Page 55 of Fueled Fury

The doctors say he’ll be in the hospital for a few more nights since he was unconscious for so long. Part of me is disappointed, but the other half is relieved. After not wanting to be alone my whole life, that’s all I want right now.

Checking my phone, I find no missed calls or messages. After blocking Eli’s number, the phone went silent even though I continually dial Austin.

Several authorities reassured me that the house was empty. I won’t believe it until I see him with my own eyes. I can’t unsee the flames overtaking the home he’d labeled ours.

Arson.

It’s already been confirmed. It was set intentionally. He dropped me, then set the house on fire. So why does my finger click his name, hold the phone up to my ear, and listen to the generic recording that the number is no longer in service.

Shoving the phone in my pocket, I head upstairs to my bedroom and toss my bag on the bed as the copy of Frankenstein falls out. Picking it up, I study the cover before pulling open the dresser drawer and hiding it under some sweaters I haven’t worn in years.

After I find some clothes I haven’t outgrown, I head into the en suite and spend the next hour in the shower. When I return to my room, even out of sight, I feel the book mocking me.

All I had to do was let him in. Trust him. But I waited until it was too late. I waited until Eli painted psychopath on the metaphorical wall in bright red paint.

Wiping at my cheek, I’m angry at myself for being so stupid, not seeing my best friend for who he was, and mostly for missing who I thought he was.

Swiftly moving across the room, I lock the door, grab the book from its hiding place, and climb into my bed. Slowly I open the book and run my fingers over the scribbles. There’s ink covering every space that doesn’t have printed words, and some words written over the original printed text.

Reading through, most appear to be questions about the book and about himself.

Was the creature evil or did pain make him evil?

Frankenstein is the monster, not the creature.It’s crossed out and under it Was the creature the monster? is written.

Reading through a few pages, the questions that stand out are: Why doesn’t the creature have a name? Would things had been different if Frankenstein named him instead of labeling him a hideous monster? Why can’t the creature decide his identity, give himself a name?

After hours of flipping through, reading the notes instead of the original story printed between the covers, I don’t feel like I have any better understanding of Austin. The only thing I know is he isn’t a monster.

On the last page, I stare at the numerous circles drawn around the page surrounded by notes. Find the light. Focus on the halo. They’re halos. Drawn all throughout the final pages and back cover.

Closing the book, I lean my head back against the wall. Focusing out the French doors, I find only darkness, very few lights are on in the houses surrounding the shore of the lake, including my mom’s. It’s hard to focus on the light when the darkness is so consuming.