Ever After

Holding On

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This chapter is in Mark's perspective.

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I was running as fast as my knobby knees could carry me, but I didn't know where I was going. There were so many places to go, so many things to do, and so many things to see within the matter of three seconds; there was Jack, curled up in a ball, still frozen; Felix, storming to get his first indent in Will's face; and there was Killian, just as lost as I was, but most definitely not for the same reasons.

A lot of options were presented before me, but only so much could be made of so many decisions in such a limited amount of time. It was as if I were playing a game of Minute To Win It I'd never asked for, as if I were presented with a task far too complicated for sixty seconds' time. I felt, too, as if I were on the stage, as if the entire audience was judging me, seeing how greasy my hair was, how my shirt didn't fit, or how big the bulge in my pants was and whether or not it made me manly (but it didn't matter to the women, anyway).

There was the obvious option, the one that told me to run to Jack, to save him and to hold him and to tell him everything was going to be okay, just as he did to me in his own special way (saying things like "Hurry the fuck up, Mark" when we were running through the terrifying maze). I could hold onto his hand like he did whenever we walked; I could play his hair like a guitarist to their instrument; I could kiss away his tears and heal all emotional scars, placing Band-Aids on each and every wound.

But, at the same time, I couldn't. It would just be all the more reason for Felix to run over and attack from behind, to get in a good hit while I was distracted and susceptible. It would then get us into even more trouble than we were already knee-deep in, trouble that would be impossible to get out of, trouble that would be dozens upon dozens of times worse than what we'd thought was his breaking point. First, we'd watch him beat the shit out of Will; then, Jack would watch him beat the shit out of me (which is fair, since I had to repay the favour eventually); after that, though, our fate would no longer be as written in the stars above as it'd been before – it'd be up to Felix, up to him on whether or not he wished to murder us in cold (cold) blood.

On the other hand, I could do what no person in my shoes would be willing to do, what only the bravest of souls would dare challenge themselves to. I could run up to Felix and attack him while I had the chance, while his back was turned and tending to its own businesses (ones that weren't nearly as polite and delicate as the love I'd provide for Jack). Quite possibly, I could use my strike at the upper hand to punch him at the very back of his head, or maybe with a kick at the back of the knee, or, maybe – just maybe – I could jump on him altogether, thrusting what little weight I had onto his back, hopefully sending him into the cement with nothing short of one hundred pounds of determination.

Of course, though, that was never going to happen.

Instead, I took the coward's way out, finding that it was better to be alive and have the chance of Jack still breathing when I got back than to do something risky and let Felix possibly kill us both before the police could even arrive.

With the help of Will's release of my shoulder and Killian's reluctance to hold me back, I flung the two of them off of me, suddenly bursting out and into a rush of cold air across the rooftop, rushing back to the emergency exit we'd arrived from. I felt a strange mix of emotions collide against my back, pushing me onwards; the feeling of pain and yearning to help Jack, to pick him up and off of the ground, to bring him along with me; the sense of pride and triumph that came along with having the opportunity to conquer the beast, to finally overrule someone who'd been holding you down with the sole of their thumb; the feeling as if things were going to get better, as if things were going to change.