𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝙶𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜(𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙼𝚎)

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚘𝚞𝚛

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

song of the chapter: bubblegum bitch

"i wanna be adored."

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

"This isn't gonna end well," I realized as we all sat in the kitchen the next day.

         I was practically swimming in one of Adam's old shirts and a pair of shorts. I had to tie the extra material.

"What if Warner finds us?" Juliette asked, turning to me for an answer.

"Oh, you two are in trouble," I scoffed. "I'll be fine."

"I don't know, you did commit treason," Adam pointed out.

"I can do no wrong in my brother's eyes," I informed him. "He spoils me rotten. In his eyes, I'm perfect. My father, on the other hand." I stopped to sigh, tapping my fingers. "If he finds me—"

"He won't find you," Adam promised. "I'm gonna get in the shower."

         We nodded at him and let him go. Juliette sighed, resting her head in her hands. I crossed my arms, leaning back in my chair.

"You know, he's not as psychotic as he seems," I told her. She scoffed, obviously not believing me. "I'm serious."

"Why did you want to run away, then?" she wondered.

"It wasn't because of him," I shrugged. "I mean, we did fight a lot. But I appreciated him being there. It's nice having a scary brother. Especially when you're the only girl there. I left because of the lifestyle. It was horrible, watching people die. Being forced to kill."

"You were forced to kill?" she questioned, her eyes widening.

"Yes," I nodded. "My father's been making me kill since I was about eleven." I got the tiniest sense that maybe I was oversharing.

"Oh," she gasped, her eyes wide.

"He wants people to fear me," I explained.

"That's horrible," she shuddered.

"I'm really jealous of you, Jules," I informed her, shrugging my shoulders. "Your power."

"What?" she demanded, seeming a bit angered by that "Not being able to have anyone touch you for your entire life?"

"Yes," I nodded. "I hate when people touch me."

           She was about to respond, but she paused, and I noticed her eyes lingering on my right arm. Usually, I covered that arm with long sleeves. It was deformed from burn scars.

"Fire," I addressed.

"What?" she asked, her cheeks going red.

"I was in a fire when I was two," I recalled. "They were able to get rid of the scars on my face and chest, but not my arm."

"Oh," she sighed. She held her hands out to me, showing me the scars on them. "These are from a fire, too. My mother put my hands in the fire."

"My father pushed me in," I recounted, trying to make her feel better about her family life. "He was drunk, I bumped into him. So, he pushed me in the fire. Someone jumped in and saved me. . . I don't remember who."

Before she could answer, someone started pounding at the door. We both jumped up, exchanging a glance. I immediately grasped a gun. She took two.

"Do you know how to shoot it?" I challenged, my eyes widening.

"No," she admitted, her face going pink.