Loser II || WlW

Thirty-Nine

I can't see where the shot lands. Slamming my body into Roger's as he fires the gun takes every last bit of strength I have and I hit the ground as blood splatters across the snow. Everything goes black as the cold seeps through my clothes. I'm floating until I'm not. Until I'm sweating. Until I blink awake and find myself on the couch in front of the fireplace. The wound in my shoulder aches into my bones, all the way down to my fingertips.

"I cleaned it up for you," Chrissy says and I gasp. I hadn't noticed her sitting in the dining chair on the opposite side of the room, still as a statue. "It's patched up too but I'm not a doctor. You probably shouldn't move too much before tonight."

I ignore her, push to my elbows despite the pain pulsing through my chest. "What's happening tonight?"

Her lips pull into a small smile and I can't help but notice her bright red lipstick like she's getting ready for an event. She doesn't respond.

"Who did Roger shoot?" I try.

Her smile falls. "Roger may have been the one behind the trigger but he certainly isn't at fault for your actions."

I let a breath out through my teeth, try to push myself higher on the couch. "Who was it?" Any attempt at seeming threatening is diminished by the way I wear my pain on my face.

She folds her chubby fingers on her stomach, raises an eyebrow at me. "Didn't you see the life drain from his body?"

His

Relief floods my chest. So, not Brittany or Grace.

Chrissy's lip twitches into a frown. "You look pretty smug with yourself. For someone who claims to be so much better than Zachary, you sure are happy about murdering an innocent man."

My shoulder screams in protest as I sit up fully. "Maybe we have different definitions for 'innocent'." I wouldn't consider any of the boys on this property innocent. Especially not my brother. My heart clenches in my chest. "Was it Zachary?"

Chrissy sits forward, a shadow falling over her expression. "Do you think you'd be alive now if Zachary were gone?" She scoffs. "No one has as much empathy for you as he does."

So, it must have been Fake Ron. If Roger was holding the gun and it wasn't Zachary, it had to be Fake Ron. The lack of sympathy I have for taking his life is concerning but I brush it aside and suppress a shiver, shove my hands in my pockets, feel my fingers brush against something cold. The heavy metal against my fingertips is familiar, it has to be a pocketknife, but I don't remember bringing mine on the trip.

Chrissy raises an eyebrow at me. I stare back, pull my hand from my pocket as nonchalantly as possible but her eyes narrow at me. "Would you like some tea before the ceremony?"

I nod, hoping she'll be distracted long enough for me to analyze the object in my pocket.

Did I really have a useable weapon this entire time without realizing it?

I don't waste any time as she pushes from the chair and makes her way to the kitchen. I pull the object out of my pocket with my good hand and flip it over. It's a pocketknife but it's not mine. Maybe Brittany was able to sneak one from Ron's pocket when he was restraining her and she slipped it to me when I hit the ground. Brittany's sneaky. She could have managed but I don't know how Zachary would have missed it.

The floor squeaks under my feet as I stand.

Chrissy rushes back, a hand stretched out to usher me back to my seat. "If you could—"

I turn on her, swing the knife so it's pressed against her throat. "Don't move or I'll kill you."

The instance of fear melts away quickly and is replaced with a smug grin. "I don't know what Zachy sees in you," she says. "We should have killed you the day we got here."

"Where's Brittany?" I ask.

She lets out a nervous chuckle, rolls her eyes. "I'd never betray him."

"You're insane," I spit.

"You're the one holding a knife to my throat," she argues.

"Tell me where Brittany is."

She tries to take a step back, but I stay with her, hold the knife firmly. "Don't test me."

"What are you trying to accomplish?" she asks. "You're never going to get out of here alive. You're outnumbered. Under geared. If you get through Zachary, Roger will shoot you. What are you going to do with Roger's kid? Will you murder him too?"

My teeth clench. "You guys chose this."

"You're going to kill all these people for Brittany?" she continues. "You were still questioning her role in the death of her own sister less than a week ago."

My expression wavers. I can tell because Chrissy's lips perk into the slightest smile. I shake my head. "You guys were planting fake shit in my head. And you stole my medication. I was questioning everything."

She shrugs. "I'd never question Zach."

"Well, I'm not in a cult," I snap. "Now, tell me where Brittany is before I— Before I..."

"Before you what?" she asks. "Before you kill me?"

"Chrissy," I warn.

She pushes the knife away from her neck. "I don't think you could." She pushes my shoulder, the bad one, and electricity jolts down my bones.

"Don't," I snap.

"Or what?" she taunts and gives me another shove, this time harder.

I clench my jaw, try to force the nausea down.

She grabs the wound, squeezes. "Your brother won't protect you anymore if you kill the love of his life."

The love of his life. I'd gag if I wasn't so focused on the stabbing pain ripping through the flesh on my shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" I hit her arm away, press my hand to the fresh gauze. My fingers come away bloody.

"Or what?" She's laughing as she lunges at me, reaching again for my shoulder.

Something ignites inside of me, pushing all feelings of guilt and shame away and I'm thinking about how I can't let her touch my shoulder again or I might collapse into a useless heap on the ground as I hold the knife out to defend myself. It pierces her chest as she lunges at me. Blood bubbles around the blade, drips down my hand. 

Her eyes go wide. "What did you do?"

I can't breathe. I can't get air to fill my lungs fast enough, as I stand, still clutching the knife. The knife that's wedged next to Chrissy's sternum.

"I told you to stop." I try to sound intimidating but it comes out as more of a whimper. A plea for forgiveness. "Hold this." I take her hands and wrap them around the base of the knife as I half jog to the kitchen and search through a drawer for a rag. "Don't move the knife, okay?" I shout to her but she isn't responding. I glance up at her but she's got her back to me. "Chrissy? Hello?" Where are all the damn rags in this house? "I'm going to find something to stop the—"

The thud of her body hitting the floor cuts me off. I race back to her, empty-handed and as I crouch near her and feel for a pulse, it's obvious I'm too late.

There's so much blood.

With trembling hands, I grab the pocketknife from her palm and, for the first time, notice the writing under Chrissy's blood. I swipe the blade across my jeans and read the Sharpied-on note in Zachary's messy scrawl.

We're not that different. Use it.