I stand on the toilet lid and throw my right leg out the window and duck my head to clear the pane. My left arm hooks the sill as my left leg goes out the window, and my shoulder strains at holding my full weight. Before I'm ready I am forced to let go. I land with a thud and then fall back on my ass. Pounding fills my ears, but it is not entirely my heart beat. The crowd is trying to break down the bathroom door.
I scramble to my feet and I stick close to the side of the house, where the light pouring from the window can't reach. I inch along, trying to steady myself, but I can still hear the crowd. With a just a few more feet until I reach the freedom of the street, I blow out a deep breath.
"You all right?" A low voice startles me so badly that I actually jump off the ground.
Blue Lightning sags against the side of the house; crutches prop up his loose frame. The earlier release of his anger has burned out the intensity in his eyes, and leaves him with tired regret; so much regret.
"Sorry." His voice vibrates in my gut like a tuning fork.
The hammering in my chest hurts my breast bone; I rest a hand there, trying to catch my breath. Everything in me quivers. With each step, spasms run up and down my legs. I rush past him, my legs buckling, but I keep moving.
"Sorry," he mutters again.
But I don't look back; I don't speak. I do what I do best. I run.
"Sorry."
The humid air sticks to me, like a damp, gauzy blanket; leaving me hot and chilled at the same time. My grief is like that - fiery and icy - a live crackling wire that torches pieces of me; the pain so relentless it leaves me numb for a time until it starts up again.
My legs carry me at a pace that I can't control, as if a motor is strapped to them. My arms flap along, trying to keep up. I don't even know if I am heading in the right direction, but I keep moving.
Sorry.
His voice hums in my ears, runs with me, through me, echoing in my empty corners.
Sorry.
I shake my head, side-to-side to knock it out. I run faster, through the soreness in my legs and the burning in my lungs.
Sorry.
It haunts my every step and so I move even faster, like my speed will be enough to throw it off my back. But like the luck I once had (and now have lost), this sticks to me and there's nothing I can do to shake it or outrun it.
YOU ARE READING
Pass Through You
Teen Fiction17-year-old Jane is ready to face her senior year in a new high school alone. Her dad's death has left her gutted, and has even killed her passion for drawing. But when she forms an unlikely relationship with an impulsive boy, she finds herself in...
