Stained Glass Souls (Wattys 2014, Collector's Dream Award Winner)

Price: Guilt is Bulletproof

(Price: unedited)

When Nolan had said, we're going to the lake, Price hadn't anticipated standing knee-deep in the clouded water, watching the hollow end of the pistol swing between Charliegh's terrified face and his own.

It had taken five minutes to give him a bloody nose, and another three for his friends to lace Price up and push both captives down to the shoreline. Eight minutes. Eight minutes total, and he still couldn't hear the whine of the sirens.

The lake was empty, discolored a murky greyish-green, clumps of scum drifting across its surface like discombobulated clouds. The air was a muggy weight, sinking down onto his shoulders and cranking up the pressure building in his chest.

For once, Nolan wasn't talking. Even then, Price couldn't hear the familiar grumble of tires upon gravel, or footsteps snaking along the dead grass. It was so agonizingly silent that he curled his hands into fists, taking comfort in the cathartic pain of his nails against his skin.

Charliegh was deeper into the water. Her arms had been rebound, and in the process she had lost the tattered remnants of her shirt. She stood, eyes huge, topless, blood running down her lower lip. She looked pathetic.

His legs were shaking. Price fought the urge to run, to defy Nolan's cocked pistol and ran over to Charliegh. A mountain of regrets stood between them, but the familiar brotherly instinct was dancing along his nerves. He had wanted to save her. Now, he couldn't even give her his shirt to cover herself.

He edged one footstep forward. Nolan's posse of friends were lounging in the sand. Nolan seemed to be deliberating, fixated upon the horizon behind the lake.

"Hey!"

He stilled. When he shifted, neck popping in protest, he saw that Nolan had turned towards him. One finger still lingered dangerously close to the trigger. "Yes?"

"Stop moving. I'll shoot you."

"Yeah," Price said. "So you've said. But you've still failed to explain why we're both standing in the lake, watching you swing that gun around like a lasso."

Nolan tried to point the thing straight, but his fists were rattling around, like he was deciding whether to shoot or flee. "Have Charliegh tell you."

Images flashed across his eyes as he swung to face her. Nolan, sliding his body overtop of hers, lips attached to the winter of her neck. Her sobs, her shrieking. The way she kept saying Randall instead of Price, and how, when he ran away, she had curled into the side of the very boy who was bringing her pain.

She licked her lips, grimacing. She was at once innocent and aged, and it frightened him to see how far they had both deteriorated. When had they begun to unravel? When had they stopped being siblings, or even friends? Was this because of his father - or something his father had done to her? "He hates me. Beyond that..." her voice trembled. She was shaking like a leaf, the water lapping around her waist threatening to engulf her. "I have no idea."

"You have every idea!" Nolan shouted. "I told you!"

"Revenge?" She shook her head. For one fleeting moment, she almost looked sorry for him. Then she glanced down, and remembered that she was shirtless, and bruised, and inches away from dying. "This is bigger than that. Randall. It's something about him, isn't it?"

"Isn't it always?"

"Since he died, yes."

Nolan sneered. "Do you think I regret it, Charliegh?" Without waiting for her to respond, he kicked off his sneakers and waded into the water. He kept the gun above his head, but the closer he inched to her, the fainter the hold he seemed to have on his self-control.