bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter fifteen, part two.

Sir's expression dimmed. "What?"

"You logged into my account?" Case asked, almost speechless with relief, elation, hope. He gauged Sir's demeanor: taken aback, confused, uneasy. "Holy shit . . . you did!"

"What?" Sir demanded, but his frustration had no impact on Case.

Case lowered his hands from his mouth. "How can I be on Facebook if I'm meant to be dead?"

"Wh—excuse me?"

He doesn't know! "Oh, my god," Case said, his gasp fishtailing into a cheer. "You see those green dots by everyone's profiles? That means they're online."

Sir's face turned to stone, but his eyes twinged with realization. And panic.

"Yeah. That's right." Case nodded, the sudden upper hand leaving him spiteful and cocky. "My profile has one, too. That green dot is telling all 600 of my friends and family that I'm online. As in, I'm alive."

"But I . . ." Sir examined the back of the phone. "But I took out the SIM card?"

"Doesn't fucking matter. The SIM just pings you to the nearest cell tower. But Facebook, you're able to get onto my account because my user info is tied to the app. And the app is saved on the SD card. It doesn't give a fuck about your SIM card or where you've signed on—it just cares that someone is using the account."

Sir stared at the phone. Silent. Still. Stunned.

He fucked up. As Sir's panic truly set in, Case began to laugh. Gloating, tasting his freedom. He'd won—it was Sir's sick game, but Case had won. "How does a dead kid use Facebook?" Thank God he never deleted that dead app. Thank God for his insecure need to be liked and his addiction to social media. "Dude. You're so stupid. You fucked u—"

"FUCK!"

The phone smashed against the wall. An explosion of shrapnel-like metal and glass.

Case snapped his mouth shut. Fear instilling compliance. I fucked up.

Sir swore again. Pacing. He swung his boot, kicking over the storage container—Case flinched as empty plastic skitter-scratched across the concrete.

Shit. Case remained silent. His muscles constricting as his insides revved. I fucked up, oh, fuck, I fucked up. So fucking stupid—why do I do this?

Sir clawed at his hairline. Smacked his temples. "Fuck-fuck-fuck-FUCK!"

I never learn. "I . . ." Too quiet, too quivering. Why don't I ever learn? "I'm sorry—"

"PICK THAT UP!" Sir gestured wildly in the direction he'd thrown the phone.

Case dove onto his hands and knees. He scooped up the fragments of broken phone, keenly aware of Sir pacing in around the basement. Pacing, muttering and swearing to himself.

"I didn't mean it." He swept the scraps of metal into a pile. "I'm sorry—ouch!" He whipped back his hand. A red pearl on the side of his finger. He'd cut himself on a shard of glass.

In his peripherals, he caught a sudden shift in movement. A blurry shape coming towards him. Coming fast. He glanced over, and a split second later threw himself backwards—but not in time to avoid Sir's boot to his face.

His head snapped back. He landed flat on his back, head smacking on the concrete. Case howled, reflexively clamping his hands over his face, nanoseconds before the burst of pain. The bursting of skin as his lip split open. Blood flooded into his mouth, carnal and coppery. Case let out a muffled scream, hands pressed against his mouth as if he could fuse the skin back together.