Loser II || WlW

Twenty-One

     I rush down the ladder, skipping rungs and jumping from midpoint. My ankle cracks when I hit the ground, but the adrenaline numbs the pain as I run and crouch near the body.

His face mixes with Trevor's as I'm swallowed by my senior year of high school; Prom night.

His floppy blonde bowl cut turns to a buzz cut. His peach fuzz turns into Trevor's five o clock shadow.

Everything comes back so clear. The dark lecture hall, the knife wounds.

His baby face morphs into a rock-hard jaw and beady eyes and suddenly he's sitting up.

Trevor is sitting up, staring at me.

"Why do you keep killing people, Loser?" His voice is distorted like he's a scratched CD.

I shut my eyes tight and re-open them to the boy lying on the ground.

Soft breaths come from his lips as he lifts his head. "You're dumb if you think you can outsmart him."

I swallow the lump in my throat. "Who?"

He forces a strained chuckle that turns into a cough of blood.

"I'm going to get you help," I tell him, pushing to my feet. Any number of bones can be broken in his body. If I move him, it might just make things worse. But as I stand, his breathing stops, and his body goes still.

I press my palm to his chest, hope I'll be able to feel the rise and fall of his breathing, but nothing. I start chest compressions.

"Come on, man," I beg through clenched teeth. "Just fucking breathe."

But as I pump his chest, I remember the lesson I learned from Trevor. It doesn't matter how much I beg. No one's listening. And even if I collapse in a puddle of tears, screaming for help, it won't fill this kid with life again. Slowly, I stop the chest compressions and sit back on my heels.

What did he say again? You're dumb if you think you can outsmart him.

"That's what you wanted your last words to be?" I mutter as I dig through the pockets of his fluffy snow pants.

He has a heavy mint container and a pocket knife, not the one he was swinging at me though. I glance at the knife that slid across the floor and lodged itself against a cardboard box of ice skates when he hit the ground.

I pop the mint container open and find his ID and some folded dollar bills.

Tyler Crossman.

One of Roger's sons. The older one but still only seventeen. Two years younger than me. Not even in college yet.

I sigh and put the ID back in the container, slide it back in his pocket.

Zachary is here. And Roger is working with him. For him.

I pull my phone out and dial my mom. She has to know more about Roger. She was his guidance counselor at the Alcohol Rehabilitation clinic for a while. She had access to his files.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

My fists clench, my jaw goes tight. The sadness in my stomach turns to a fire in my chest.

Why can't she answer her phone? Where is Brittany? Why did she decide to run off when she knows there's a killer on the loose? Why can't Zachary just leave me alone? Why did this stupid kid think he could take me on his own?