The Bad Life Chapter 12.1 - The Road to McDonald’s

When I opened my eyes, it was late afternoon. The heat had subsided somewhat.

As soon as I woke, I noticed something was off. I straightened my head, which had been slumped to the side. My limbs were tied to a chair. My legs were spread wide and secured, and my body was completely naked.

Sure, I didn’t expect the day to end peacefully… I turned my stiff neck to loosen the muscles and looked around.

The first thing I saw was Matt. He was sitting on a paint can by the window, his face full of fear. Following his gaze, I saw an unfamiliar man in the corner of the living room. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts, his exposed skin covered in mottled tattoos. From gaudily blooming flowers to a tiger, a shark, and Latin script, there were even trivial tattoos like a small Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse.

The man was intricately connecting wires to a large machine that looked like a car battery. I stared blankly at him before turning to Matt. Noticing I was awake, Matt met my eyes. He chewed his lips, hesitating as if to say something, but ultimately dropped his gaze without a word. I couldn’t tell what was about to happen.

The uncertainty didn’t last long. George appeared with Lasso. The moment I met that cute guy’s eyes, I gave him a grin. Being helplessly tied naked to a chair didn’t bother me. To George, my very existence was a humiliation and a mockery.

Sure enough, he flinched at my smiling face. No expression showed on his face, of course, since he was wearing a silicone mask.

After staring at me for a while, George strode over. He grabbed an empty paint can and sat down heavily in front of me. Lasso silently joined the unfamiliar man working. This left us facing each other without interruption.

George. In my memory, he was a pale, fragile boy. I once saw him bruised blue on his white skin from Hugh’s beating. A delicate, skinny boy who obeyed Hugh absolutely and received his love sweetly.

That boy had grown into a cruel man. George’s shoulders were now as broad as ours, his forearms thick and solid, his chest imposingly wide, and his hands, covered in silicone gloves, were large and unpleasant. The beautiful, cold blue eyes that once reflected sunlight transparently were gone. His eyes, darkened with age, burned fiercely with anger and hatred. His neatly combed blonde hair was replaced by a shoddy, straw-colored wig. The current George, from head to toe, was entirely my creation.

My

Dog

<You’ve gotten pretty, George.>

I greeted him in a voice as rough as his from the strangling. The mask hid George’s expression.

<You grew up to be a handsome guy. Must be popular. With Hugh gone, got a new lover?>

George said nothing. He just glared murderously through the unreadable mask. I could see his blue eyes darkening behind it. But the madness and delirium from last night seemed buried. George’s eyes burned with hatred, yet they were steady as silicone.

If George decided to kill me now, I’d have no choice but to die. I was tied to a chair, and the grown, imposing George stood freely before me with his allies. So, there was no need to fear death. If he wanted to kill me, he’d have done it already. Sitting face-to-face like this meant George still had something to do.

A trembling voice broke the silence.

<…You killed Hugh.>

I continued in a light tone.

<And I noticed you kept his memento, Mr. Acacia. Acting all high and mighty like back in Bluebell. George, did you really think I wouldn’t catch on?>

<I didn’t think you’d remember Hugh’s cigarette tin.>

George said coldly in a grating voice.

<I planned to tell you when I killed you, so that was unexpected.>

I let out a laugh. Smirking slyly, I nodded at George.

<What’s the plan now that it’s gone awry, Mr. Acacia?>

<Doesn’t matter. I’ll just move up another plan.>

George looked straight at me and pointed to the side.

It was the tattooed man. He’d finished his work and was leaning against the wall with Lasso, smoking. I belatedly realized he was a tattoo artist. The machines he’d been handling were electric needles and ink bottles for tattooing.

But what kind of tattoo? George stared at me without blinking. I couldn’t understand what he wanted to do to me. A humiliating tattoo? But wasn’t that… too childish?

We looked at each other silently for a moment, and George suddenly burst into a wide grin. The silicone mask, unable to stretch much, only wrinkled oddly. It was a chilling .

George crossed his legs and neatly folded his hands on his knee. He seemed much calmer now.

<You say I grew up handsome… It’s embarrassing to hear such praise from a handsome guy like you.>

George grinned.

<A foster mother? Or your real one?>

Julia again. He wanted to talk about Julia again. Last time it was Jerome, now George. I couldn’t understand then or now why they kept bringing up Julia.

Back in Bluebell, I’d confided in Simon about my mother. So, the top-floor boys likely knew I’d been confined by her for years. But that past was irrelevant to them. It wasn’t even my weakness.

After leaving Bluebell, I never thought of revenge against Julia. Until I reunited with the top-floor boys in Laberham, I’d lived aimlessly, neglecting myself. Being Julia’s son no longer mattered. I could forget any grudge against her if I wanted. I couldn’t guess why they kept dragging up a past I’d long buried.

No matter how I studied George’s face, the silicone mask made his intentions hard to read.

<…A bit of both.>

I answered belatedly.

<Right. Absolutely.>

George said softly. He suddenly pulled the paint can closer, sitting right next to me. His silicone hand touched my cheek. The strange sensation sent chills from my neck to my spine. It felt bad. It felt so bad it made my neck crawl…

<Your brown eyes, Raymond.>

George met my gaze with his deep blue eyes.

<They’re so pretty. Uncommonly beautiful. They look soft yet utterly arrogant… Someone would want to preserve them.>

<…>

<Not just your eyes. What about your healthy cheeks? They’re a bit gaunt now, but that has its own beauty. Your sturdy neck is enticing, and Raymond, you’re an exceptionally handsome man.>

George continued in a smooth, unpleasant voice.

<They say the lowlier the birth, the more beautiful.>

<…Yeah, my mother was certainly a lowly person.>

That answer seemed to please George to no end. His blue eyes widened behind the mask, and he burst into laughter.

<Kha, khahaha, lowly! Yes, oh, lowly indeed!>

The eerie laughter went on for a while. It carried an unsettling, oppressive energy that silenced the room. Lasso and the stranger smoking clamped their mouths shut, and Matt, eyes wide as if they’d pop out, gaped at George. I frowned, staring at the man laughing like a lunatic in front of me.

The laughter stopped abruptly. George, suddenly silent, locked eyes with me obsessively. The sudden quiet made my ears hypersensitive. His grating, unpleasant voice coiled around my bristling ears.

<You’re right. Your parents were the lowest of the low. But you, Raymond, you’re a filthy breed from birth.>

<…>

<Your mother… aren’t you curious why she hated you so much?>

<What are you talking about?>

The words slipped out before I could stop them. My voice was thick with urgency. A mistake. Even knowing it was a mistake, I couldn’t hide the impatience on my face.

They’d relentlessly tracked me over the years. They knew I’d enlisted after escaping Bluebell, that I was discharged after a gunshot wound, and that I came to Laberham for work. And even further back… they knew about my relationship with my mother. It seemed they’d uncovered even more than I knew myself.

George, as if savoring my urgency, took on a leisurely demeanor. He pulled out Hugh’s cigarette tin and slowly lit a cigarette. I clenched my teeth to keep from pressing him. After fully enjoying my reaction, George spoke.

<Not just you—she hated your father too. He died, and she didn’t even attend his funeral, right? Not only that, it took her two months to sluggishly come for you, like a crawling snail. If she hated you that much, why take you at all? She could’ve left you in an orphanage…>

<…>

<She didn’t take you to treat you well. To abuse a fifteen-year-old boy, one grieving his father, so harshly—it’s unreasonably cruel, isn’t it? Why did your mother do that? Why lock you up? What was she so desperate to hide?>

I couldn’t hold back and answered.

<She didn’t want a bastard like me to ruin her carefully built career.>

Even as I spoke, I knew it wasn’t the right answer. Sure enough, George tilted his head.

<Then why not hide you until the end? She sent you to Bluebell, didn’t she? Why the sudden change of heart?>

<…>

<Why? Come on, answer.>

<…>

<I know why, Raymond.>

<…>

I swallowed dryly.

<Your mother sent you to Bluebell because she had no choice. The older you got, the more you looked like oppa, and it must’ve freaked her out. She couldn’t stay calm. It was so repulsive and terrifying she wanted you out of her sight.>

I couldn’t understand some of the words he used.

<I don’t have a clue what you’re babbling about.>

But my voice trembled uncontrollably.

<My dad… I mean, my dad was…>

The face of my dad, long forgotten, flashed vividly in my mind at that moment. I had left the photo album at Julia’s mansion, so I didn’t have a single picture of him. Since leaving my mother’s house at twenty, I hadn’t seen his face again.

I forgot. His face, his voice, his warmth… The memories of playing soccer with him, joking around during baths, or eating dinner while watching quiz shows were all vivid, but the little details—his appearance, his laugh—none of those remained. It had been a long time since I tried to recall them.

And now, in this moment, hearing George’s words, my dad’s face suddenly came back as clearly as if I’d seen him yesterday. His eyes, his nose, his hair, his voice…

<Your father was a filthy, lowlife who slept with his sister and got her pregnant.>

George said softly, exhaling cigarette smoke.

<Your mother, pregnant with her brother’s child, didn’t abort but gave birth to a dirty bastard.>

<…You… what, what are you saying…>

<You know, Raymond. You know well enough. What do you think I’ve been doing for the five years since surviving Bluebell?>

George continued calmly.

<I know everything about you, Raymond. Maybe I know you better than I know myself. Your enlistment? Going to Iraq, Afghanistan? Did you think I wouldn’t know? I even know the names of every stupid, filthy guy you rolled around with, Raymond. Names you’ve probably forgotten, you loose-ass.>

George stubbed out his cigarette and lit a new one.

<You think it was a coincidence you met a hunter from Mimes while working as a forest ranger? Why do you think those hunters went out of their way to kindly point you to a job in the backwoods of Laberham? Oh, Raymond. Do you really think it was that Simon’s drama set and your job overlapped? That the workers at this campground just to join in your gang rape? Really?>

A cold silicone hand gently stroked my cheek.

<If you don’t believe me, that’s fine. I’m not here to convince you. Because you’re going to die here, and until you do, you’ll writhe in torment over these thoughts. That’s enough for me, you filthy incest child.>

George, still not breaking eye contact, flicked his hand. I dazedly followed the gesture. At his signal, the tattoo artist and Lasso stood. They picked up their equipment and approached us. George rose from the paint can and stood beside my chair.

The tattoo artist sat on the paint can. He started the tattoo machine, and it whirred. George placed a hand on my shoulder and leaned toward me. His smooth silicone hand touched between my legs. He pressed his index finger firmly against the intimate, deep part of my thigh near my groin. George whispered in my ear. His hot breath tickled my earlobe, making the hairs on my neck stand on end.

<And I’m going to make sure to crush what little life you have left. You’ll die here in utter misery, branded with an indelible mark on your lowly body.>

The tattoo artist pressed the electric needle where George’s finger had been. They etched the word in bright red ink on the deepest, most private part of my inner thigh.

The tattoo was meticulously done. The large, red letters were so bold and clear that their meaning couldn’t be ignored. The tattoo artist was a silent man. He didn’t say a word during the process and left with Lasso to pack up the equipment once finished.

George watched the entire tattooing process from start to finish. Only after everyone left did he sit in front of me again. He closely examined the red-inked tattoo and the inflamed skin.

<…>

Silence lingered. Beyond the window, a blazing red sunset was sinking. George, bathed in the sunset’s glow, looked as if he were engulfed in flames. I stared quietly at the back of George’s ear, tinged with the red light, before speaking.

<Why?>

I couldn’t understand.

<What’s the reason for all this?>

Naked, limbs tied to the chair, branded with an absurd tattoo, I asked.

<Why, why did you start all this? Why?>

What would my life have been without Hugh, George, Simon, Jerome, and even Carl?

On long nights in the warzone, I sometimes imagined myself living as an ordinary boy. I lost my dad… I hated my mother, but who knows how life might flow? Maybe I could’ve reconciled with Julia and lived quietly. I might’ve had a chance to live like others. Just ordinarily. Just enough to get by.

No need to kill friends, no need to witness people falling like toy soldiers in war, trapped in mundane complaints, oblivious to the world’s vastness or its sinister, terrifying secrets, living ordinarily… like my dad. Getting a simple job, living a modest life. I might’ve been given such a life.

It could’ve been. If it weren’t for you, George. If it weren’t for all of you.

They made me into many things, but the worst was making me a . They pushed me down a path from which I could never be ordinary. They bent my life in an irreversible direction.

<Why…>

George echoed slowly, his face unreadable.

<Why, Raymond?>

A dark shadow fell over the eyeholes of the mask. Only his pupils gleamed blue in the shade.

<You’re asking that now? Why?>

<Not once! Not once… have I ever gotten an answer.>

My voice grew weaker.

<Why did you all…>

<Why? Why, Raymond? What answer do you want? That we chose you? That you were special? No, Raymond. You were just… well…>

George paused briefly, then stood and spat out.

<…>

My throat, strangled for two days straight, ached unbearably, my entire body throbbed with pain, and the humiliating brand on my thigh burned and stung, but I didn’t care. Gripped by intense hatred, I glared at George. Looking up at his face, I spat.

<Just unlucky, George? You made me like this with your own hands and call it bad luck? You made me a mur… murderer and say it was just bad luck?>

<What else am I supposed to say?>

George asked with a smirk.

<Right? So, Hugh burning to death on the top floor of the dorm, that was just too?>

George’s face twisted sharply, visible even through the silicone mask. He bent down and grabbed my arms tightly. The blunt, gloved fingertips dug painfully into my arms. George growled, his face close to mine.

<You think I made you a murderer? That we made you a monster? Wrong! Wrong, you pig bastard!>

George suddenly shouted. I didn’t respond. A cold silence settled. George, trembling as if doused with cold water, whispered softly.

<You are you. No one made you. Every murder was your choice. Out of all the options, you chose murder.>

<Another… another one of your sophistries, George. Aren’t you tired of it? You’re the one who put the knife in my hand. You’re the one who drove me to kill. Don’t you remember?>

I bared my teeth, spitting out each word.

<Don’t you remember giving me drugs to kill Jerome? Locking me in the stables to be raped? And you say I chose murder? George, that’s not called a choice.>

I stared into eyes burning with hatred, just like mine.

<You forced me to murder! Yes, you made me a monster!>

<That’s what you want to believe. But I get it. Thinking we made you a monster lets you justify burning your friend alive. Right?>

I was momentarily speechless. George noticed keenly. He whispered in a harsh, grating voice.

<Did I hit a sore spot, Raymond? Does it hurt?>

George continued smoothly.

<You’re one of us. The same kind. Weren’t you glad, honestly? Tell me, Raymond. Weren’t you happy to reunite with us?>

That was true. The joy I felt when Bluebell’s ghosts came back to life still lingered in my chest. The thrill of being able to kill them again. The mad hope that I could wash away my sins and anger still remained. George leaned his cheek against mine, his face expressionless. The unpleasant silicone stuck clammily to my skin. He whispered.

<Suffer. Keep suffering. Writhe in agony and die, Raymond. My love is waiting for you. My poor love…>

George slowly straightened and turned away. I couldn’t stop him as he left the log cabin. It felt like Hugh’s ghost clung to the back of George’s head, smiling at me.

As George left, exhaustion made my body slump. I hung my head, barely breathing. The brand on my thigh burned.

I don’t believe George’s words. I won’t believe anything the top-floor boys say. Not that Carl died so miserably, not that my dad and Julia were siblings, none of it.

But, as George intended, I couldn’t shake those thoughts.

What if my dad and mother really were siblings? If I was born of incest? That thought made Julia’s strange obsession and confinement understandable. I recalled her face, colder than just dealing with a bastard. A face strikingly like mine. A face so similar, with no distinct differences. If Julia feared me as I grew because I was truly an incest child…?

My stomach churned. If the top-floor boys had been watching me for five years, planning all this, observing my every move and digging up a past I didn’t know, how could I possibly stand against them? How could I kill them to avenge Carl?

No method came to mind. Nothing at all. It seemed the only ending left for me was to be killed by George.

It was complete darkness.

<Ray…>

A frail voice suddenly reached my ear.

Matt. It was Matt. I had completely forgotten he stayed in the log cabin. Lifting my head, I saw Matt approaching with a confused expression, slowly kneeling in front of me. He began untying my limbs from the chair’s armrests and legs. As soon as my hands were free, he put handcuffs on me. He slipped a cloth bag over my hands, tying it so I couldn’t grab anything. The handcuffs were connected to a rope on the chandelier, ensuring I couldn’t escape. It was meticulous work. Of course, it wasn’t Matt’s idea—someone must have told him what to do.

I staggered to my feet from the chair. I nearly fell but managed to stand by gripping the chair. Matt tried to support me, but I pushed him away harshly. He followed, stomping his feet.

<Ray, Ray, let me help…>

<Don’t touch me, you bastard.>

I replied coldly and limped to the mattress, collapsing onto it. Matt came closer and stroked my forehead. I slapped his hand away forcefully.

<But…>

<You piece of trash. You vile, stupid, cowardly bastard. If you had just let me go… when I was first dragged to this cabin, if you had just let me go… no, if I hadn’t gotten tangled up with a guy like you in the first place!>

Matt’s face hardened. His eyes brimmed with tears, ready to spill. Those tears only fueled my anger. I glared at him coldly.

<Get out. Please, just get out.>

My voice rose.

<Get out of my sight right now!>

<…>

I turned over on the mattress and closed my eyes. Behind me, I heard Matt stifling sobs. My hands trembled with unyielding anger. After a long silence, I finally heard the dejected sound of footsteps leaving the cabin. A pang of regret hit me for a moment, but the pain in my thigh made me forget about Matt quickly.

Gathering my courage, I looked at my bare inner thigh. Even in the dim room, the bright red brand stood out vividly. I stared at the tattoo for a long time before squeezing my eyes shut.

*

A voice thick with fear whispered right by my ear.

<Open your eyes, Raymond.>

<…>

<Damn it, get up!>

A strong grip shook my shoulder, startling me awake. Beyond the window, the cold light of dawn was just breaking.

Matt had woken me, standing against the window. I pushed away the hand gripping my shoulder. Only when I sat up and looked closely did I realize it wasn’t Matt.

<…>

<Hurry! Before we get caught.>

James roughly pulled my wrists. I was stunned but held them out. Why was James here, at this hour, alone? I wanted to ask, but my throat, harshly strangled for two days, was too swollen and sore to speak. James didn’t hesitate. When I extended my wrists with effort, he pulled out a pocketknife.

The cloth bag over my hands was torn to shreds. After ripping it apart, he began cutting the rope tied to the handcuffs. I stared blankly at James, sweating profusely from tension and focus as he worked on the rope.

Why? Wasn’t he in league with Simon? Even through my drug-hazed memories, I recalled James often coming to the cabin with Simon to assault me. But at the same time, I remembered a night when James whispered, <I’ll let you escape>. Come to think of it… when George first appeared, James had flinched at the mention of cutting out my tongue and tried to stop it.

It seemed James was as foolish as Matt but a bit smarter. Finally, the rope was cut by his hands.

<I grabbed your clothes. Let’s go. Hurry.>

<…Matt, cough, cough.>

I tried to ask what he did with Matt, the lookout, but I couldn’t speak properly. James didn’t care that I was coughing in pain. He grabbed my wrist urgently and pulled me outside. Moving made the burning pain between my legs flare up, thanks to the brand on my thigh. James must have seen it but said nothing. He seemed entirely focused on escape, which was exactly what I wanted.

I matched James’s pace and stealthily slipped out of the cabin. He had already parked his pickup truck in front. We rushed into the Ford. James took the driver’s seat and started the engine. As he hit the gas, he handed me something.

<The handcuffs, can you pick them? Will this work?>

It was a wire from a binder clip, used to pick handcuffs back at his trailer. It was the same one I’d used, bent and straightened into a needle-like shape. James dropped it into my palm. There was no reason to hesitate. I picked the lock, and in less than a minute, my wrists were free. By then, we were already past the cabin.

As soon as my hands were free, I grabbed the clothes haphazardly thrown into the truck and put them on. They were loose jeans and a shirt, rare for fitting my tall, broad frame.

The escape route was quiet. Eerily quiet. When we took the construction-cleared path, I slid under the seat to hide. James drove calmly, but as soon as we hit the road to town, he sped up urgently.

We didn’t exchange a word. It was early morning, so the heat wasn’t intense, yet we were both drenched in sweat. There were no mishaps like a tire blowing out. We reached the town smoothly, and James sped up even more upon entering. We passed through without incident. As soon as we hit the open road, with endless black asphalt stretching ahead, we both let out sighs close to exclamations.

Only then did James turn to look at me. His face was blank. Sweat dripped from his chin.

<You’re tall, so I grabbed the biggest clothes I could find…>

James said out of nowhere.

<…>

A brief silence followed. Then James’s face twisted. Mine probably did too. We burst into laughter, shaking with it. He floored the accelerator, swerving across the center line, laughing wildly. My throat felt like it was tearing, but the pain was almost sweet.

Laughing turned to coughing, and James found a water jug in the back seat and handed it to me. The lukewarm water felt soothing as it flowed down my throat. I drank over half of the two-liter jug before passing it to James. He drank every last drop while steering.

As the laughter subsided, clarity returned. The boisterous laughter felt like a lie as a quiet silence settled. I stared at James, focused solely on driving.

I muttered through my stinging throat.

<What the hell are you doing?>

James tossed the jug out the window.

His voice trembled.

I leaned out the window to look back. The road held only us. I turned to Bradshaw to James.

<Maybe.>

James smiled, still shaken, meeting my eyes.

<I’m already regretting it.>

Despite his words, he sped forward as fast as he could. We raced at a terrifying speed without seatbelts. Everything was fading away absurdly fast.

But for now, I was satisfied. I grinned, baring my teeth.

<If you don’t want more regrets, keep this speed until the sun sets.>

The morning sun, rising on the horizon, shone dazzlingly.

*

Overcome by exhaustion and pain, I fell asleep as soon as we left Laberham. When I woke, we were still on the road. The sun was high, the windows sealed, and the air conditioner cooled the air. I yawned dazedly. I couldn’t remember the last time I woke so leisurely with a yawn. I yawned again.

Turning my head, I saw James at the wheel, looking slightly better than in the morning. He must have stopped at a gas station while I slept. The fuel gauge was full, and the back seat held plastic bags with water and food.

I stretched and grabbed a water bottle to drink. James glanced at me. I handed him the water. While he drank, I looked outside. It was a barren plain. Low grass stretched endlessly, with low mountains dotting the horizon against a bright blue sky.

<Where…>

My throat still hurt despite the water. I swallowed and asked.

<Where are we going?>

James handed back the bottle and answered.

<Through Colorado to Texas. After that…>

He paused, then continued.

<I need to think more, but I was considering heading to Mexico, then maybe Europe or Africa.>

Mexico? Europe? Africa? The unexpected answer stunned me. James wasn’t joking. His face was dead serious.

<I stole all your stuff. Passport, ID, everything.>

<…>

James pointed to the back seat. Sure enough, my worn-out duffel bag was wedged there. I pulled it out and checked inside. I only had one bank account and no home, so I always carried my ID and passport in the bag. As James said, my ID, passport, and even my wallet with cash were all there. I tossed the bag back onto the seat.

<Stop talking nonsense. We’re only together until Denver. Then we split.>

As soon as I snapped coldly, James slammed on the brakes. My body lurched forward. If he hadn’t buckled my seatbelt while I was asleep, I would’ve smashed my head into the windshield. But instead of scolding him, I just stared at James.

James, braking hard, buried his face in the steering wheel. He didn’t move. Without showing his face, he spoke in a low voice.

<No.>

<…>

<No…>

<Hey, James…>

<Please let me go with you. Please. I’m begging you, Raymond.>

I reached out and grabbed the back of James’s neck. Rubbing it gently, I carefully lifted his head. James obediently raised his head to look at me. His chocolate-colored cheeks were wet with tears. Every time he blinked, tears spilled from his large, dark eyes.

I didn’t need to take responsibility for his guilt. I didn’t need to accept his atonement or forgive him. But still, I didn’t want to be harsh to James, who had pulled me out of that den of lunatics.

I looked quietly at his face. When we first met, that smooth, handsome face had smirked with arrogance and childish mischief. I remembered his brazenly seductive expression and the playful, teasing voice. That young man was gone. He would never return. The top-floor boys had made sure of that. James’s life had been turned upside down simply for being foolish.

The price of ignorance and stupidity was too harsh. I knew what it meant to pay for ignorance. In Bluebell, I had to pay a brutal price for my naivety and foolishness. Back then, no one could help me. But James was different. I could help him.

<Alright… let’s say we go together. What’s next? Got a plan? I mean, not dreamy talk about Europe or Africa, but a real plan.>

The pain in my throat was unbearable, but I drank water to ease it.

<What about your career? The project you’re shooting? Your family? Your friends? Your life? If you go with me now, James… you can never go back.>

James raised his voice defiantly.

<I know. I know. I’m prepared for all of it. I thought it through! You think I’m doing this as a joke?>

I stared at James’s pretty face and asked.

<Have you thought about what happens if we get caught?>

He froze, blinking blankly. His eyes trembled wildly. I let go of his hand and leaned back slightly to face him. James’s lips quivered.

<…Raymond.>

<Come on. I’m curious too.>

He didn’t say a word.

But even without James speaking, I knew. I must look like a wreck. My neck was black with bruises from Lasso’s strangling, my face swollen from punches, and my lips probably torn, judging by the pain when I spoke. My body, hidden under clothes, was in a pitiful state. Scratched and bruised from wandering the forest and enduring group assaults, my anus was red and swollen from countless rapes, and a humiliating brand marked my thigh.

James had witnessed all that violence. From nearly losing a finger to a monkey wrench to watching me get gang-raped up close. He had been forced by Simon to rape me in front of him. If we got caught, everything that happened to me would happen to James too.

We both understood that. James’s face darkened. He bit his lip until it tore. Finally, he looked up, unyielding. He shook his head firmly.

<You can’t handle it alone. We go… together.>

<…>

<I’m going with you.>

<If this is about seeking forgiveness, forget it. You don’t need to feel guilty.>

I said dryly.

<You did some idiotic things, but you’ve paid enough. If I want anything from you… it’s just to forget it all. Forget me, forget them. Pretend it never happened and erase it completely.>

But James didn’t fall for it this time. He stopped crying. He looked at me clearly, eyes wide open.

<Raymond. From now on, we go together. I decided to save you.>

This time, James reached out to me. He cupped my cheeks with his slender, smooth hands. They were cold and clammy with sweat. Trembling, frail hands filled with anxiety. Yet, I couldn’t help but lean into them.

<I’ll save you.>

Carl.

In that moment, I thought of the name of the young boy I killed, whose face I could no longer recall.

I was wrong. I said no one could help me in Bluebell, but that wasn’t true. Carl could have helped me. If I had escaped with him, my life might have unfolded entirely differently. We might have really gone to France together. Watched the World Cup final, swam on the beaches of Nice. No one would have died. Carl, and even Hugh, might have survived, and they might have given up on me, seeking another victim.

If I had escaped with Carl back then. If I hadn’t ignored the boy desperately crying to help me.

Was taking James’s hand now the same kind of opportunity?

I silently looked at his tear-stained face, then shook off his hands. James bit his lip.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and his, then said firmly.

<…Raymond.>

James stubbornly shook his head. I gave a small smile. His confused expression met my grin.

<You’ve been driving while I was asleep.>

I said softly.

<You said we’re going together. It’s gonna be a long trip. Can’t have you burning out already.>

James’s lips curled into a faint smile before he bit them and lowered his head. Was he another tearful guy? I patted his shoulder, comforting the crying man.

We kept driving.

James, just as exhausted, fell asleep as soon as we switched. I turned on the radio, listening to weather and news while driving. After a few hours, farmhouses began dotting the plains. Further on, rocky mountains replaced the open fields, set against a bright blue sky. By sunset, we entered a small town.

We stopped at a gas station to refuel, then went to a rundown diner nearby. Both drained, we lacked the energy to talk. We slumped on glossy, cheap enamel sofas, waiting for our food. When drinks arrived, we sluggishly sat up. James sucked down an ice-filled cola through a straw, and I drank coffee for the first time in who knows how long.

Regaining some energy, I spoke.

<Let’s stay in this town tonight. They say there’s a motel near the highway.>

James nodded, chewing the straw’s end. He counted on his fingers, calculating, then said.

<If we drive all day tomorrow, we’ll hit Denver. Then we switch cars and head to Texas.>

<Why go through all that hassle? We could fly out from Denver.>

<That’s what Mr. Acacia would expect.>

James stopped mid-sentence and looked back. He carefully scanned the diner, staring at each person at the sparse tables, then checked outside. Only then did he continue.

<To get to Europe or Africa, we need to go through Mexico. If we leave from a U.S. airport, we’ll get caught at security. Mexico makes smuggling easier…>

<Caught at security?>

James’s eyes widened. Before he could answer, a waiter brought our food. We stayed silent as the waiter set down cheeseburgers and fried chicken and left. When the waiter was far enough, James continued slowly.

<Didn’t you know? Mr. Acacia is with the police.>

Police? That lunatic? It was absurd. James pulled the cheeseburger plate toward him and said.

<Well, not exactly police, I think. I’m not sure… but he’s definitely with something like the CIA. A spy or something.>

His voice lacked certainty, unsure of the details. Stunned, I stammered.

<But… no… how do you know that?>

At the mention of Simon, James’s appetite visibly faded. He carelessly squirted ketchup onto his plate.

<He used it to threaten me. No matter where I ran, as long as I’m American, I couldn’t escape them…>

James’s face darkened. But thanks to him, some of my questions were answered. That’s how they knew so much about me. I just learned George was American (I’d thought he was British), but if he worked for a government agency, it made sense he could see through my life like an open book.

My personal information must have remained intact at Bluebell’s school. And with the principal in league with the top-floor boys, if he handed over my info, George could easily access everything with a simple background check.