The Goth and His Psycho.

The Goth and His Psycho: [Chapter Fifteen]

  Two days later, Alex and Bree had failed to talk about the incident in the kitchen. Things went on as normally as they could.

  Alex went back to school on Monday, and sat bouncing in his chair, anxious to get home to deal with Bree. He’d left her alone, and he hated every second of it. The things at school seemed insignificant somehow, he didn’t want to learn how to find the circumference of a circle or how to work a variable resistor or learn how conflict was created in an old war poem. He wanted to be at home, to make sure Bree wasn’t hurting herself or hadn’t done anything drastic. 

  Dylan no longer bothered him. Well, Dylan still bothered him, still went out of his way to trip Alex in the halls, call jeers at him as he past and all around try to piss him off; it just didn’t bother Alex anymore. 

  He blanked Dylan when the larger boy called out, and picked himself up with a bored expression when he suddenly found himself on his knees. 

  This infuriated Dylan, but Alex neither noticed nor cared. When he fell, he took great pleasure in imagining what Bree would do. 

  He imagined her marching up to Dylan, her size dwarfed by his towering frame. He imagined her punching him right on the nose. He imagined Dylan falling like a traitor before a Queen, and he imagined the sentence Bree would give. Death, via slow torture. That made him smile, and the image of Bree’s small but proud frame got him through the day. 

  When he rushed out of the doors seconds after the bell had shrieked through the halls, he hurried home as fast as he could on foot. 

  By the time he got to his street he was sweating heavily, and his bones protested in the sudden spurt of motion that they weren’t accustomed to. When he kicked open his front door, he rushed into the house. 

  “Bree?” he called loudly. 

  There was no reply. His chest gave a sharp pang, and he rushed up the stairs, bursting into his bedroom. The bed was empty, and when he checked the bathroom, the place was vacant. 

  “Holy fuck” he cursed under his breath, running his hands through his hair as panic rose in his throat. 

  He tumbled down the stairs, checking the kitchen, eyes sweeping the space wildly. Nothing. 

  He felt tears rising and a yell of frustration building in his chest. But he forced both back, and went as calmly as he could into the living room. 

  Nothing. 

  “Bree” he groaned, palms pressed into his eye sockets. There was a sigh. His heart leapt and he spun, expecting her to be stood grinning behind him. But nothing.

  He frowned, listening hard. There it was, the heavy breathing that he’d become accustomed to. It was her. He made his way further into the living room, and peered over the top of the couch. She wasn’t there. What the fuck? 

  There was a little moan, and Alex started. He hurried around the couch, and sighed. His heart settled in his chest at the sight of her. 

  She was lying on her back, sprawled out messily on the floor. Her eyes were shut tight, an arm thrown across her lids, and her hair was spread in a halo around her head. She was snoring softly. 

  “Bree” Alex’s voice was full of relief, and he gave a quiet laugh. 

  He moved forward and bent low, slipping his arms under her body and lifting her gently, still, she started just as he set her down on the couch. 

  “Bree, it’s Alex” he had learned to tell her who he was as soon as he suspected she was awake. Sometimes if he touched her, she’d lurch out of sleep convinced it was her step-father, or thinking she was back at Crickly, and they were waking her up for a session in a padded cell.