Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(50)

Just like Lily.

For the first time in my life, I think about killing myself. I could just lie down beside Rain, hold her in my arms, and with Mr. Williams’s shotgun, add one more corpse to this fucked up house of death.

But I can’t. That’s my fucking curse. I’m a survivor.

And when I feel Rain’s pulse, weak and fleeting against my cheek, I know I was right about her all along.

She’s a survivor too.





April 23



Rain


“Look.” Wes grabs my arm as we cross the highway, pointing at the digital billboard above Burger Palace. “The sign is still on. What the fuck?”

I snort and roll my eyes. “They probably have a special generator for it. God forbid we have to go a day without seeing stupid King Burger on his stupid fucking horse.”

I give the animated asshole the side-eye as we approach, which he seems to return.

His cartoon eyes land on me as his deep voice booms from the loudspeakers. “What did you say, young lady?”

I look at Wes, who shrugs in response, and then back at the digital sign.

“I’m talking to yoooou!” The ground shakes beneath my feet as King Burger points his French fry staff in my direction. It becomes three-dimensional and a thousand times longer, extending out of the screen and stopping inches away from my face.

“I … I’m sorry,” I say, glancing up the length of the French fry at the raging monarch above.

“I will not tolerate profanity in my kingdom!”

I open my mouth to apologize again, but when I do, King Burger shoves his French fry staff right down my throat.

“Get those foul words out of your mouth,” he bellows as I gag and cough and gasp for air.

It’s not until I’m puking all over the sidewalk that he finally lets up.

“There you go.” His voice is kinder now. Softer. “Get it all out.”

I puke again, but this time, when I open my eyes, I’m hovering over a toilet bowl in a dark room. Someone is rubbing my back.

He’s saying things like, “I’m so sorry,” and, “That’s my girl.”

It sounds like Wes, but before I can turn to look at him, he shoves two fingers down my throat and makes me hurl again.

I swat at him, but my hands hit nothing. Wes evaporates like smoke, leaving me alone and on my knees. I’m no longer hugging a toilet. I’m in the woods, kneeling in wet pine straw and staring down into the watery entrance of the flooded bomb shelter. As my stomach gives one last heave, I reach into my mouth and pull something long and silky from the depths of my stomach. It just keeps coming, yard after yard. Once it’s finally out, I spread it over the ground to see it better.

But I already know what it is.

A black-and-red banner.

With a demonic silhouetted horseman in the center.

And a date at the top.

Today’s date.

I swing my head left and right, listening for hooves, looking for Wes. But I don’t find him in the forest. I find him when I look back down at my reflection.

Is that what I look like? I wonder, reaching up to touch my stubbly jaw, but my reflection doesn’t copy me.

Instead, it beats on the surface of the murky water with a closed fist, eyes wide and full of panic.

“Wes!” I reach out to touch his face in the water, but the surface is as smooth and hard as glass. I pound on it with both hands, but they bounce right off.

Wes’s eyes are pleading. Huge bubbles leave his mouth and break against the barrier between us as he tries to tell me something.

“Wes! Hang on!” I wrap the banner around my fist and punch as hard as I can, but my blows land like pillows against the unbreakable water.

As I stop to catch my breath, I realize that Wes isn’t fighting anymore. His face is calm now, and his eyes are full of remorse and acceptance.

“No!” I scream at him, pounding the surface again. “No, Wes! Fight!”

But he doesn’t. He presses a hand to the glass as his face sinks away from me. His eyes lift to something over my shoulder just before they disappear into the black.

I don’t have to turn around to know what he was looking at. I can feel the horse’s hot, hellish breath on the back of my neck. I bow my head, ready to accept my fate, and feel the wind from a swinging mace ruffle my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for impact, but the spiked ball doesn’t connect with my skull.

It shatters the glass beneath my hands.

Without thinking, I plunge into the cold, murky water, looking, reaching, grasping for Wes. But I can’t find him. I swim deeper but never hit bottom. I swim to the left and right but never find a wall. I don’t come up for air until my lungs begin to burn. I kick furiously to get back to the surface, clenching my teeth and holding my nose to keep from inhaling water in my desperation to breathe, but just as I prepare to crest the top of the water, I hit my head on it instead.

No!

Looking up, I pound on the glassy surface, sucking in lungfuls of water as the mace-wielding horseman watches me drown. From this angle, I can see that he does have a face under that hood after all.

A beautiful one with soft green eyes and full, smirking lips.



I bolt upright, clutching my chest and gasping for air. Every breath makes my raw throat sting. When I open my eyes, I find myself staring at a toilet. My toilet. There’s a pillow on the floor by the door, which is letting a little bit of daylight in around the edges. A few candles on the counter provide the rest of the light. I recognize them from my room.