Edge of Darkness

I woke up to the sound of my alarm blaring and the faint light of dawn creeping through the curtains. Groggy, I dragged myself out of bed. School. Another routine day, but something felt off. I glanced around and realized why—this wasn’t my usual morning scene. I wasn’t at my grandparents' house. I was in my parents' house. The realization made my stomach twist a little.

It was strange, being here with them. I rarely stayed with my parents. In fact, I lived with my grandparents most of the time. They took care of me, raised me, and their house had always felt like home. My parents, on the other hand, popped in and out of my life like occasional visitors, almost like they were just checking in on a prisoner during visitation hours. The funny part? I never felt trapped when I was at my grandparents' house. No, the jail time was with my parents.

With a sigh, I started getting ready for school. I put on my clothes, packed my bag, and tried to mentally prepare for another day of classes. I walked down the stairs, the creak of each step oddly loud in the silent house. The moment I reached the bottom, I glanced toward the kitchen. There it was—the same depressing scene I had witnessed more times than I cared to admit.

My father was sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over with a drink in his hand. He was still at it, clearly continuing from last night. The half-empty bottle next to him told the whole story. My mother was nowhere to be seen, but I knew where she was. She’d be in the bedroom, sleeping in, just like always.

I paused in the doorway, watching my father for a moment. His eyes were glazed, staring into space. Part of me felt a pang of anger, but the other part, the bigger part, felt nothing at all. This was my normal.

"Morning," I mumbled, even though I didn’t expect a response. He didn’t even look up.

I turned toward the hallway, trying to ignore the bitter smell of alcohol that lingered in the air. Before heading out, I stopped by the coat rack where my father’s jacket hung. With practiced ease, I slipped my hand into the pocket and pulled out a few crumpled bills. School money, but maybe I could take a little extra this time. I’d need it to hang out with my friends later.

As I shoved the money into my pocket, I heard my father’s raspy voice behind me.

"You take something?" he slurred.

I froze for a second before turning around with a blank expression. "Just for lunch."

He grunted in response. I left the house without another word, the door clicking softly behind me. Outside, the world was waking up—birds chirping, cars driving by, people heading to work. It felt like an entirely different universe compared to the one inside that house.

As I walked toward school, I couldn’t help but think: jail doesn’t always have bars. Sometimes, it’s just a kitchen table with an empty bottle, a slumped figure, and a pocketful of hate.

I was almost at the school entrance, the bell about to ring, when I spotted him—Zane, an old friend, or more accurately, that "bad influence" friend everyone warned me about. You know the type: the one your teachers give you side-eye for hanging out with, the one your grandparents say will “lead you astray." Yeah, that guy.

He was lounging against the wall, arms crossed, a cocky smirk on his face like nothing in the world could touch him. I hadn’t seen him in months, and suddenly, there he was, just like before—trouble wrapped up in a leather jacket.

"Yo!" Zane called, pushing off the wall and swaggering over to me. "Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Goody Two Shoes wanna-be herself. What’s up, girl?"

I raised an eyebrow, trying to play it cool. "Still surviving, I guess. You know, dodging detention, pretending I care about history class. The usual."

He laughed, a deep, easygoing laugh that always made me smile, even when I knew I shouldn’t. "Same old, huh? I figured by now you’d have given in to the whole ‘good student’ thing."

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah… Though, apparently, I’m supposed to keep my distance from you."

Zane smirked, clearly enjoying the idea. "Oh yeah? And how’s that going for you?"

I glanced back at the school doors, my hand on my backpack strap. The responsible choice would’ve been to walk right in, sit through the classes, and avoid any more chaos in my life. But come on—responsible wasn’t exactly my strong suit. And standing there with Zane? It was like old times again, and I couldn't help but feel the pull.

"Not great, as you can see," I said with a sly grin. "So, what are you doing here? Just hanging around or what?"

Zane’s smirk turned into a grin. "Actually, I was thinking about hitting up the pool hall down the street. You know, the shady one? They’ve still got that old, beat-up table. Figured I could hustle a few people out of their pocket change."

"Billiards, huh?" I pretended to think it over, tapping my chin. "That’s your grand idea? Spend the day trying to hustle losers at the pool table?"

He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Better than sitting through whatever lame history lesson you’ve got coming up, right?"

He wasn’t wrong. I glanced back at the school entrance—doors were closing, and I’d be late in less than a minute. Did I really want to waste the day sitting through boring lectures, or did I want to go shoot pool with an old friend?

"Alright," I sighed dramatically. "But how are we getting there? You got a ride, or are we walking?"

Zane grinned, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. “A friend lent me a car. We can drive, shoot some pool, grab something to eat, and see where the day takes us."

"And if we get caught?"

He flashed me a mischievous smile. "We won’t. But if we do, that’s future us’s problem."

I stared at him for a moment before laughing. "Fine, but if you lose, you’re buying me pizza."

Zane clapped me on the back. "Deal."

With one last glance at the school doors, I turned around and followed Zane toward the parking lot. Maybe it wasn’t the best decision, but ditching class to play pool? That sounded like exactly what I needed.

We made our way to the parking lot, Zane twirling the car keys around his finger like he was starring in some low-budget action movie. The car—if you could even call it that—was parked haphazardly in one of the furthest spots. It was a beat-up old sedan, rust creeping along the edges, and the paint was peeling so badly it looked like it had been attacked by a swarm of angry squirrels.

"Wow," I said, eyeing the car. "This thing is... vintage."

Zane grinned, clearly proud of the hunk of metal. "Gets the job done. Hop in."

I rolled my eyes but got into the passenger seat anyway. As soon as I sat down, the musty smell of old leather and stale fast food hit me, but I wasn’t about to complain. It beat sitting through first-period history.

The engine sputtered to life after a few tries, and with a screech of the tires, we were off. Zane cranked up some rock station on the radio, the windows down, letting in the cool morning air. For a moment, I just leaned back, feeling the wind in my hair and forgetting about everything—school, parents, all of it.

"So," Zane said, taking a sharp turn that made me grab the door handle, "what’s been going on with you? Still hanging out with the straight-A crowd?"

"Hardly," I snorted. "More like keeping a low profile and trying not to flunk out of geometry. You?"

"Same old, same old," he said, his tone a little more serious than before. "Working odd jobs here and there. Not much else."

I glanced at him. There was something in his voice, a flicker of something more than his usual carefree attitude. But I didn’t ask. Zane had his walls, just like I did.

A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of the pool hall, which looked even shadier than I remembered. The neon sign flickered in and out, buzzing like a dying fly, and the windows were dark and covered in grime. It was still early, so the place was mostly empty except for a few older guys who looked like they spent every morning here nursing cups of Irish coffee and arguing about whatever came to mind.

Zane parked the car, and we got out. As we walked inside, I couldn’t help but smirk. The smell of cigarettes and chalk dust hit me, bringing back memories of the times we used to sneak in here after school. The regulars didn’t even bother looking up—they were used to seeing us around.

"Feels like we never left," I said, taking in the dimly lit room.

Zane grabbed a cue from the wall and tossed it to me. "Let’s see if you’ve still got it."

I caught the cue and leaned against the nearest pool table. "You really think you can beat me after all this time? You forget who taught you how to play."

"Oh, I haven’t forgotten," he said, flashing me a grin. "But that just means I know all your tricks."

"Or maybe I’ve got some new ones up my sleeve." I raised an eyebrow, feeling that familiar competitive edge creep back in.

We set up the game, and I let Zane break. The balls scattered across the table with a satisfying clack, but none of them sank. I gave him a smug look.

"Looks like you’re rusty," I teased, lining up my shot. I sank two stripes in a row, feeling a little rush of satisfaction.

Zane watched me with an amused smile, leaning against his cue. "Don’t get cocky, it’s a long game."

We went back and forth, bantering like old times, the tension from school and life slipping away with each shot. For the first time in a while, I felt like I could actually breathe. Like I wasn’t stuck in this endless cycle of expectations and rules.

But just as I was about to sink the eight ball and claim victory, Zane’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his smirk fading for a split second before he shoved it back into his pocket.

"Everything alright?" I asked, leaning on my cue.

"Yeah," he said, a little too quickly. "Just some dumb stuff. Let’s finish this game."

I didn’t push, but something about his quick response gnawed at me. As much as Zane acted like he didn’t care about anything, I knew better. I chalked it up to the same old problems, shrugged it off, and focused back on the game.

I lined up my shot, but just before I could take it, I heard the faint sound of tires screeching outside the pool hall, followed by loud voices—angry voices. Zane’s posture stiffened, and I saw him glance toward the entrance.

"Zane," I said slowly, putting the cue down, "what’s going on?"

He forced a grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Nothing. Probably just some idiots."

But as the door creaked open, and two rough-looking guys stepped inside, I knew that whatever was about to happen wasn’t just some idiots causing trouble.

Zane moved closer to me, his hand tightening around his cue stick. I could feel the tension building in the room. Whatever was going on, it was serious.

And I had a sinking feeling that ditching school wasn’t going to be the worst decision I made today.

The moment those two rough-looking guys stepped inside, the entire atmosphere shifted. They were both tall and built, with that dangerous look in their eyes—like they were here for one thing, and it wasn’t a friendly game of pool.

I glanced over at Zane, who had gone from his usual laid-back self to tense in an instant. He gave me a quick side-eye, the kind that said, Stay calm, but my gut was already doing flips.

One of the guys, a burly dude with a shaved head and a mean-looking scar across his cheek, locked eyes on Zane. "You got some nerve showing your face around here, man," he growled, cracking his knuckles. His friend, a wiry guy with tattoos snaking up his neck, was already inching toward us.

Zane let out a forced laugh, the kind that screamed, I’m not afraid, but I really should be. "Look, fellas," he said, taking a step back but still keeping his cue stick in hand, "I’m just here for a friendly game. No need to make this ugly."

"Too late for that," Scarface sneered, stepping closer. "You still owe me, and I’m done waiting."

I blinked, confusion swirling in my head. "Owe him?" I whispered to Zane, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

Zane shot me a quick glance. "Long story," he muttered. "But now’s not the time for it."

Scarface wasn’t interested in letting this blow over, though. He reached out, shoving Zane hard enough that he stumbled back into the pool table. The cue in Zane’s hand clattered to the ground, and for a second, everything froze.

Then all hell broke loose.

Scarface lunged at Zane, grabbing his jacket and swinging a fist at his face. Zane ducked just in time, but his foot slipped on the slick floor, sending him crashing into a nearby stool. Before I could think twice, I grabbed the nearest pool cue and swung it hard, aiming right at Scarface’s ribs.

The cue connected with a sickening thud, and he let out a grunt, staggering back. "You little—" he snarled, turning his attention to me now.

Not good. Definitely not good.

"Run, Ella!" Zane shouted, scrambling to his feet, but there was no way I was running without him.

Tattoo Neck made a grab for me, but I dodged, using the pool table to put some distance between us. I snatched up a ball from the table and hurled it at him as hard as I could. It wasn’t exactly a pro move, but it nailed him in the shoulder, enough to make him curse and back off for a second.

Zane, meanwhile, had recovered and was wrestling with Scarface, throwing wild punches and trying to get the upper hand. I could see his lip was already split, blood trickling down his chin, but he wasn’t backing down.

"I said, RUN!" Zane shouted again, this time with more urgency.

I hesitated for half a second—just enough time for Tattoo Neck to close the gap. He grabbed my arm, yanking me toward him, but I twisted free, adrenaline fueling me. Without thinking, I swung the cue again, this time catching him across the knees. He crumpled with a yelp, giving me the opening I needed.

"Zane!" I yelled, throwing the cue aside and rushing toward the door. He managed to shove Scarface off him, sending him stumbling into a stack of chairs.

"Go, go, go!" Zane yelled, bolting toward the exit.

We dashed out the door, the bright sunlight momentarily blinding me as we hit the sidewalk. Behind us, I could hear the angry shouts of Scarface and his buddy as they tried to recover from the chaos we’d left inside.

Zane grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the parking lot. "C’mon, we’ve gotta move!"

We reached the beat-up sedan, and Zane fumbled with the keys, cursing under his breath as his hands shook. Finally, the door unlocked, and we scrambled inside, slamming the doors shut just as the two thugs burst out of the pool hall.

"Go, go, go!" I urged, my heart pounding in my chest.

Zane gunned the engine, and the car lurched forward with a squeal of tires. We tore out of the parking lot just as Scarface kicked a trash can in frustration, yelling something after us that I couldn’t make out over the roar of the engine.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the rush of wind and the hum of the car as Zane sped down the street, weaving through traffic like a madman. I was still trying to catch my breath, my pulse racing.

Finally, Zane glanced over at me, his face bruised and bloodied, but still wearing that damn grin. "That... was close."

I glared at him, "What the hell, Zane? Who are those guys?"

He wiped the blood from his lip, shrugging like we hadn’t just barely escaped a full-on brawl. "I might’ve borrowed some money from Scarface a while back. And... he’s been waiting for it back, and I’m a little short on cash these days."

"Zane!" I groaned, leaning back in my seat. "This was supposed to be a simple ditch day, not a ‘fight for our lives’ day."

He laughed, though it quickly turned into a wince. "Hey, you handled yourself pretty well in there. I think you might be tougher than me."

I shook my head, still too amped up to appreciate his attempt at humor. "You need to start telling me these things before I get involved in your messes."

"Noted," Zane said, his voice softer. "Thanks for not leaving me back there."

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help the slight smile creeping onto my face. "Yeah, yeah. Next time, you’re on your own."

He grinned, shifting gears as we sped down the road. "Deal. So, what’s the plan now?"

I looked over at him, feeling the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. "Let’s lay low for a while. And maybe, just maybe, find somewhere that doesn’t involve getting us both beaten up."

Zane laughed, his grin finally reaching his eyes again. "Sounds like a plan."

We drove for what felt like hours, leaving the town far behind, the tension slowly easing as the landscape turned from city streets to open fields and winding country roads. Zane didn’t say much, and I didn’t push. I could tell he was deep in thought, his hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

Finally, he pulled off onto a dirt road that led up a small hill, the kind of place that felt like it was a million miles away from civilization. He parked the car near the top, where the ground leveled out, giving us a perfect view of the town spread out below, now just a distant blur.

We sat there for a while, the silence between us comfortable, just taking in the view and catching our breath. I glanced over at Zane, noticing the way the sunlight caught the bruises on his face, the dried blood on his lip. He looked worn out, but there was something else in his eyes—something deeper than just the exhaustion of the day.

"So," I finally said, breaking the silence, "you want to tell me what that was all about?"

Zane sighed, leaning back in his seat and staring up at the sky. "It’s... complicated."

I raised an eyebrow, giving him a look that said, Try me.

He ran a hand through his hair, clearly debating how much to tell me.

"It’s my sister," he started, his voice quieter now. "She’s been going through hell. Her ex-husband—real piece of work—is trying to take her kid away. He’s got more money, better lawyers, and she’s... well, she’s struggling."

I frowned, the pieces slowly starting to fit together. "And you borrowed money from Scarface to help her?"

"Yeah," Zane admitted. "I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t just stand by and watch her lose her son. We grew up in the system, you know? Bounced around from one foster home to another. She is the only family I have, the only one who stuck by me when things got rough. When she needed help, I didn’t think twice."

My heart softened at his words. I knew Zane wasn’t exactly a saint, but hearing this made me see him in a different light. "She doesn’t know you dropped out of school, does she?"

Zane shook his head, looking out at the horizon. "No. She still thinks I’m just working part-time, saving up for college or something. She’s a nurse, busting her ass at the hospital, and barely making enough to keep a roof over her head after all the lawyer fees. I couldn’t tell her I dropped out. I didn’t want to disappoint her."

I reached out, placing my hand on his arm. "You’re doing what you can, Zane. She’d be proud of you, even if she knew."

He looked at me, something soft and vulnerable in his eyes. "Maybe. But it’s a mess, Ella. And now with those guys after me... I don’t know how I’m going to fix it."

I nodded, understanding more than I wanted to admit. "I get it," I said quietly. "My father... when he drinks, he’s not exactly the most pleasant person to be around. I’ve had to dodge more than a few blows over the years. You learn how to handle yourself in situations like that."

Zane looked at me, surprise flickering in his eyes. "I didn’t know."

I shrugged, trying to brush it off. "It’s not something I like to talk about. But I guess we’re both pretty good at hiding things, huh?"

He gave a small, sad smile. "Yeah, seems like it."

The air between us grew heavier, not with tension, but with something else—something that had been simmering beneath the surface for a long time. Zane turned to face me fully, his eyes searching mine, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had gone quiet like it was just the two of us up on that hill.

"Ella," he started, his voice barely above a whisper, "I—"

Before he could finish, a sound broke through the stillness—the unmistakable crunch of gravel under heavy boots. We both turned, and my heart dropped. One of the thugs from the pool hall, Scarface, was standing at the edge of the clearing, his eyes locked on us with a look that sent a shiver down my spine.

"There you are," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "You thought you could just run?"

Zane shot up from the car, positioning himself between me and the thug. "Stay back, man. Just leave us alone."

The thug sneered, pulling out a switchblade from his pocket. "Not a chance, kid. Your little stunt back there will cost you."

Everything happened so fast after that. The thug lunged at Zane, the blade flashing in the sunlight. Zane dodged, but not fast enough—he caught a deep slice along his arm, blood instantly staining his shirt.

"Zane!" I screamed, fear gripping me as I watched him stagger back.

The thug didn’t relent, pressing the attack, and Zane was barely holding his own. He managed to land a punch, but the guy was bigger, stronger, and he had the advantage. With a swift, brutal movement, the thug knocked Zane to the ground, standing over him with the blade raised.

I couldn’t think—I just reacted. My eyes darted around, and I spotted a large rock lying on the ground nearby. Without hesitating, I grabbed it and rushed forward, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Get away from him!" I shouted, my voice shaking.

The thug turned just as I swung the rock with all my strength. It connected with a sickening crack against his head, and his eyes went wide with shock before he crumpled to the ground, the knife slipping from his hand.

I stood there, frozen, the rock still in my hand, as the reality of what I’d just done sank in. The thug lay motionless on the ground, blood pooling beneath his head.

Zane struggled to his feet, clutching his wounded arm, his eyes wide as he took in the scene. "Ella," he whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and concern.

I dropped the rock, my hands trembling. "I... I didn’t mean to... I just... he was going to kill you, Zane."

He stepped closer, gently taking my shaking hands in his. "I know," he said softly. "You did what you had to do."

I felt a sob rising in my throat, but I swallowed it down, focusing on the warmth of Zane’s hands around mine. "What do we do now?"

Zane glanced down at the thug, then back at me, his face pale but determined. "We have to go. We can’t stay here. We’ll figure this out, but right now, we have to get out of here."

Nodding, I followed him to the car. We climbed inside.

Zane's hand was trembling on the gearshift, ready to take us out of there, but I grabbed his arm, my voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions churning inside me.

"Zane, wait," I said, my voice firmer than I expected. "We can’t just drive away. If we leave him here, they’ll find him. They’ll find us."

Zane looked at me, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. "Ella, what are you saying? We need to get out of here, now."

I shook my head, taking a deep breath to steady myself. "No. We need to hide the body. If they find him, they’ll come after us. We can’t leave any evidence behind."

For a moment, Zane just stared at me. But then, slowly, he nodded, his expression hardening.

"Okay," he whispered, swallowing hard. "Okay, you’re right. Let’s do this."

We got out of the car, the quiet stillness of the hill now feeling ominous, as if the very earth knew what we were about to do. The thug’s body lay still on the ground, and the realization of what had just happened hit me like a ton of bricks. But there was no time for panic, no time to fall apart. We had to act.

Zane moved first, carefully nudging the body with his foot to make sure the thug was truly dead. When there was no reaction, he crouched down and started checking the thug’s pockets, pulling out anything that could be used to identify him—a wallet, a phone, a few crumpled bills. I joined him, my hands still shaking as I helped.

"We need to move him somewhere no one will find him," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Somewhere secluded."

Zane nodded, glancing around the area. "There’s a ravine a little ways down the hill," he said, pointing to a spot where the land dipped sharply. "We can roll him down there. It’ll be hard for anyone to spot him unless they’re really looking."

I nodded, and together we lifted the body, the weight making my muscles ache. We moved as quickly as we could, our breaths coming in short, strained gasps as we dragged the thug toward the ravine. Every step felt like a nightmare.

When we reached the edge, Zane and I exchanged a glance. Then, without a word, we pushed the body over the edge, watching as it tumbled down the steep incline, disappearing into the thick underbrush below.

I felt a wave of nausea rise up as the sound of the body hitting the ground echoed in the stillness. But I forced it down, knowing we weren’t done yet. We couldn’t afford to be sloppy.

"We need to cover our tracks," I said, already scanning the area for anything that might give us away.

Zane nodded, his face pale but determined. He grabbed a handful of dirt and scattered it over the spot where the body had been, erasing the scuff marks from the ground. I found some fallen branches and used them to sweep away our footprints, trying to make it look like no one had been there at all.

It felt like it took hours, but finally, we stepped back, surveying our work. The hillside looked undisturbed, the ravine below now silent and still. It was as if nothing had happened. But we both knew the truth buried beneath that calm surface.

"We need to get rid of his stuff," Zane said, holding up the thug’s wallet and phone.

I nodded, taking the phone from him. "We’ll dump them somewhere far away. Somewhere no one will think to look."

We made our way back to the car. As soon as we were inside, Zane started the engine, and we drove off.

After a few miles, we pulled over near a bridge, the water below dark and rushing. Zane handed me the wallet, and together we threw the thug’s belongings into the river, watching as they disappeared into the current, carried away to who knows where.

When it was done, we got back in the car, neither of us saying a word as Zane drove us away from the scene, away from the crime we had just committed. But no matter how far we drove, I knew the memory of that day would stick with us, haunting our thoughts and dreams.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the road, Zane finally broke the silence. "Ella, I’m sorry. I never meant for you to get involved in this. I never meant for any of this to happen."

I looked over at him, seeing the guilt etched deep into his features. "It’s not your fault, Zane," I said softly. "We did what we had to do. We had no choice."

He nodded, but I could see the doubt in his eyes, the fear of what might come next. "Where do we go from here?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

I took a deep breath, my mind racing. "We stick together," I said finally. "We figure this out, one step at a time."

Zane glanced over at me, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and uncertainty. "Together," he echoed, his voice steadying. “I like the sound of that.”

And as we drove, I knew one thing for sure: we were in this too deep to turn back now. We had crossed a line, and there was no going back.

The drive back into the city felt like a blur. The car was filled with heavy silence, both of us lost in our thoughts. My hands still felt clammy, and every time I glanced over at Zane, I saw the same blank look in his eyes—a mix of shock, regret, and something else I couldn't quite name.

We didn’t talk much on the way. Eventually, we pulled into the narrow alley behind an old brick building, and Zane parked the car. His rental studio was on the top floor of a rundown complex. The kind of place where the walls were thin, and no one asked too many questions.

As we walked up the stairs, my mind raced, replaying everything that had happened. We’d buried a body. Hid evidence. And now? Now we were back in the middle of the city, pretending like life was supposed to go on as normal. But it wouldn’t. It couldn’t.

Zane unlocked the door, pushing it open to reveal the small, cluttered space inside. His studio wasn’t much—just a bed shoved against the wall, a tiny kitchen in the corner, and a few mismatched pieces of furniture scattered around. It smelled like old takeout and stale air, but at least it was safe. For now.

“Home sweet home,” Zane muttered, tossing his keys onto the counter and sinking into the worn-out couch.

I stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at him, unsure of what to say. What was there to say after everything? I felt like we were walking through a fog.

I finally moved, sitting down on the couch next to him. Zane leaned his head back against the cushion, staring up at the cracked ceiling. His arm, still bandaged from the cut, rested on his lap. The bruises on his face were darker now, the swelling more obvious.

"We really did it, didn’t we?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Zane closed his eyes for a second, then nodded slowly. "Yeah, we did."

The silence that followed was suffocating. I shifted uncomfortably, trying to find the right words, but everything felt wrong. I didn’t know how to process what I was feeling—guilt, fear, anger. They all tangled together, creating this mess in my head that I couldn’t untangle.

"You okay?" Zane asked softly, his voice breaking through my thoughts.

I laughed, but it came out bitter and shaky. "Am I okay? I don’t know, Zane. We just… killed someone. And now we’re sitting here, acting like it didn’t happen."

His jaw clenched, and he sat up, facing me. "I know. But we didn’t have a choice, Ella. It was him or us. He would've killed us. You saved my life."

I looked down at my hands, fingers gripping the edge of the couch so tightly my knuckles turned white. "Yeah, but it doesn’t feel that simple, does it?"

Zane reached out and took my hand, his touch gentle despite everything. "No, it doesn’t. But I’m not going to let you carry this alone. We’re in this together, remember?"

I looked up at him, and for a moment, all the fear and confusion melted away. The way he was looking at me—it was like he could see right through the tough exterior I’d been trying to put up. And suddenly, I didn’t want to be tough anymore. I didn’t want to pretend like this wasn’t eating me alive.

"Together," I whispered.

Zane leaned in slightly, his eyes searching mine. "Ella, I..." he hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if he should say what was on his mind. "I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I need you to know... I don’t regret having you with me today. I don’t regret you, at all."

My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment, I just stared at him. His face was bruised and battered, his clothes were torn, and we were sitting in the middle of a nightmare, but the way he looked at me made my heart race.

"I don’t regret you either," I whispered, not sure where the words were coming from.

There was a pause, and then slowly, almost cautiously, Zane closed the distance between us. His lips brushed against mine, soft and hesitant at first, like he was waiting for permission. And then, when I didn’t pull away, he kissed me more deeply, his hand cupping my face like he was afraid I’d disappear.

The world around us seemed to fade away, just for that moment. All the fear, the guilt, the horror—it disappeared as we kissed, like this was the one thing that made sense in the middle of all the chaos.

When we finally pulled apart, both of us breathless, Zane rested his forehead against mine. "I don’t know what we’re going to do," he murmured. "But whatever happens, I’m with you."

I nodded, feeling the same mix of fear and warmth bubbling up inside me. "Me too."

After a while, the adrenaline of the day began to wear off, and Zane's injuries caught up with both of us. I could see the pain etched on his face, the deep cut on his arm still bleeding through the makeshift bandage he’d wrapped around it earlier. I stood up, rummaging through his small kitchenette to find anything useful.

“Sit down,” I said softly, pulling out a first-aid kit from under the sink. “We need to get you cleaned up.”

Zane gave me a grateful but tired smile as he sat back on the couch, letting me take charge. I carefully unwrapped the blood-soaked cloth from his arm, wincing at the sight of the wound. It was deeper than I thought, but not deep enough to need stitches.

“This might sting,” I warned, grabbing a bottle of antiseptic and dabbing it gently over the cut.

He hissed in pain but stayed still, his eyes fixed on me as I worked. “You’re pretty good at this,” he said, his voice low, a little teasing despite everything.

I smiled, focusing on bandaging his arm tightly. “You’re not the first person I’ve had to patch up. My dad isn’t exactly gentle when he’s drunk.”

Zane’s face softened. “Oh.…”

I shrugged, keeping my attention on his arm, but I could feel his gaze on me. Zane’s hand gently touched my arm. “I’m sorry, Ella.”

I looked up at him, surprised by the tenderness in his voice. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. We’ve both had to survive in our own ways, right?”

Zane nodded, but his eyes stayed on me. When I finished wrapping his arm, he caught my hand and held it, his grip warm and comforting. For a moment, we just sat there in silence.

“We’ll figure this out,” I said, breaking the silence. “What happened… we can’t change it. But we don’t have to let it destroy us.”

Zane’s eyes flickered with relief, but there was still a shadow there. “I just… I don’t want you mixed up in my mess anymore, Ella. You’ve done enough. You saved me.”

“I’m not leaving you to deal with this alone,” I insisted. “I’ve got an idea. About the money. We pay Scarface’s buddy back, and this all goes away, right?”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Yeah, but I don’t have that kind of money, and he’s not going to wait much longer.”

“I do,” I said, surprising myself with how calm I sounded. “My parents… they might not care about me, but they have money. A lot of it. I’ll take what we need. We’ll pay the thug tomorrow and be done with all of this.”

Zane’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’d steal from your parents? For me?”

I shrugged, my heart pounding with the decision I’d just made. “What’s the point of them having all that money if they can’t even be bothered to take care of me? It’s not like they’ll notice if a little goes missing.”

Zane looked at me for a long moment, and then something shifted in his expression. “Ella, you don’t have to do this.”

“I know I don’t have to,” I said softly, “but I want to.”

He pulled me closer, his hand still wrapped around mine, and this time when he kissed me, it wasn’t tentative or cautious. It was full of everything we hadn’t said, everything we were feeling. The fear, the gratitude, the need to forget the nightmare we’d just lived through, if only for a little while. I leaned into him, the warmth of his touch spreading through me, a sharp contrast to the cold, dark thoughts swirling in my mind.

We stayed like that, kissing slowly at first, but the intensity built until all the emotions we’d bottled up started spilling out. It was like we were trying to escape what had happened, trying to lose ourselves in each other, if only for a little bit.

When we finally pulled apart, breathless and tangled together, the world felt a little less heavy. Zane’s eyes were soft, his fingers trailing gently across my cheek. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

I smiled, though there was a sadness behind it. “Maybe we both deserve a little better.”

The night crept on, the silence around us comforting now. But as much as I wanted to stay, I knew I couldn’t. I pulled away reluctantly, sitting up on the edge of the couch, and putting my clothes on. “I have to go.”

Zane frowned, sitting up with me. “You sure you can’t stay?”

I shook my head. “My parents… if I don’t show up, they’ll notice eventually. And that’s the last thing I need right now. Besides, I need to get the money.”

Zane nodded, though he didn’t seem happy about it. “Be careful, okay?”

I leaned down, kissing him softly one more time before slipping out of the couch and grabbing my jacket. “Tomorrow, we’ll fix this. We’ll pay off the thug, and this will all be behind us.”

Zane gave me a half-smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

I slipped out the door, my heart still racing from the whirlwind of the night, but as I walked home, that familiar heaviness crept back in. I replayed everything in my head—the fight, the body, the way it felt to swing that rock. How easy it had been in the moment.

By the time I reached my house, it was late, and as I opened the door quietly, I saw my father sitting in his usual spot, an empty bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him. He was passed out, slumped over in his chair, snoring softly.

For a moment, I just stood there, watching him. A creepy, uninvited thought slithered through my mind, and I imagined him in the place of the thug I’d killed. His head cracked open, bleeding out on the floor. The image startled me, and I shook it off quickly, but the question lingered in the back of my mind.

Could I do it?

Could I do that again?

I shuddered, turning away from my father and heading upstairs, but the thought wouldn’t leave me. Did this murder unlock something dark in me?

Edge of Darkness