The Dark and Hollow Places - Carrie Ryan [71]
I start for the stairwell door, my back stiff, but he stops me with his words.
“I’m infected,” he says harshly. “I could infect you! Don’t you understand that? Don’t you even care about yourself enough to avoid that risk?” He paces, frustrated and angry, while I stand clutching the doorknob. I feel like nothing, as if I don’t exist, and the taste of it is sharp-edged and bitter.
It doesn’t matter why he can’t kiss me—only that he’s rejected me so thoroughly. I inhale deeply, welcoming the biting cold into my lungs. If only it could freeze me inside. I don’t understand why I’m still out here, why I haven’t stomped down the steps escaping from him and this moment.
“I care,” I whisper, turning just enough to see him from the corner of my eye.
He stops pacing and looks at me, holds out a hand and then lets it drop. Emotions war across his face. “I’m sorry, Annah,” he says softly. He’s standing in the shadows, the remnants of the evening having faded while we were playfully chasing each other around the roof.
“You have to understand that I’m dangerous. It doesn’t matter what you or I want. Don’t you see that?” He’s almost begging.
Not knowing what else to do, I nod.
“I can’t do this,” he says, but I hold up a hand to stop the excuses. I’ve let this entire evening spiral out of control. A control I’ve spent the last several years perfecting. I can feel the anger I’ve been holding back too long swelling.
Teeth clenched so that I don’t say something I may regret, I whip open the door and step toward the darkened stairwell.
“Annah, wait,” Catcher calls after me, but I don’t listen. The rage simmers, rising up my throat like a hum. Words swirl in my head, hateful words directed at me and at him. This is who I am—broken glass and bile. I got too comfortable, let down my defenses.
“You don’t understand.” He chases after me, and just as I wrench the door closed he grabs it, holding it open.
I spin on him, eyes flashing. “I understand fine. I’m not good enough. Everyone wants Abigail. Beautiful, perfect Abigail and not me.”
He reaches for me and I rip my arm from his grip. His eyes narrow with what looks like confusion.
“Her name’s Gabry,” he says, which sets my skin on fire as if I’ve been scolded.
I scream in frustration. “She’s Abigail! She’s always been Abigail! That’s who my sister is. Pretty, flawless Abigail while I’m ugly, scarred Annah.”
He stands dead still, the snow swallowing all noise around us. I gulp in the frozen air.
“Why do you do this to yourself?” he finally asks, his expression a mixture of pity and concern. Heat pours off him and radiates in the air between us. I cross my arms over my chest and step down onto the next stair.
“Do what?”
He raises his hands as if to grab my shoulders and then pulls at the back of his neck instead. “Why do you always want people to see you as ugly?”
His words drain my anger, leaving only the pain behind. If all the air were sucked from the world and turned my body inside out, it wouldn’t hurt as much as his words at this moment. “What?” I intend for the question to come out as a growl but instead it’s only a whisper.
I step down onto the next stair and then another, but he advances, looming over me as I descend into the darkness. “You don’t ever let anyone see who you really are, and whenever anyone gets close or even thinks about getting close, you thrust your scars in their face like they’re some sort of badge. A way to ward people off. It’s like you want them to see only the worst parts of you. Like you think you’re ugly.”
“I am ugly!” I roar at him. “What are you not seeing?” I scrape my hair back from my cheeks. “This isn’t beauty!” I scream at him, tilting my neck to the light struggling through the door. He’s now the one backing up the stairs and I keep climbing until we’re out in the snow.
“Look at me!” I rip off my coat and then my shirt until I’m just wearing a short tight tank top, my skin on fire from rage.
The scars