Dear Simon,

Chapter Eleven

Forewarning: This chapter contains curse words, homophobia, violence, and verbal abuse. Read at your own discretion.

Dear Simon,

I messed up big time. I tried to help someone out of a rough situation - the guy who's been blackmailing me - but I only made things worse for him and myself. I know how it sounds - helping your blackmailer with something seems weird and kind of stupid - but the truth is: the details are messy and I can't really discuss it. Were there any times when you royally ruined things to an unfixable point?

Earnestly, Ethan

It's been three days. I haven't seen Harry in school, he hasn't been online, and all of my calls have been declined. I've fucked up and I don't know how to fix it. I can't go to his house because I don't know where he lives. I was right about my mirror though. Mom threw a fit. She doesn't believe in bad luck but she also isn't a fan of mirror shopping.

My phone vibrates and forces me out of my thoughts. It's a "Find My iPhone" location sent. It says "Harry's iPhone". I check the time and it's 6:45 AM. I guess I'm skipping today.

It's been three hours of walking through neighborhoods. I think I'm getting close to the location. The sun is shining bright in the sky and, consequently, it makes me hot and sweaty. I'm already exhausted. The location leads me to an old trailer house after another hour of walking. Its black shutters are closed over the windows The porch looks like it could cave any second with the roof. Why the hell would Harry be here? I knock. Nothing. I knock harder. Silence.

I try the doorknob and it's locked. As I go to turn away, I hear a thud from inside. There is someone home - if you'd even call the place that.

"Hello?" My insides churn and I feel myself feeling small. My insides churn.

Another Find My iPhone ping. It's at this location so Harry is definitely in there. I walk around. There's a window in the back. I try to pry it open but it's locked.

"Harry? Are you there?" I listen. Other than birds chirping in the trees, I don't hear anything. Another location ping. They're becoming more frequent. He could be in danger. I don't call the cops or anything because what if he's not in danger? I don't know what's happening and I can't be rash.

I look around, there's a wooden shed in the backyard. I hurry over and try the door. It's locked from the inside. "Damn it!" I need to talk to him - to apologize to him. I rush back to the yard and grab the first stick I see. I gather all of the negative emotions I've been harboring for my entire life and launch the stick at the window. It bounces back. "Fucking!" My frustration is boiling like lava.

I pull my phone out of my pocket - nothing. No pings, no texts, no calls. Fuck it. If I could break my mirror, I could damn sure break a window. I throw my phone as hard as I can at the window. The window crashes in pain. The shards rain down and I force my way into my newly-made entrance.

"Shit!" My hot, electrified pain forces up my leg as I notice my leg is cut from the window glass. Hot blood streams from my lower leg and my ripped (and now bloody) jeans. Great. Just great. I highly doubt there are Band-Aids around. I carefully lower myself from the window and limp over to my phone. It's shattered to the point the screen won't turn on. I put it in my black hoodie's pocket.

"Harry? Are you there?" Silence. I limp around the trailer calling for Harry. My leg hurts like hell. Each step is fire up my leg.

Thump.

"Harry? Is that you?"

Thump. Thump.

I struggle towards the progressing thumping. It leads to a wooden door; I try the doorknob. It's locked.