, just like when we were kids.

  “For your information, you were a terrible Jedi. I was better. Way, way better.”

  I took another swing, and then another, and another, until my arm started burning and my chest was heaving, lacking for air. It hurt. My chest hurt.

  I dropped the lightsaber onto the floor and went to sit in the alcove of a small circular window, not bothering to brush off the dust from the wooden seat. We used to sit here and play cards. It was here that he’d taught me how to play poker, and it was here that I’d taught him how to do some cool card tricks I’d learned from other kids at school. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

  “Remember that time we played poker and I won for the first time? You had to wear an ‘I’m the biggest loser’ sign on your forehead the whole day. You even went to the store wearing that sign.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath, pain splitting my chest open. I’d laughed so much that day. I’d even taken a dozen photos of him, printed them, and taped them on the walls of his room, just for kicks. Little did I know that he wasn’t the biggest loser.

  I raised my trembling finger and wrote “I’m the biggest loser” on the dust-covered window. My throat closed up on me.

  “I’m the biggest loser,” I whispered. “Not you. Never you.”

  I flinched when I felt something wet on my cheek, and I pressed my hand against it. My eyes widened. I was crying.

  “No, I won’t cry.” I wiped away that traitorous tear. “I should laugh. Yes. You always loved laughing.”

  I let out a choked laugh, but it created heat that seared a path down my chest and stomach, making it so hard to breathe. New tears blurred my vision, but I refused to let them fall. I rubbed my eyes to chase them away. I wouldn’t cry. There was no point in crying.

  I forced out another laugh, grimacing at how painful it was. “You would tease the shit out of me if you saw me like this.”

  I willed out another laugh, and another, harder and harder, until all that was left was noise, rage, and pain—so much pain—and I was suffocating. I needed my brother. I needed him more than anything. I needed him to appear here and tell me I’d imagined everything, that he was alive. That he had never gone.

  I stopped laughing, my face completely wet with tears. I was mad. So, so mad. He wasn’t supposed to die. He was supposed to see the world, get old, and have at least ten grandchildren. Not this. Never this. It was too early. Too soon.

  I fisted my hand until it hurt.

  “Why did you leave me?”

  I punched the wall, embracing the explosive pain as it burned through my hand. The previously scraped skin of my knuckles broke open, and blood burst out.

  “Why did you leave me?”

  I punched the wall again, feeding on the pain. This was good. This pain was good.

  “Why?” I hit harder, leaving more blood on the wall. “Why?” I hit even harder. “WHY?!”

  I hit again and again, and I screamed. I screamed from the depths of my ravaged heart, blind with tears and fury. Nothing would ever be right. I would never see him again.

  “Come back, you stupid idiot!”

  I punched again and again and again, seeing nothing, spiraling down into the pain, until my hands were caught, and I was pulled into a tight embrace.

  “Enough,” a gentle voice said in my ear. I tried to move, to chase after that sickening pain again, but he wouldn’t let me. I closed my eyes and sobbed. I was so powerless.

  “Steven, Steven, Steven . . .” I clutched his shirt, pulling him as close to me as I could. “Why did you leave me?” I tugged at his shirt. “Why did you have to be such an idiot? You promised me we would prank our grandchildren together. You promised me we would always be there for each other . . . You’re a liar!” I screamed and hit at his chest, and the arms wrapped more tightly around me. �
�You’re nothing but a liar! I hate you! I hate you so much!”

  I screamed again, drowning in hurt, until I was drained of everything. Until I couldn’t find the end of my pain. Until I just wanted to lay down somewhere and do nothing for the rest of my life. I sagged against him, feeling tired. I was so, so tired.

  “That’s good. Let it all out,” the voice said.

  I clutched his shirt, sniffling, but then his scent sank in, and I was pulled back into reality. This wasn’t Steven’s scent. This scent was more masculine, more sensual. It wasn’t a brotherly smell at all.

  I froze and snapped my eyes open, panic gripping me at the realization that I was being held by a guy. . . And then I saw him.

  No, it wasn’t just any guy. It was Masen. He was here. He was holding me.

  Letting out a strangled sound, I shoved him away and took a dozen of steps back. He returned my gaze silently, not even a trace of the usual cockiness or derision on his face.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I wiped away my tears angrily, swallowed by shame. He’d just witnessed my weakest moment. As if it weren’t enough that my brother had died, I also had to make a fool out of myself in front of Masen fucking Brown.

  “I heard your mom say to your dad you were probably here, but they couldn’t leave to look for you because the funeral was starting.”

  I sneered at him. “So, you, of all people, decided to play the role of the search party?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, his expression blank. “I just wanted to do it.”

  I curled my lip. “This definitely proves you don’t have any brains. There’s no other explanation for why you’d come here.”

  He clenched his jaw. “I came here because I’m sorry, okay?”

  I stared at him incredulously, my hate for him festering. Just when I thought I couldn’t hate him more, he did something to prove me wrong. “Wow. So, it takes a death for you to change your tune?”

  A subtle sneer twisted his face. “Make no mistake, I still don’t like you, but Steven was my friend, and I don’t want to keep fighting with you after this.”

  I clenched my fists hard, despite the deep ache it caused in my knuckles. This self-absorbed, infuriating motherfucker. Like everything revolves around him.