Does It Hurt? (92)

He replaces the hammer with the shotgun, tosses a quick glance over his shoulder at me, then whips open the door like there wasn’t something trying to break it down all night.

Nothing is on the other side.

It’s quiet and cold and it feels almost like a slap in the face. Why does it choose to harass us when sleep is required and then stop when it’s time to wake up?

So fucking obnoxiously rude.

I bite my tongue as I stand, the aches in my back screaming. I force myself to stretch, the pain bordering on pleasure and so acute, that I can’t help but let out a groan.

Feeling a little dizzy from it, it takes me a moment to focus again to slip on my shorts.

Enzo is staring very intently at me, an angry frown marring his face, then he turns his attention to the opposite side of our door. Furrowing my brow, I approach him to see what the issue is.

I can’t tell if he’s pissed off at me or the door, but I’m instantly defensive anyway.

Almost immediately, I notice the deep gouges in the wood and how it’s splintered from where it must’ve been ramming its shoulder.

My mouth drops. I don’t even remember the clawing. It must’ve happened when I was delirious from lack of sleep.

“Fucking hell,” I murmur, fingering one of the marks.

Enzo is silent, but I can hear the steam shooting from his ears.

“Spirits can’t do that,” he says.

I shoot him a nasty look. “How would you even know?” I mutter. “Not like you’re an expert.”

The glare he pins me with could melt fucking Antarctica. But I don’t shrink away from him. I’m not sure if it’s the severe lack of sleep, the pain throbbing in my entire back, or just that I’m so drained of fear that I don’t care if I die today, but I give him the bird and shove past him.

I’m not going to stand there and argue about a ghost defying the laws of physics. I’d rather spend my time gurgling caffeine like I’m a porn star surrounded by five dicks.

Despite the two-by-fours slapped across the windows, morning light peeks through the cracks, washing the bottom floor in deep blue. Dust motes dance in the sunbeams, and I flap my hand at them as if that’s going to accomplish anything. I’ve always been weirded out by the sight of dirt in the air. It’s a rude reminder that I’m inhaling some gross shit on a daily basis.

Enzo stomps down the stairs a moment later, and we promptly ignore each other. Even in his annoyance, he whips up a fried egg and piece of toast for each of us, so I concede and pour him a cup of coffee.

In our stilted silence, I notice the steak knife I was using to eat yesterday is now missing. I distinctly remember setting it on the island before I went to bed. Enzo went up before me, so I don't see how he could've moved it.

The notion that a demon stole a knife is more nerve-racking than them scratching a door.

When I tell Enzo about it, he just grunts, though I notice his eyes sharpen and become more alert.

It’s not until after we’ve both eaten and drank our liquid drug that he finally opens his mouth.

“We need to look for the beacon today,” he announces.

No shit. What the hell else are we supposed to do? Sit here and come up with a super-secret handshake for kicks?

Okay, so clearly, food and caffeine didn’t improve my mood much.

I don’t bother responding. Instead, I stand, the chair grinding obnoxiously on the floor and earning myself a severe eye twitch from Enzo.

I’m still convinced the entrance to the beacon is somewhere on the bottom floor. But just like upstairs, there are only so many places the door could be hidden.

I get to work rapping my fist on any open areas on the walls, searching for a hollow point.

“I’m going to keep looking upstairs,” he mutters.

“Divide and conquer, sounds great,” I comment, knocking on the wall again to double-check that it’s solid.

I hope I’m returning the favor and keeping the ghosts up as they did me.

If I don’t get to sleep, the dead don’t get to, either.





Chapter 29


Sawyer





An entire fucking day wasted.

No door to the beacon was found, and I’m ready to pull my goddamn hair out. I spent so much time pounding on walls that it’s echoing in my brain, and now my head is pounding just as incessantly.

Mine and Enzo’s mood only seemed to worsen as time went on. Apparently, we’re still not in a place with each other where we can brood together peacefully.

Last night was a reminder that we don’t belong on this fucking island, yet helpless to do anything about it. With the knowledge that Sylvester is somewhere out there and that we’re still not any closer to finding the beacon, it’s begun to get to both of us—drive us insane.

We've been at each other's throats all day, and while I’ve been snappy, he’s been flat-out angry from the moment we awoke. Though, as time passes, I’m less convinced that he’s just having a bad day and wondering if maybe I did do something wrong.

I don’t want to go back in the room yet. It’s only five in the afternoon, but we decided to call it a day.

I’m standing in the bathroom, fresh out of the shower and feeling on edge. The mirror is fogged, and I refuse to wipe away the condensation. I’ve never liked looking myself in the eye anyway—I’m too ashamed—but I’m also convinced that the moment I do, there will be a demon standing behind me.