Stay(49)

I stood rooted in the spot, shaking with fear and anger. I watched as Nate stepped over Jackson, walking through the dining room, into the living room, and up the stairs. Rochelle brushed past me, practically skipping, and hurried up the stairs to get to Zane.

Lily scuttled to a closet and came back with a broom and a mop. I bit my lip and looked at Jackson. My heart began to flutter with nerves. Without a second thought, I left the kitchen and went into the dining room.

Jackson lay unmoving on the floor. Blood soaked through his shirt. For a split second, I thought he was dead. Then I saw him breathing. I took another step toward him. The floor creaked. I closed my eyes and winced before stealing a glance at the stairs. I let out a breath when no one on the second level left their rooms. Jackson tried to open his swollen eyes. His gaze met mine.#p#分页标题#e#

I knelt down next to him. “Why?” I whispered. “Why did you take the blame?”

He closed his eyes and flinched. “You’re the only one,” he mumbled and coughed. Blood dripped down the side of his mouth.

“The only one?” I questioned.

He tried to nod. “The only one who got stronger from being here. You’re still you.” He curled his knees to his chest, groaning in pain. “And you made it past the fence. I couldn’t even do it,” he wheezed. “And I tried five times.”

“Why would you … Wait,” I blurted as it dawned on me. “No ...” I stood up, and shook my head. No. Jackson wouldn’t try to escape. Why would he? He wasn’t a victim like us. He couldn’t be. He lived upstairs, with them. He couldn’t … but it made sense. Cold shock washed over me. “You don’t want to be here?” I finally asked.

“Of course not,” he muttered.

The whole time I had thought of Jackson as an enemy. I backed up, looking at him in a whole new light, and hurried back into the kitchen. I picked up a clean bowl from the counter, filled it with warm water, and took the towel that was hanging on the handle of the oven.

“You shouldn’t have lied for me,” I said gently and knelt next to Jackson. His distant staring made sense now, and I felt guilty and stupid for not putting two and two together. I dipped the towel in the bowl of water and carefully pressed it to a cut an inch under Jackson’s right eye. “I feel horrible. It’s my fault.”

“Don’t.” He squinted one eye open. He lifted his hand and gently took hold of my wrist, moving it away from him. “Don’t feel bad, Adeline.” He slowly moved his gaze to the living room. “And don’t get yourself in trouble.”

I pulled my hand back and shook my head. “I don’t care.” He still didn’t let go of my wrist. I put my other hand over his and carefully pulled back his fingers. He grunted in pain. I slid my palm under his, blood smearing my skin, and looked at his hand. “I think your finger is broken,” I said, noting the swelling of his index finger.

“Maybe,” he said and wiggled his finger. “I can still move it.”

I cringed at the thought of his bones snapping and laid his hand on his side. I dipped the towel in the water again. Both of Jackson’s eyes were purple and puffy. Blood still dripped from his nose, and he had a large cut on the side of his mouth. I could see the teeth marks from where his own teeth had dug into it while being hit.

I moved my hand up his face and pushed his wavy dark hair out of his eyes. The strands caught in his wounds and painted a trail of red up his face. I wiped it away and ran my hand over his head, checking for more bleeding. He had a lump on the back of his head, probably from being kicked. I tucked his hair behind his ear and mopped up the blood that dripped from his broken nose.

The water in the bowl was red. I dipped the towel in and swirled it around, doing my best to clean it. I squeezed the extra water out and carefully pressed it to his mouth, wiping away the thick blood. It ran down into his ear and around his neck.

Bruises covered his arms, and the spots of blood that seeped through his shirt made me nervous. I put the towel in the bowl, wiped my wet hands on my pants and grabbed the hem of his shirt. Warm blood soaked through and stained my hands. I pulled the shirt up and gasped.

Scars covered Jackson’s torso. Raised pink lines mapped years of abuse and torture. Cigarette burns and other patches of scar tissue trailed up his rib cage. I clenched my teeth together, trying to stay calm.

The blood was coming from a perfectly straight, large gash on his side. It confused me for a second since his shirt hadn’t been cut. Then I realized that it was an older injury. The protective scab that had formed came off from the beating. I stared at it, horrified. It looked like someone had taken a vegetable peeler to him and removed a section of his flesh. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was about an inch and a half wide and five inches long.#p#分页标题#e#