Faye let out a soft, almost amused laugh and shifted the pressure inward. My hand, still clasped in hers, plunged the dagger deep into her shoulder. Blood splattered across my face.
She made a promise I could not accept. “I told you, I won’t let you die before me.”
“Faye!” I snarled, my teeth baring.
She loosened her hold and, with a single resigned breath, said, “Go ahead, then. Do it, Chester."
Everything blurred. I forcefully wrenched the dagger free. She muffled a groan; blood smeared my face. The metallic smell pulled my thoughts back to that rain-soaked night in senior year.
I could barely stand. I staggered, turned, and stumbled toward the door, numb and dazed.
Then she was there. With a single loud thud—the sound of one knee hitting the floor—she was suddenly by my side, moving quickly and steadily, catching me.
“Don’t be afraid. It’s okay. I’m here,” Faye whispered, stroking my cheek.
I watched the beads of blood trickle from her brow, each drop landing on my face.
Even with her own wound, her eyes were on me.
No worries for herself and only concern for me.