The Degenerate (TO BE REWRITTEN...SOON)

CHAPTER 13: Division

CHAPTER 13: DIVISION

A/N: Yes, this is the real chapter thirteen. I deleted the last one because I hated it. To be honest, not much is changed…but then again it has. But this one is so much better. Or at least I think it is.

Sorry for the late, laaaaate chapter. But I’ve been busy- art contests, Christmas, grandparents…the whole yada yada. So I’ll just leave this here. Enjoy. c:

I stood on the edge of the cleft, pacing and biting my nails. Karson and Anthony hovered over Phoebe. Her blood ran in streaks across her face and splattered on the rocks. Anthony told me to keep away from her, in case my 'urges' become apparent. I didn't say a thing- there didn't need to be anymore more blood around here.

I could hardly look at Phoebe's face I was so full of guilt. I had been the one to let go, to let her slip. What I wouldn't do switch places with her- after all, I was more dangerous than any degenerate I'd ever known (which obviously wasn't saying much, but still).

But there was nothing I could do about it. We had no medical supplies, no medicine- not even an ice pack. I sighed.

Not that I exactly commended Anthony for his hard work and good deeds towards me and other degenerates, but I had to say the thought of him hating me made a brick drop in my stomach. He'd probably try to kill me when this was over.

And then there was Karson. I didn't think she would blame me, but it was hard all the same knowing she knew what I did.

I found a nice, flat rock in shade and sat on it. I lowered my head between my knees, letting a breathy sigh. I hoped God had an extra lightning bolt lying around. Right then would've been the perfect time to strike me with one.

~*~

"I want to make a deal with you, Pete.”

A male silhouette said, the embers from the end of a cigarette glowing in the dark. A degenerate, Pete, glowered from the opposite corner. He attempted a ferocious grin, though it looked more like the muzzle of a snarling wolf.

Dried blood still dotted the dotted the ground from noses broken by fists and other tortures. A great violet bruise blossomed on his left eye, gashes and cuts and scrapes littered the rest of his body. Of course, those were sort of his fault. Had he not of sassed to the blades and tried to escape on more than one occasion life in the dog pound wouldn’t of been so bad.

“Really? You want to make a deal with me? What could I possibly have to offer?”

He wrestled with his hand cuffs for a moment, forgetting they were there. Pete cursed under his breath and kicked the table he was bound to for the millionth time, hating the feeling of having his dignity stripped from him.

The man, Felt, chuckled. “More than you might think.” He sucked one last time on his cigarette before crushing it under a booted foot and stepping out of the shadows.

Pete eyed the pair leather gloves Felt wore and snickered at his sunglasses. “You’re wearing sunglasses at night. Know who does that? No-talent douchebags.”

Felt’s face betrayed no emotion. “And you’re not my fashion consultant.” Pete’s eyes narrowed. Felt sat in a metal chain facing the other. “Now shut up, because I think you might be interested in what I have to give. I under-“

Pete interrupted him with a snort. “I would rather shove a cactus up my ass than take whatever you have to give.

Felt’s jaw flexed. He ripped off one of his leather gloves, revealing a smooth suede-like hand. Pete cringed in its presence.

Not again.

Felt gripped Pete’s jaw in one hand and squeezed out his tongue. He snatched the appendage, gentle flesh of it turning to a hot tamale red. Pete screamed as it started to smoke and sizzle like a piece of bacon. They struggled against each other, a mass of kicks, grunts and punches.