WALKING DISASTERS

012 | príncipe prospero's ball

Jonah almost looked bored until Mateo opened the door, stepped out, and shoved him into the backseat. Jonah cursed under his breath in Portuguese—a sound she'd never expected to hear again—as his crutches smashed into the doorway. Mateo got back in and slammed the door shut.

Charlie wished he'd considered the seating arrangements first. Because now Jonah was crushed against her, his leg brace digging into her calf, his bare arm against hers, so near she noticed something like aftershave—a minty, forest-like scent. She slid as close to the door as possible, nothing in her eighteen-going-on-nineteen years of life having prepared her for this moment—skin on skin with someone who'd fallen ten stories and lived.

"Ah," he said, looking her over. "I see what this is."

"Don't touch her!" Peter yelled from the front. "Mateo, switch spots with him. Now."

"Damn, it's not my fault!" the quarterback whined. "I told you we should've taken Evan's van."

Jonah leaned back and looked pleasantly ahead him. Charlie stopped breathing when his hand brushed her knee—too fast for Peter to have seen.

"Don't," she said between clenched teeth. Her jaw nearly broke from the pressure.

She made the mistake of looking at him. Chills spread like stinging wasps through her flesh, but Mateo noticed, and he grabbed Jonah's wrists to restrain him. "Hey, don't get too comfortable now—how about you hold my hand instead, huh? Coño... we should've bought some zip ties."

Evan chuckled loudly and resumed his drumming. Peter accelerated on the road, way above the speed limit. Jonah elbowed Mateo in the ribs, and they tussled for a moment, Charlie still pressed against the door like a scared kitten until Jonah pulled something out from his pocket.

A switchblade. Charlie's switchblade. And somehow, she knew.

She knew it'd been what took the gray cat's life.

"What the fuck is that!" Mateo screamed. "He's got a knife! Cat killer's got a knife!"

Charlie would never forgive herself if he hurt anyone else. Fueled by adrenaline, she lunged for the switchblade. Jonah dodged her, pressing the silver button, and the blade flicked out. And then everyone lurched as Peter sharply braked. The thirty-second drive had taken them to an empty playground with a swing set and slides.

The door flew open—courtesy of Peter—and Mateo hopped out. And Peter, as if not even caring about the knife, grabbed Jonah by the legs and dragged him to the playground sand.
Evan calmly stepped out of the car, his face alight. He reached into the back seat for Jonah's crutches—only to throw them out of his reach. "Cripple wanna try to run?"

Jonah's lip curled. "I'd rather be carried."

Next, Evan went for the knife. But this time, Jonah didn't fight. He let him snatch it and throw it aside.

Charlie was the last one to leave the car, her body like a mutilated teddy bear with stuffing spilling from the seams. Peter was the first to kick Jonah's side, and she gasped, "You said you wouldn't—"

"You piece of shit," Peter growled.

Jonah barely flinched—even as Evan and Mateo joined in. They grabbed him by the hair and took turns hitting him, but he didn't curl up or shrink away. Every time his head jerked to the side as a jab landed, he brought it back to stare at Charlie—bloodier with each glance, but his eyes, their color vibrant in the daylight, remained the same.

"Tryna stab me, huh?" Mateo taunted. And it looked like the blade did get him earlier—blood dripped down his jersey from a cut on his neck, red against golden brown skin. "There's a special place in hell for people who hurt animals. Hijo de puta."

He kicked him in the gut, causing Jonah to retch—retch like she'd done after finding Lilith dead. The switchblade was still open, slowly getting buried as they kicked sand everywhere.

"You said you wouldn't..." Charlie whispered, remembering Peter's promise—just a little something to scare him—and, stunned at the suddenness of it all, she was ready to stop it until...

Jonah started laughing.

That laugh, louder than Evan's, louder than any of Peter's yells, made her stomach drop. He cackled, uninhibited and maniacal as they shoved his face in the sand. Gargled with blood, broken only by the next hit.

It took her to seventh grade. Her first time in public education after her private school expulsion. Charlie saw Jonah for the first time that day. A blonde boy she'd later learn was his cousin and a few of his friends were beating him up in an empty hallway, sneakers squeaking on the floor as they kicked him senseless.

Like now, she'd just watched, too horrified to know what to do next.

But he hadn't been laughing then.

"Your girlfriend's not who she says she is," Jonah said between coughs.

Peter stopped, fist raised mid-air, still holding him up by the shirt.

"Only reason you like her is because she's been stalking you," Jonah continued, panting, and paused to spit blood. "Longer than I've been stalking her, for sure."

Peter let go, and Jonah slumped to the ground.

"What are you talking about?"

"Have you been waiting until marriage to fuck her? Nice little Catholic boy, thinking you'll be her first? Don't bother—I already beat you to it."

Sand sifted into Charlie's shoes in a desperate attempt to reach him before he said anything else, his nose bleeding like she'd seen so many times—down his mouth, his chin, and dripping off the stone hanging from his neck.

"That's enough," she told the others. Evan was watching the fiasco unfold with a grin.

"What's he talking about?" Peter demanded, but his voice faded as Charlie grabbed Jonah by the collar of his shirt. Pulled him close to her face—close enough to reel at the familiar, razor-sharp scent of his blood.

"You deserve worse than this for what you did," she whispered.

His fingers dug into the sand below him. "Do I?"

There were so many things she could say, but her body hadn't fully registered he was here. Here after years of dreams ending in sleep paralysis, her skin thrumming while his shadow crawled under her sheets, late nights sprinkling salt on her windowsill because she heard it kept out ghosts.

"You never visited me in the hospital," he said, quieter now, like the kicks to his gut had forced the words out. "God, I waited so many weeks. Like a fucking idiot, thinking you'd show up."

Dread massed around her body like a horde of black flies, the image, vision burning into her mind—him, mangled body in casts as he thrashed and called out her name. She could've been there when he woke. She could've begged for forgiveness then. Maybe Lilith would still be breathing.

"I didn't think you survived," she choked out.

Blood coated the ridges of his teeth as he said, "You didn't want to believe I could."

Her grip on his shirt tightened. They were no longer fifteen, hopeless and codependent. But his broken breaths still made her throat sting.
Until she remembered Lilith with the noose around her neck.

She let Jonah drop to the ground, as much as it hurt to do it. As much as it felt like spitting out the part of herself that once would've died for him to be okay. The part of herself she hadn't fully mourned until now, sand burying it like the switchblade. 

And when she turned to Peter, the two shared a stare more suited for strangers who didn't know one another at all.