Read Online Dead and Beloved by Jamie McHenry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jamie McHenry
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faucet. I'm dangerous this way and hope someone realizes that. I need to eat; otherwise I will become a monster.
My thoughts drift toward Jessica. I wonder if I'll see her again. I wonder what the news will say about me now, and how she'll react. I stare at the blinking lights until they turn into menacing eyes, like a demon calling me in silence—and sleep.
~ O ~
“You've caused quite a mess, Ryan.” Mr. Jackson, my lawyer, wakes me. He's standing at the door with a policeman on each side. “Would you like to see the video?”
“Video?” I rub the sleep from my eyes. The cold floor has been cruel to me; my knees crack when I try to stand.
Mr. Jackson comes closer and kneels. He activates the screen on his tablet. “If you wanted attention, you should have called me first. I would have arranged a press conference.”
I don't understand until the video starts to play. It's shaky and obviously taken from a phone—someone at school. There I am, backed against the locker. It's like watching a memory, only from someone else's eyes. I attack Tyson over and over, punching him so fast that I can't believe I’m staring at myself on the screen. In a matter of only a few seconds I've knocked him against the wall, thrown him across the hall, shoved him to the ground, and have beat him with my fists hundreds of times. Tyson screams and the video cuts to black. I manage to see the count before Mr. Jackson shuts off the tablet. Seven million views.
“I don't need to ask if that is you,” he says, “but I'm hoping for a miracle. Is it?”
“I didn't start the fight, sir. I was trying to get to class.”
“Well, that student you destroyed might never step foot in your school again.”
I look up.
“Three broken ribs, a concussion, and a lot of internal bleeding. He'll spend at least six weeks recovering.”
I look at my bleeding arm and then at my hands. I did that? Mr. Jackson seems to have heard my question because he's already answering.
“You did.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, the same way he always used to when telling me things were going to get worse. “I can't fix this, Ryan,” he says. “But I'll do the best I can.” He steps up and peers down at me. That's when I notice his eyes are bloodshot. He must have had a long night. “I think you can forget about high school.”
“Sir?”
He shakes his head. “You saw the video. No one in the state will let you within a mile of that place again.”
“That's not fair. I didn't start the fight.”
“When has life ever been fair to you?” Mr. Jackson wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. “They're going to keep you here until I can get things sorted out. Be nice. Don't give anyone a reason to make this worse.” He looks at the guards. “And I want unedited copies of the surveillance from this room.”
The door closes and I'm alone again.
I think about flipping off the camera, to thank the world for its kindness, but I decide better. My life is over. Everything I've worked for the past two years is gone in a few seconds of online video. There's no home, no Stanford, no high school, and no Jessica. People who protest, saying the dead have no feelings are wrong. This hurts and it hurts a lot. I punch the wall, denting the steel, and then crouch in the center of the room and wait.
~ O ~
It feels like several hours before I see anyone again. Two cops with guns drawn stand at each side of the door. They're followed by a nurse pushing a small cart. She's shaking and won't look me in the eyes as she approaches. I let her examine me and don't make a fuss about the shot she gives me in my damaged arm. After handing me a couple pills and a paper cup full of water, she leaves a plate of meat.
I'm midway through the food when the walls of the room go blurry. She's given me more than medicine. I try to scramble to the door, but everything spins and my world goes black before I make it to my feet.
~ O ~
When I wake, I can't move
My thoughts drift toward Jessica. I wonder if I'll see her again. I wonder what the news will say about me now, and how she'll react. I stare at the blinking lights until they turn into menacing eyes, like a demon calling me in silence—and sleep.
~ O ~
“You've caused quite a mess, Ryan.” Mr. Jackson, my lawyer, wakes me. He's standing at the door with a policeman on each side. “Would you like to see the video?”
“Video?” I rub the sleep from my eyes. The cold floor has been cruel to me; my knees crack when I try to stand.
Mr. Jackson comes closer and kneels. He activates the screen on his tablet. “If you wanted attention, you should have called me first. I would have arranged a press conference.”
I don't understand until the video starts to play. It's shaky and obviously taken from a phone—someone at school. There I am, backed against the locker. It's like watching a memory, only from someone else's eyes. I attack Tyson over and over, punching him so fast that I can't believe I’m staring at myself on the screen. In a matter of only a few seconds I've knocked him against the wall, thrown him across the hall, shoved him to the ground, and have beat him with my fists hundreds of times. Tyson screams and the video cuts to black. I manage to see the count before Mr. Jackson shuts off the tablet. Seven million views.
“I don't need to ask if that is you,” he says, “but I'm hoping for a miracle. Is it?”
“I didn't start the fight, sir. I was trying to get to class.”
“Well, that student you destroyed might never step foot in your school again.”
I look up.
“Three broken ribs, a concussion, and a lot of internal bleeding. He'll spend at least six weeks recovering.”
I look at my bleeding arm and then at my hands. I did that? Mr. Jackson seems to have heard my question because he's already answering.
“You did.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, the same way he always used to when telling me things were going to get worse. “I can't fix this, Ryan,” he says. “But I'll do the best I can.” He steps up and peers down at me. That's when I notice his eyes are bloodshot. He must have had a long night. “I think you can forget about high school.”
“Sir?”
He shakes his head. “You saw the video. No one in the state will let you within a mile of that place again.”
“That's not fair. I didn't start the fight.”
“When has life ever been fair to you?” Mr. Jackson wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. “They're going to keep you here until I can get things sorted out. Be nice. Don't give anyone a reason to make this worse.” He looks at the guards. “And I want unedited copies of the surveillance from this room.”
The door closes and I'm alone again.
I think about flipping off the camera, to thank the world for its kindness, but I decide better. My life is over. Everything I've worked for the past two years is gone in a few seconds of online video. There's no home, no Stanford, no high school, and no Jessica. People who protest, saying the dead have no feelings are wrong. This hurts and it hurts a lot. I punch the wall, denting the steel, and then crouch in the center of the room and wait.
~ O ~
It feels like several hours before I see anyone again. Two cops with guns drawn stand at each side of the door. They're followed by a nurse pushing a small cart. She's shaking and won't look me in the eyes as she approaches. I let her examine me and don't make a fuss about the shot she gives me in my damaged arm. After handing me a couple pills and a paper cup full of water, she leaves a plate of meat.
I'm midway through the food when the walls of the room go blurry. She's given me more than medicine. I try to scramble to the door, but everything spins and my world goes black before I make it to my feet.
~ O ~
When I wake, I can't move
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