— Chapter 18 —

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"If it isn't Noah Black."

I answered flatly, "It's Edge."

Elliot's father, Malcom, took a grip on the handle of the door, flicking his gaze from me to his son, who was busy drooling away on my hair.

"He's intoxicated?" Malcom asked.

"I'm just dropping him off," I answered. Taking a step towards him, I adjusted my grip and looked over his shoulder. "Do you mind?"

Elliot, who must not have been as passed out as I thought, tightened his grip on my shirt. The action didn't go unnoticed.

His father stepped in my way.

"God knows where my son's been all night—much less why on earth he's consorting with you of all people," he spoke, the words making a glare settle on my face. "I suggest you both get off my property."

"What the fuck is your problem?" I snapped. "So what if he's been out? You should be grateful he made it home in one fuckin' piece. Better than having him on the streets wasted."

"It's three in the morning. If he's been out getting drunk with you, then he's your problem."

"You can't be serio—"

"Goodnight," he cut me off, "Edge."

I wedged my foot in the door, stopping him from slamming it shut.

Malcom sucked in a sharp breath. "You've got a lot of nerve, kid."

"I've been told."

He pushed on the door again, but I didn't plan on leaving it at that.

Speaking with an icy tone, I said, "It's you who's giving him all these bruises, isn't it? Don't lie to me, asshole—Elliot tries to hide it, but any idiot with two eyes and common fucking sense can see someone's abusing him."

Malcom clenched his fists.

"Does it make you feel good?" I asked him, venom in my voice. "You like pickin' on people smaller than you, huh?"

I opened my mouth to speak again, but Malcom cut me off. In warning, he spat, "You've got a minute to get lost before I find a reason to use my shotgun."

Rolling my eyes, I mocked him and replied sarcastically, "Fuck, old man. That was real scary! I might piss myself!"

"You have no right to come here, damn bastar—"

"And what fucking right do you have to hit him?"

Malcom looked like he could shit a brick, pursing his lips and turning red in the face. "Get the hell off my porch!"

I scoffed.

Grazing the piercing on my tongue over my teeth, I moved my foot out of the doorway and took a step back.

"Don't worry, old man. We're leaving."

"Up we go," I muttered to a woozy Elliot as I approached the stairwell of my apartment building.

More goddamn stairs. I grumbled to myself, hoisting Elliot up on my waist before I began ascending with him straddling my back.

"Whee," he mumbled cheerily. Tingles traveled down my spine as his hot breath fanned my ear.

I couldn't help but find it amusing how he snuggled his face in my hair. He was so different like this—he didn't censor himself so much. He was touchy, tracing my skin with the tips of his fingers, probably eyeing my tattoos. He kept giggling, too. It was cute.

Listening to Elliot's unintelligible murmurs, I finally got us both up to the second floor, silently cursing the lack of elevator. At least I was getting some cardio in, I guess.

Stopping at the door marked with the number '', I managed to pull my keys from my pocket and unlock the door to my apartment.

I didn't usually bring people over, but I didn't know where else to take Elliot after the scene from earlier.

His father. Malcom.

What a fucking prick.

I couldn't think about our conversation without anger raging in my veins. What the fuck had been his problem? What, that Elliot had been consorting with me? As if I was so fucking bad? At least I'd bothered to take care of his son, rather than leave him drunk on the street.

This is what happens when I try and do a nice thing. Jesus Christ.

It was quite clear that despite being a father, Malcom didn't care. And maybe I didn't have the right to impose on Elliot's business like I had, but was I really just supposed to sit back and let his old man get away with shit like that? I was an asshole anyway—might as well be an asshole for the right reasons.

The nights Elliot had spent on that park bench were beginning to make sense. Granted, it probably wasn't the best way of dealing with the situation, but I'd do the same thing if I had to deal with Malcom as a father. Aside from burying himself at work in the bar, that damn bench might've been the only way Elliot could get away from his old man.

I let out a frustrated exhale. He must be so lonely.

Tossing my keys somewhere onto the shelf, I did my best to get Elliot in the spare bedroom without knocking anything over. I let his weight fall onto the bed and tapped his arms.

"Okay, Eli. Time to let go now."

He whined and pulled me closer, dropping his forehead onto my shoulder. "I'll never let go, Jack..."

I chuckled at the reference as he tried to get me in the bed, too.

"Come on," I pleaded, trying to pull off his hands. "I don't think sober Elliot would like seeing me here in the morning."

"He doesn't have to know," Elliot mumbled deliriously, pouting his lips.

"I don't think that's how it works, but nice try."

Finally prying off his hands, I managed to get myself out of his hold, a smile pulling on my lips. Elliot fell back onto the bed with a breathy exhale.

Adjusting his legs so that he wasn't slipping off the side so much, I managed to get his shoes off and throw some thick blankets over him. He made himself comfortable on the white pillow, strands of hair fanning his forehead.

After a soft cough, Elliot dozed off quickly.

Snoring quietly through parted lips, he stilled on the bed, pressing the side of his face comfortably into the pillow. It wasn't until I had been pulling the blankets over his shoulders that I came to notice the markings on his neck.

Bruises? I thought, clenching my jaw as I moved the collar of his hoodie out of the way.

Fucking bruises.

They were dark, too—brown in color, splotching at the sides of his lower neck. They weren't the kind of bruises you'd get from a fist. It... looked more like he'd been choked.

Was that why he'd been coughing all night?

Don't jump to conclusions, I scolded myself. Retracting my hand from Elliot, I loosened my jaw, though still felt tense in my shoulders.

Shoving my hands in the pockets of my jacket, I moved to the doorway and passed a final look to Elliot. His sleeping figure managed to remind me of my own drowsiness.

I spoke quietly into the room.

"Goodnight, Elliot."

Someone was screaming.

It was so loud... earth-shattering.

Fragments of a scene played out in my field of vision—like wisps of smoke, fizzling out after a few split seconds. I could see dark floorboards, grey curtains, a wooden coffee table... but not all at the same time. The one thing that stayed constant was the blood.

There was blood on my fingertips...

...Blood on my clothes.

It pooled around my feet.

Fear froze like ice in my bones. My fingers trembled. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move from my spot. And the screaming. It was so loud. Like nails on a chalkboard.

A child—it sounded like a child. But I couldn't see them. Just a hallway, and the faint outline of a crib behind an open door. A toddler. It was crying, shrieking at the top of its lungs. Why was nobody helping it?

Why wouldn't it stop screaming?

The sounds grew louder. I could hear a sports commentator speaking on a TV somewhere nearby—at the highest volume setting. But I couldn't understand what they were saying. It was just gibberish, heightening my panic. My mind was ringing. I couldn't hear myself think.

My hands clasped tightly over my ears. The sounds kept growing louder and louder. The TV. The screaming child. The ringing in my ears.

It all felt wrong. Distorted. In the wrong order. Pieces missing.

I was trembling from head to toe, and crying my heart out. The blood felt fiery hot. Everything was so loud. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe! Why wouldn't it stop crying? I just wanted it to stop crying, I—

The volume heightened, reaching its peak. And, just as I felt that my head would implode from the pressure, a crack thundered through the air.

It was like an explosion had gone off right beside me. The sound alone sent terror rippling through my body. I let out a scream.

A gunshot. Someone had fired a gun.

I woke up with a start.

Heavy exhales left my lips. Panicked, I gripped the front strands of my dark hair and pulled my legs to my chest.

I was shaking.

Breathe. Breathe, I told myself repeatedly, listening to the sound of my coarse inhales and even rougher exhales.

Though it was freezing in my room, sweat clung to my forehead and shirt, beading in little droplets. It stained my bedsheets and stuck strands of my hair together. My body was shaking, though I couldn't even tell whether it was from the fear or from the cold.

Gripping my hair, I tried to soothe the terror coursing through my bones. It's okay. You were dreaming. You were just dreaming.

Breathe.

I turned my hands over to see my palms. My fingers were trembling.

See? There's no blood, I told myself, tracing the grooves of my fingers. There's no blood.

Flicking a shaky gaze to my bedside table, I saw the numbers blaring in red lights on my old alarm clock. '', it read.

I couldn't stop myself from shaking.

I'd gone to sleep at just past three in the morning, after getting Elliot in the guest bedroom. Between now and then... three hours. I had only slept for three hours.

I took a sharp inhale through my nose.

It definitely felt like three hours. My mind was hazy, my muscles ached, and there was a pain at the back of my head. I couldn't calm the annoying cramp in my neck, either. God knew I was fucking dehydrated, which definitely wasn't helping the situation.

That's it, I grumbled to myself, rubbing my eyes. I guess I'm fucking awake.

Three hours it is.

Managing to pick my phone up from the bedside table, I found myself squinting at the notifications on my screen. Finding the messages app, my thumb hesitated momentarily over Angela's contact. I sighed.

Today at 12:26 am

Angela:

Angela:

Clenching and unclenching my jaw, I shook out my hair and read her messages a few times over. At first, I thought of leaving her on seen—or even texting her a lengthy reply of everything I wanted to say in one go.

It was a minute or two before I finally decided what to answer with.

Noah:

I set the phone down and rubbed gentle circles over my heavy eyelids.

You're okay. You're alive.

Breathe.

It took some concentration to get me functional. Thoughts of my family, of my friends, of the people I was still breathing for. But most importantly, I thought of my brother.

I need to call Jasper soon, I noted to myself.

Forcing myself out of the warmth of my sheets, I threw on the nearest sweats I could find to go with the hoodie draping over my shoulders.

I shook out my hair as I grazed my tongue piercing over my teeth. Escaping out of my room, I was greeted with the darkness of the rest of the apartment. The sun hadn't come up yet.

It was quiet... peaceful.

Briefly stopping beside the doorway to Elliot's room, I rested a gaze on his dark figure sleeping soundly through the ajar door. His subtle snores filled the night air—a contrast to the total silence that usually inhabited my apartment.

Shutting the door to his room, I took care not to bother him with the sound of the handle.

I found my trainers by the door and located the silver set of keys to my apartment, resisting the urge to bring my cigarettes with me. Shutting the front door behind me, I stretched my arms out behind my back and watched as my breath left a mist in the air.

I didn't do it often, but on the mornings where I was feeling particularly restless, I found myself running laps around my part of the city. It was still dark out—nobody would be around to bother me at his hour.

Running was a 'healthy outlet' for stress, according to my spindly old therapist. Except, it wasn't. Not the way I did it.

When I ran, I ran miles. I ran until my legs felt like giving out beneath me. I ran until my lungs were burning. I ran until my clothes were drenched in sweat and my heart was pounding through my chest.

I didn't exactly do it on purpose. Running made me think about my problems, and it would zone me out entirely. I didn't stop running. Not until I felt sick to my stomach—until I was throwing up last night's dinner on the sidewalk.

It wasn't much of a coping mechanism.

Pulling on the strings of my hoodie, I descended the stairwell of the old apartment building. I broke out into a fast-paced jog once I'd walked out into the cold of the eerily quiet street outside.

And, as the sweat began to bead off my temples, I could only find myself thinking about Angela.