Faster Than Your Bullets

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

I go to sleep with a dizzy head and sore eyes. Fucking Peter thinking he's fucking precious until I effing kicked his ass out of the fucking door. No, I didn't cry for him. I haven't cried for anybody for years and I sure as hell won't cry for the little traitor.

Yet something inside me just keep falling, falling, into a bottomless pitch. Out of all people, it's Peter I have to lose. And out of all ways to lose him, it has to be over a girlfriend. Why is that? Why couldn't it have been something more serious and worth the fight? Family quarrel? Lost? Misunderstanding?

No, we have been through all that and we stuck together. He has always been there for me.

I'm done with running after you.

Maybe it was only me who feel protected. He was fed up.

It doesn't hurt because I know it's not true. I know he loves me. I'm literally his sister. It hurts because he didn't, just for a second, hesitate to say it. He just spitted it out like some well-known fact.

I am so sick with lending you a family to pretend your own.

I hug my knees tightly to my chest and let them touch my forehead. This stings because it's the truth. I don't have a family, and the closest things to it are Mrs. Duncan and Peter's. The Bradley treated me like their daughter, inviting me over for dinner every now and then, spending the night at their house at Christmas and even opened the Christmas gifts under the tree with them. Mrs. Bradley gives me a pair of gloves every year since she's notices I always lose them. I wonder what color are they going to be this year, that is if I am still invited.

I close my and sigh a shaky sigh; my mind wanders in the flow of time and wonders what would have happened if I hadn't pushed him so hard. The maybe I would be texting him right now, joking about how stupid Jacob Greene looked like when he dropped his lunch. Maybe I would be staying in his house for a sleepover, sneaking into the kitchen in his old blue PJs while he's holding the flashlight. Or maybe we would be drinking and dancing away at a party. It's Friday night after all.

No. Something snaps in me. If I hadn't pushed him, he wouldn't be here with me anyways. He'd be with his girlfriend, chatting and kissing and laughing and having fun, while I would probably be slammed against another wall in a random house. He wouldn't notice. He wouldn't care. It would be just the same. The only difference is that now both of us are angry, instead of just me. I smirk into my pillow. At least I pissed him off.

But do I want to?

Of course I don't.

Do I regret it?

Yes.

Wait, no.

There's nothing to be ashamed of. Had he been my best friend, the guy I first met in the dead of a July night, whom I spent countless nights camping in his room under a blanket and an umbrella, who was there for me and kissed my hair and assured me everything was going to be alright, then I wouldn't be here, suffocating myself with a green pillow and revising my memories with him, the boy who cried at his dog's unnecessarily formal funeral, his head on my soaked shoulder.

I sigh into the fabric and remove the pillow from my face, gasping for air, staring at the ceiling. Months ago he promised to help me decorate it. We were going to paint tiny golden stars on deep purple background resembling the night sky. But we never got the chance. Busy partying and drinking and dating and most recently, fighting. It's not like we've never fight before. We did. And we have fell out several times then got back together. But that was ages ago, before the age of sixteen. Something inside us changed at the time, and since he had always been on my side until, obviously, Scarlett Regan.