Scarlett Romero has spent her entire life as an ordinary citizen; going to school, getting a job and definitely not killing people in the middle of the woods on a Friday night.
Until one Friday night, she does.
All she can remember is acting out of...
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Chapter Eleven "A Lesson in Avoiding the Conversation"
Scarlett's POV:
Alexander's been silent for about an hour. I haven't heard a single thing, not so much as a footstep. I'm not sure if it's a good or bad thing – he's stopped breaking everything in sight, but is he in the right state of mind to talk?
I guess there's only one way to find out.
As soon as I leave my room, it's obvious things don't look good. A yelp lodges itself in the back of my throat as I peer at the debris filled corridor, nearly impaling myself on piece of debris in front of my door.
The metal pans Alexander and I baked cookies on are in tatters; the pillars are stained and dripping food and water; and the oven door is bent in half and hanging from one of the torches on the wall.
If the corridor is this bad, then what the hell will the cul-de-sac look like?
I swallow thickly, pretending the nerves rocking back and forth in my chest don't exist. I put my shoes on and strengthen the ball of determination under my tongue before going to confront Alexander. But my body betrays me, and the closer I get to him the more the butterflies in my stomach start to riot.
I ignore them.
"Alexander?" I ask, trailing my fingers against the cold wall of the cul-de-sac. My voice is loud in the threatening silence of our cell; like there's something waiting to pounce on me if I'm too loud.
He doesn't answer, but I don't exactly mind. If he had spoken, I wouldn't have been able to find words. Even with the foreboding darkness looming over Alexander's room, only illuminated by the faint flickering of torch fire, the wreckage is a heart stopper.
Everything is broken.
Alexander's baking station; the little den he used as a bed; his trunk filled with clothes. All of it, ruined. A little seed of guilt sprouts in my chest, stretching to grab hold of my heart. If I had just asked Alexander what was going on in this prison, if I tested him without anyone there, maybe his stuff wouldn't be ruined.
I stomp on the thought with an imaginary foot.
I didn't make him destroy everything here, he did that all on his own. Yeah, I may be part of the reason why destruction was on his mind, but it was ultimately his choice.
Unsurprisingly, that doesn't make me feel better.
"Alexander?" I ask again, making sure to watch where I step. Like before, I don't get an answer, but something shuffles in the corner of the room, where the rugs Alexander uses as a mattress are – or, were.
