Of Frost & Cinder (Old Version)

Paranoia

Chapter Twenty-Four

The fight between wake and sleep lingers over my pounding head, and just as I'm about to succumb to the latter, I'm stirred by the rumble of low, hushed voices, followed by the slamming of a heavy door.

In an attempt to sit upright, my weak arms buckle beneath my weight and I somehow fling my body onto the floor. My face lands smack into the coarse bristles of Nina's favorite rug. She'd be furious to see me, with dried blood matted on my hands and face, lying on her prized, five-hundred dollar designer rug.

Foreign body heat overwhelms my own as a pair of hands grapple my arms, attempting to pull me from the floor. Blood rushes through my bruised skull the second they move me, igniting nausea far worse than what I've experienced before.

"Shelland, take it easy," the person says, and I'm cut with rage at the familiarity of the voice.

"No!" I moan under my breath, struggling to get out of Dad's vice grip. I blindly feel for the couch again and plummet until I hit cushion. "Why am I here?"

Dad clears his throat before he answers. "Your friend, Beck. He brought you over a couple days ago."

"A couple of days?" I lean forward, letting another wave of nausea subside, but it comes with the metallic aftertaste of bloody memories.

I am you, you are me, and we are kindred. I swallow down hard on the bile rising up my throat. What did that mean? What was that thing, that faceless, creepy imitation of a girl—was that me?

"So I've been out this whole time?"

Dad nods. "How are you feeling?"

Annoyed. Resentful. Betrayed.

"Fine." I force out, but deep down I want to scorch everything in sight. "I need to go."

I lean all my weight on the arm of the couch in another attempt to push myself up. Dad quickly takes hold of my elbow to help, but I recoil, pushing away from him and launching toward the front door.

Dad straightens his spine. "And where exactly do you plan on going?"

"Anywhere but here," I spit. "I can't even look at you right now."

"Excuse me? You better check your tone." His voice is hard, and I cringe by habit. Normally this stern voice is followed by a lecture and grounding. "You're not leaving this house until your mother gets off work."

A laugh bursts out of me before I can catch it. "Of course! Just pawn me off on Mom, like always."

Dad frowns and the chagrin battles between his brows. His oblivious act only further infuriates me. "What's going on with you? You've never acted like this before."

"Oh, it's nothing of consequence," I sneer.

Part of me revels in how puzzled he is. Logically, I know I should stop snapping at him, but I've spent the last few weeks building up this wall—a dam, really—to protect myself. When I learned about his Elite secret, it was like strapping a bomb on the wall. Then the dam was detonated, and now the words just keep flooding out of me like a river of venom.

"Per usual, just ignore me and go work on some routines or something. Gotta practice, practice, practice for Nationals, right?"

"I pulled you out of Nationals," he counters.

"You what?" That familiar warmth prickles on my palms. "You made me get up at six am every day to run before school, and then meet you at the rink precisely at four-thirty to train, doing the same routines over and over for hours until my legs were practically Jello. You made me quit drama!"