The Goth and His Psycho.

The Goth and His Psycho: [Chapter Seven]

  Alex wasn't sure how long he had been going for, but by the time his legs started to ache and his lungs started to burn, he was sure he hadn’t gone in the direction Bree had pointed him. 

  Then out of nowhere, he crashed into a fence. He gasped and teetered on his feet, then crashed back to the floor. When he’d shook his head and stood unsteadily, he realised he was looking into the backyard of a house. But it wasn’t Bree’s, it looked cheerful, there were a few lights on, and there were toys strewn across the patch of grass. 

  Alex glanced around, and thought he saw the black expanse of Bree’s property off to the right. He hobbled towards it, supporting himself by clamping an icy hand against the fence, his legs ached fiercely. 

  When the fence ended, he limped towards the property, he didn’t want to go in there again, even though he knew it was empty, that Bree wasn’t going to jump out and kill him, but still, he didn’t want to see that place. He could practically hear the screams. 

  So he skirted around it instead, making his way down the empty alley at the side of the house, when he emerged on the other side, he inspected the street first, making sure no one was watching, if you were seen coming out of a murderers house in the dead of the night he guessed it looked a little weird. 

  After confirming no one would see him, he quickly crossed Bree’s overgrown lawn, forcing himself not to look back. Then he tried his hardest not to look guilty as he paced down the street. He knew he looked a mess, with his jeans ripped, his hoodie smeared with dirt, his hands bleeding, and a line of blood running down the back of his neck. He quickly pulled his hood up over his head, and brushed down his jacket, trying to look a little decent as he tried to stroll through the streets. Thankfully though, it was late now, and it didn’t seem like many people were out tonight, it was a Thursday anyway, there were no parties or anything going on, something Alex was glad of. 

  By the time he stumbled onto his street, he was about ready to collapse, and when he finally slouched onto his front lawn, he was sweating from the effort of moving. He forced himself up the front porch and fumbled with the door, it was locked, which meant his mother wasn’t home, thank god. 

  He wrestled his backpack from his shoulders and found his keys at the bottom of it. When he shoved his way into the house, he breathed a sigh of relief. 

  Then he realised he still had to climb the stairs, and groaned loudly, but a few minutes later he was at the top, breathing hard with burning lungs. He kicked open his bedroom door and tumbled inside, half tripping in the process. 

  He threw his backpack aside, and he saw the time on his bedside clock, he groaned, it was nearly eleven at night, usually he wouldn’t be in bed until two or three, he was a restless sleeper, but it meant he’d been out in the woods longer than eight hours. His body was aching, his eyes drooping and his head pounding. 

  So he quickly stripped down to his boxers and discarded the clothing on the floor, then he clambered under his covers, and curled up with relief. He drifted off almost instantly, the image of emerald eyes engraved onto the inside of his eyelids. 

***

  Alex jerked up out of his warped sleeping position. Then as the blood rushed from his head he moaned, his brain throbbing. He fell back against his pillows, breathing laboured. 

  “Alex?” he only then remembered the reason he’d awoken so suddenly; his mother, calling through his door. 

  “Yeah?” he rasped. 

  “What’s wrong?” instantly the small woman was barging into the room at the sound of his strained voice. She gasped as she saw him strewn over his mattress, sheets tangled around his pale bruised body.