Trying To Endure

Chapter Twenty-Four

SONG: Two Feet - I Feel Like I'm Drowning

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Derek Matthews

He cocks his head upward. How familiar he is — where have I seen him? My subconscious is cursing that I should know his name at the top of my lungs, but as he bends to unleash his bread knife, the deliberations vanish.

"What do you want?" I ask, my tone unyielding.

He seems to be in his early twenties, shoulder-length dreadlocks and beard. "What makes you think I want somethin'?"

I observe his uniform. He works here. Or he dressed up as a disguise to get to me. If the latter, he must urge for something. Circumstances such as this don't occur unless a deed is required. Is it possible he's working for the Families — sent to kill me in plain sight? I want to ask. However, if he isn't ... Questions, questions.

"Locked in the bathroom suggests it, don't you think?"

I lower my arms. His grasp on the knife's black hilt is rigid, slightly on a stance, ready to pounce if I commit a subtle shift. This man's frame is weak. You can tell by the outlines of his bones: the sharpness of his cheekbones is unnaturally emaciated, as if he has been starving for years.

I shove my hands into my pockets, feeling the smooth screen of my phone in the left stash. It is risky to take it out. Plus, my intercom. "You want to fuck? Is that why you locked us here?"

He abruptly dashes and rams me into a wall, my left cheek pinned to the parky tile. I smirk as he notices I didn't wince. I incised my flesh a million times to have a high pain tolerance.

The square-shaped mirror reflects my wiggling brows. "Kinky."

He presses the silver into the back of my neck. "Shut the fuck up or I'll make you."

I theatrically bite my lip. "Don't turn me on, honey."

"Shut up," he growled. 

"Knives are my favourite."

Knives are not my favourite. 

"Shut up!"

My physique is wider and bulky than his. I can straightforwardly batter his face and he will pass out in a nanosecond. I don't. I'm curious. My hands flattened, left cheek squished, I utter the truth: "You cannot kill me."

He diagonally directs the sharpness to my right juncture. "Fucking watch me, cunt."

My memory popped. Of course. His brother. Bodie's brother. Months ago, when I would meet Bodie at parties, he informed me all about Elias Banks — quick-witted, loyal, humorous, ambitious. He had to drop out of college as they could not afford it.

I recall the protests in the streets. Annoyance consumes me. "What, are you going to irrationally stab me to satisfy your needs, Elias?"

"In case you haven't noticed." His breath tweaks my nape's baby hair. "You're Derek Matthews."

"That is exactly why you should think twice. You have no idea what you are doing—"

"I know exactly what I'm doing."

I forcefully restrain my hands from grabbing his neck and chucking his body to the other side of the bathroom. "What is the reason?"

"Why, out of all days," he snarls, "do you tell us about your fuckin' past on the day my brother died? Isn't that suspicious?"