Redemption (Saving You #2) [Coming soon]

Chapter One

Copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved.

    R E D E M P T I O N | Chapter One

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There were two words in my vocabulary that I resented to my fullest capacity.   What if. So many nights after my attack, I sat on my bed, what if’s running through my brain like a thunderstorm.

    What if I wasn’t walking around at night? What if Ryan wasn’t a psycho? What if humans were sane, civilized human beings that walked the earth with only positive and pure intentions? So many what if’s that I’d became disgusted by the mere mention of them in the same sentence. I’d gotten better, I’d stopped questioning what had happened and dealt with it, well as best as a situation like that could be dealt with.

    So, how come after so many months of being cured of this ridicule-questioning problem, had it decided to come back the night Nick Fresco found me on the edge of the bridge. On the edge – the verge – of ending my life. The questions came back in in full force.

    What if Nick never found me? What if I had jumped? What if I hadn’t survived? What if I had jumped, but survived? What if Nick told someone?

    The night Nick dropped me off at home (well, what he thought was my home, I'd made him drop me off on the other side of the lake behind my house so he didn't know I lived in the huge mansion by the lake); I couldn’t look him in the eye. He had seen me at my breaking point, at the point where I almost ended my life, and he’d stopped. How? I didn’t know, it was a mystery to even me.

    I’d silently grasped the car’s handle in my hand, and pulled it to open the door. As one foot slid out onto the cold pavement of the sidewalk, directly in front of the dark house, a warm hand grasped my upper arm. Not feeling my numbness from only a few minutes before, I’d ripped my body from his grasp, and spun in my seat to stare at him.

    As if noticing my dislike for touching, he dejectedly pulled back his hand with a sigh. He rummaged through the contents of the console between us quickly, withdrawing an unused, though scrunched up, napkin, and a pen. He scribbled something onto it, before shoving it in my direction. I stared at it cautiously, wondering what in the world he had written on it. What would he give to me? Seeing my face, he had sputtered a response.

    “It’s my number. If something goes wrong, and you feel like talking about it, give me a call or something.”

    I turned back around, ignoring the napkin in his hand, and stepped out of the vehicle. I didn’t need his pity; I didn’t need his worry or sympathy. I wasn’t going to lie and tell myself I was fine on my own, because I wasn’t, but if I was ever going to get help from someone, an ‘It’ boy was not at the top of my list.

    He grabbed my wrist, and I tried not to flinch. With a great deal of effort to hold in a cringe, I turned back to look at him, expressionless.

    “Please.” He said quietly. I don’t know what it was; the underlying sadness in his voice, or the puppy dog eyes, but evidently, the paper had been slipped into the clutches of my hand.

    And, here I was. A whole month later, staring dazedly at the crisp white napkin, laying wide open to the world amidst the mess of notes of my study desk. Every single night I’d sit before it, re-reading the numbers scribbled in black biro to the point where they’d been forever burnt into the recesses of my mind.

    I’d thought back to the days at school. They were different now. For once, I made eye contact with someone; it was Nick. Every single day since that night, he made eye contact with me, and I looked back at him.