AllFreeNovel
Share Us
And what terrible secrets they were.
The thing between Sawyer, Travis, and Declan? I thought it was a fucking mess before, but now…what’s worse than a mess? A disaster? A nuclear fallout? This was much bigger than a simple mess. I’d take a mess over this any day of the year. This was…I didn’t even know what to say, except that I should’ve followed my gut.
Travis had hidden so much, and he’d done it so well.
Sawyer believed Sabrina didn’t hang herself, and after reading this journal, I was inclined to agree. Sawyer thought Declan did it, and though I knew Declan had a temper hidden beneath his placid self, I knew it wasn’t Declan.
It wasn’t Declan, because it was Travis.
It had to be Travis. Granted, I was only partway through the diary, but some of the passages were very descriptive in the things Travis liked to do to Sabrina. Sabrina and Declan were broken up, because Travis had gotten to her and forced her to do it. He liked taking charge and making girls do what he wanted. I’d say he was a sick individual, but that just sounded too cliched.
And besides, if Travis was sick, what did that make me?
I had to bring this journal to Declan and see what he thought. The picture it painted of Travis was not a good one. A darkness hid behind all those tattoos, a menacing darkness I’d recognized when I first saw him but didn’t do anything about. Now I was here, one of my hands practically broken, with Sabrina’s journal telling me nothing but the truth.
It was Travis. It was always Travis.
I tucked the journal into my backpack and got up, hurrying from the McDonald’s and back to campus. I darted across traffic, stupidly, I might add, earning myself half a dozen angry drivers whose car honks rose through the quiet night, but I didn’t care. I had to get back to the dorm, tell Declan about what I discovered.
When I reached my dorm, I burst in through the front door, heading to the staircase. Taking two steps at a time, I made it to my room quickly. I fumbled with the key, heading inside, instantly calling out, “Declan?”
My voice was only returned with the closing of the door behind me. Declan wasn’t here, not in his bed, not at his desk. What…
“Declan?” I said again, turning. The bathroom light was on. My feet drew me closer to the door, and I knocked with my uninjured hand, leaning a cheek on the door as I said, “Declan, I have to talk to you. There’s something you need to know.” I swallowed. “There’s a journal you should see.”
I waited, got no response. I leaned my ear against the door flat. Not a single sound rose in the bathroom. No running water. No piss. No sink or shower or anything. Not a single sound, and never had I wanted to hear his voice more.
“Declan?” I spoke his name again, this time a bare whisper, almost as if I knew in my heart of hearts what had happened. My eyes fell to the floor, and my stomach dropped when I noticed the red liquid peeking out.
I went for the knob, clumsily turning it since I wasn’t left handed. It was unlocked, but when I went to open it, the door got stuck on something. Using my whole body, every bit of strength I had left—not a lot, considering how my day had gone—I pushed open the door just enough to squeeze in after dropping my backpack. What I saw made me want to cry.
Declan was on the ground, crumpled and motionless. His neck was at an odd angle, half leaning on the wall of the tub and half on the floor. His legs were what stopped the door from opening all the way. His eyes were closed, his skin pale. A dark red gash sat on his wrist, a pool of blood oozing from it.
Blood. So much blood.
“No,” I whispered, falling to my knees, slipping in the blood. I felt his neck; his pulse was weak, but it was there. Wincing, I grabbed the bottom of my shirt and pulled it over my head. I wrapped it around his bleeding arm as best as I could, just below his elbow, tying it as tightly as humanly possible to try to staunch the blood flow. Everything was a lot harder to do with my left hand taking charge. My right was useless with its limp thumb. “It’s going to be okay,” I told him, not knowing if he was conscious or not.
His lips were pale, almost blue, his skin cold. Declan didn’t have much time left.
I looked around, spotting his phone on the tile. It slid beneath the sink, almost like Declan had collapsed and dropped it. I crawled toward it, my blood-covered fingers having a hard time pulling up the number pad on it. My gray eyes fell to him, and I felt my eyes tearing up as I called 911.
I couldn’t lose him. I wouldn’t.
“911, what’s your emergency?” A woman’s voice spoke on the line, and it took me way too long to snap back into my head. Staring at Declan, seeing all that blood—and it was a lot—he looked dead already.
It was official. This was the worst day of my life.
