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Here's one thing I knew when it came to experiencing two of the same things being betrayal and being taken hostage more then once: I was sick of this shit.
Whether it be stupidity or just blatant bravery, I didn't miss a beat biting hard on the hand that clamped over my mouth—the same hand that muffled my died out screams to alert any passing faculty staff. I must've cut flesh because the taste of blood made a pass at my tongue—and with it, the sounds of a well deserved "fuck!"
I didn't think twice the second Chase withdrew his hand, a mouthful of curses ensuring from the damage I inflicted in a moment of panic and anger. But I knew that wouldn't be enough to give me a heads up.
Full-force, I threw my skateboard up and slammed it into Chase's face, as he tried to regain his senses from me splitting his flesh open, blood trickling seamlessly down his hand, which, in truth, I felt a slight pang of guilt that I immediately buried.
The blow sent him shockingly toward the ground, a string of viable painful groans ensuing from his lips. I didn't waste a second to wait for him to gather his bearings, and like a fire of truth I've never felt before, my anger and terror in mixed fusion fueled the adrenaline in my legs.
Breaking toward the school grounds rather then the woods was probably my first mistake, but I knew it was my best chance to find help.
It was weirdly empty considering a large party occurring in the dorms, and despite trying to get to the front of the school, the second I turned around, I felt that rising terror take full effect.
Chase was quite literally bounding after me, easily capable of reaching me if I slip up.
That made me run faster like my life depended on it, and in this instance, I was fucking hell bent on not dying or getting taken.
Fuck. That. Shit.
"Max!" He called after me, desperation apparent in his strained pants.
What? Did he expect me to just turn around and give him the benefit of the doubt when he tried to fucking kidnap me? Which begged the question: who the fuck was Chase? And why did he try to take me? What were his motives. . .unless. . .Oh fucking hell.
The realization struck me like a beacon of truth, and in this case, truth is shit.
I shut down whatever remorse or bitter acid feelings I felt, being betrayal or hurt, because now was not the time to drown myself in emotions. . .Emotions that could easily get me killed.
Every muscle in my body burned as I turned corners in the outside corridors before I managed to reach the front doors—and just as I heard the blissful sounds of students laughing and talking—a hand harshly grabbed my wrist, chucked my skateboard out of my other hand, and dragged me into a nearby room—a room I instantly recognized due to the large amount of football crates and old dummies stacked about. Somehow, Chase had thrown me in the outside footballer's storage room, and within seconds, bathed us in darkness when a door squealed shut.
