strides back to me, pulling me into his arms and kissing me like he’s as starved for me as I’ve always been for him.
“Damn you for forcing my hand, Willow. Or Sage. Or whoever the fuck you really are. Damn you.”
His voice is so soft, it belies the edge of cold steel beneath his words. They penetrate like a sword, sharp and cutting. They pierce me through and through.
He knows.
Ebon knows what I’ve done. And he hates me for it. Just like I knew he would.
“Ebon, I—” I begin, suddenly frantic.
He stills my lips by laying his finger across them, the tender gesture a paradox to the anger and disappointment in his eyes. “Shhh. There’s no need to explain. I get it. I know all about wanting something so badly. Unfortunately, lies aren’t the way to get what you want. They only create more problems. They hurt people. And they get you into trouble. I’ve had a lot of experience with lies. They’re the one thing I can’t tolerate.” With that Ebon brushes his lips over mine, a kiss that’s so bittersweet I feel it like sugary acid pouring through my heart. “I’m sorry,” he whispers and then he turns and walks away.
********
The next week is a blur of shock, remorse and grief. After watching Ebon walk away Monday night, I waited, tears streaming down my face, until he texted to tell me the coast was clear. That was the last time I heard from him. He wasn’t even in class Wednesday, which was the nail in the coffin for me.
I wanted to call him so badly, but I dared not. I decided to wait, to give him some time to process and heal, hoping I’d do the same. Only I’m not faring so well. The familiar cold, black fingers of depression claw harder and harder at me as the days go by.
Sage hasn’t done much more than poke her head into my room over the last few days. It’s as though she senses the darkness and instinctively flees it.
Aside from my one foray out to school on Wednesday and those weird peeps from Sage, I’ve been completely alone inside my torturous shell. Here it is Monday again and I’m no closer to feeling like leaving it, no matter how agonizing it is inside.
Until the doorbell rings on Monday night and, about thirty seconds later, my parents barge into my bedroom.
“What the—”
I don’t get to finish my sentence before my mother covers her face and starts to cry. “Willow, what have you done?”
I sit up, alarmed. “What do you mean? What’s going on, Mom?” When she doesn’t answer, I look to my father, the salt-and-pepper gentleman holding my mother and wearing a thunder cloud on his face.
“Is this what happens when we give you a little responsibility, Willow?” On his face is condemnation. Whatever has happened, I’ve been tried and found guilty already.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, sliding off my bed to stand before the judges.
“ This is why your mother was concerned when she found out you weren’t taking your medication. This is why we wanted you to live with your sister. We had hoped you wouldn’t need supervision for the rest of your life, but I can see that we’ll have to rethink that.”
“Supervision? The rest of my life? What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“We got a call from the Dean this afternoon. Since we pay your tuition, our contact information is still on your school records. He wanted to let us know that you’ll be questioned regarding the events of last week.” I feel the blood drain away from my face. What. The. Hell. “He was going to start an official review, but I insisted that the instructor be terminated immediately or I’d have had to look into pressing charges. At least the Dean had the good sense not to test me. He made the right choice and got rid of that professor.”
“Wh-what?” I whisper. I can barely breathe.
“From what the Dean said on the way over here, that pervert didn’t even put
Learning to Kill: Stories