Next is a series of kicks, to his gut, to his ribs, to his legs.
Darius accepts the abuse. He deserves it.
He is a product of his environment. Of his mother’s trauma. Of his father’s wickedness.
No matter how much Darius wants to be a good man. To break a generational cycle.
He can’t.
After all, he is the evil that has eaten their town alive.
He is a Thorne.
6
September 1st
“Get the fuck out of here. Haven’t you done enough?” Axel grumbles, but the words are distant, muted.
I reach out to swat him, to shut him up, but he’s no longer next to me.
My head is pounding, my mouth dry and aching, but my body is cooperating. At least better than it was before.
“She has a right to make her own choices.” This voice I don’t recognize, a loud whisper.
Grumbling, I reach up, rubbing my eyes and opening them. The light in my room is off, but there is a window that is partially uncovered offering just the dullest rays of sunlight to creep onto my skin.
“You’re awake.”
My head wrenches to Grayson. He sits on the chair next to the bed, his arms crossed, his eyes gaunt.
It reminds me of a distant memory, of when he was the one in the hospital bed. It feels so incredibly recent and also as if it were years ago.
A crash draws my attention to the door, through the window at the top, I can make out the back of Axel’s shaggy hair.
“Who’s out there?” I ask, readjusting on my hospital bed. I don’t feel nearly as weak as I did before.
Grayson reaches up, massaging his temples. “A nuisance. We didn’t see her in every timeline, but she was always on the edge. I don’t have proof but I suspect she led to your demise on more than one occasion.”
Before I can question who exactly “she” is or pummel Grayson with the endless questions pouring through me, the door is slammed open.
“The hospital is forcing this onto us. Sunday. Do not listen to the hot garbage she will spew your way.” Axel takes up his spot on the other side of the bed, he stands next to it, his arms cross over his chest.
I don’t have time to understand what is going on before the woman steps into the room.
“Sunday Masch,” the woman states, migrating to the foot of the bed, directly in my line of sight.
Her chestnut hair is pulled into a bun, her eyes nearly the same color. Her face is hard, stoic.
There is an eerily familiar nature to her, but in this instance, it isn’t déjà vu that takes hold–it’s something else entirely.
“Who are you?” I shift further up the bed, this encounter is hitting hard and fast. Stabbing at my psyche, prickling across my nerves, slithering uncomfortably in my gut.
A shimmer of light catches in my vision, but when I blink, it’s gone.
The woman reaches into her pocket and pulls out a badge. She flashes it at me. “Agent Franz. Jane Franz.”
Whatever I am expecting, it isn’tthat.
