Page 1 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
Prologue
ZANDER
Blood.
There’s so much blood. Coating my hands. Soaking into my Scooby-Doo pajama pants. The ones with the hole in the knee from that nice lady with the funny glasses at the Salvation Army.
It’s easier to think about her. Focus on her. Instead of the blood.
It’s everywhere. And it keeps coming out. Keeps spreading.
It won’t stop.
I can’t make it stop.
Dust dances in the air. Little pieces float in the light showing through the crack of the blackout blinds of the hotel room. My eyesight is fuzzy. My mind exhausted.
And buzzed.
Because this alcohol-induced haze is much better than the dreams that won’t stop. The ones that aren’t really dreams anymore. The ones that started the minute I opened that box three weeks ago and pulled out the piece of paper that rocked my world.
I lift the bottle of Jameson to my lips. Take a swig. Except the burn’s not there. The warmth is fleeting. But it’s enough to numb my mind. To let the dreams fade.
To let the truth seem false.
The Band-Aids. They’re everywhere. The box is almost empty. The white pieces I peel off stick to my arms—but they don’t matter. The blood keeps coming. It doesn’t stop.
I can’t make it stop.
Another sip. And then another.
I’m so tired. But I’m so sick of feeling this way. So sick of wondering if my adoptive parents knew. Of course they knew—so why’d they lie to me? Didn’t I have a right to know what was on that paper? To accept? To deal with it?
Fuck no. Fuck yes. I just don’t know.
Another sip. Then a gulp.
The scissors. The shine of silver lying next to her. The dark red coming through my closed fingers as I try to fix her. Help her. Save her. Stop. The. Blood.
The taste of fear. My scared pleas. The helpless feeling.
I can remember all that, so why can’t I remember if I did or if I didn’t . . . ? I must have. That’s what the report said. Why would it lie?
Wait. There’s sunlight. I can see the dust dancing. When did that happen?
A lift of the bottle. There’s nothing left. An deep breath. Slumping back in the chair. Now I can’t forget anymore. Fuck.
