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“Tell me every terrible thing you did, and let me love you anyway.” ~Sade Andria Zabala
Prologue
Dalton
They tell me I used to love the color black.
There are many things from my past that I hate.
Myself and the dark color surrounding me are the two things leading the pack right now.
People whimper and cry beside me, and I’m just numb, so broken that my pieces can’t combine enough to form wetness in my own eyes.
I deserve this.
I deserve watching the love of my life with her ashen face and hands crossed on her stomach in constant repose as the preacher talks about her devotion to life and helping others.
I deserve the looks from her mother and father that speak of the million ungodly things they wish would happen to me.
I deserve the blame my own parents planted at my feet for my involvement in the steps that led up to today.
I deserve it all.
The torture.
The accident.
The getting my heart ripped from my chest because of an undiagnosed brain bleed that snuffed out the life of the most beautiful girl in the world.
She was fine when I left the hospital that day. Even her mother assured me she would be okay.
She didn’t deserve this.
She didn’t deserve the monster that tormented her daily.
She didn’t deserve to suffer at the hands of an idiotic boy and the army of bastards willing to hurt her at his command.
She deserved the world, and yet she gets a wooden box and six feet of dirt, all the while I’m left on earth without her.
I can’t do that.
That can’t happen.
Our story doesn’t end this way.
It should be me in that casket. Me leaving this world behind so she can shine in the bright light of the sun and live her life to all its glory.
It should be me.
It should be me.
It should be me.
My hand trembles as I reach into the inside pocket of my sports coat.
I’m not scared or afraid of what comes next.
It’s the anticipation, the thrill of joining her that makes my blood sing, the unused energy making my fingers twitch.
July sun glints off the barrel as I hold my salvation to my head and pull the trigger.
Chapter 1
Dalton
“Why don’t you explain the text you just sent?” I do my best to keep a rational tone, but the topic of discussion always leads to a heightened sense of awareness, one I usually manage to keep others from seeing.
“I figured it was self-explanatory,” Kyle argues on the other end of the line.
He’d just sent a text that reads: You won’t believe what one of the guys has planned for Mary tonight.
Remaining silent, I wait him out. I have nothing but time; hence, the reason I’m standing in my driveway washing an already clean car. Well, spraying the wheels specifically. I’ve already taken the T-tops off my ’71 Stingray Corvette in preparation for the wild night I plan to have in celebration of the school year ending yesterday. I’m finally a senior, and ruling Westover Prep has always been my legacy, but now it’s official.
“Vaughn has been toying with Mary for weeks.”
“The sophomore?”
“He’s a junior now,” Kyle corrects. “He’s convinced her to come to the party tonight at my place. She’s certain he’s all but in love with her. When she arrives, he’s going to text her to come upstairs, only to find him messing around with someone else.”
His chuckle makes me cringe, which is a confusing reaction to what he’s just told me. The junior varsity baseball players all have to do something outlandish for initiation in order to become part of the varsity team, but I can’t remember when taunting Mary became a group endeavor.
It was always my thing, until it wasn’t. These days, I don’t have to do a thing to make her life miserable. I have a half dozen or more friends vying for my attention that torment her for me. I mean, it doesn’t stop me from having a little fun at her expense, but I could take a few days off, and she wouldn’t start to think I was suddenly a nice guy.
“I bet she cries just like that time we knocked over the corn display at the grocery store and blamed her. I swear her face was as red as a tomato. Elijah’s dad was pissed at her. Remember her blubbering trying to explain what happened?”
Grinning at the memory of that day, I continue to spray the already-shining chrome of my wheels. Tormenting the girl next door has been a regular part of my day since the very first day of kindergarten. I was willing to be her friend back then. She was the prettiest girl in pigtails after all, but after choosing to play with another kid over me, it was game on. I’m not second best. Never have been, never will be. That was the day I decided to make her life a living hell. I was a heathen at five, and now I’m unstoppable. I’ve reminded her of that every single day since.
