Chapter Eleven: End of the Line

You swear, savagely, as the lights of the party shine out a hundred feet in front of you. The word feels good in your mouth, and you spit out another one, letting out all your fury and pain into the cold night air.

‘Fuck!’

Your leg twists and buckles dangerously, and you crash to your knees in the ferns. Something underneath your hand stings horribly, and you swear again, wrenching it up and belatedly noticing that you landed on a nettle.

A nasty, oversized tropical nettle.

As if this day wasn’t shitty enough.

Tears leak unexpectedly from your eyes, and you scrub viciously at them, hating yourself for being weak enough to cry. But you’re bone-tired, and covered in cuts, and now your hand is on fire as well as your leg; it’s virtually impossible to believe that just three hours ago, you were lying on a bed in the lap of luxury, watching your girlfriend getting ready to go out.

Oh, shit – Emma.

As if in reminder, the puncture wound in your arm stings suddenly.

Christ.

-Soo picked his weapon well – slashed up like this, you can’t go anywhere near her, you realise suddenly. You’re not just the walking wounded – you’re the walking infected.

You swallow, tears burning behind your eyes again. How the fuck did this happen?

Yesterday you were on top of the world. Now you’re at the bottom of the fucking heap.

And Emma won’t believe you.

Not even like this. Not even limping and bleeding and about to pass out. She might believe Justin kidnapped you, sure. She might well believe he had his friend fuck you up as .

But HIV? A secret syringe, an evil plan and a forged medical record?

Far more likely that you saw this as the perfect excuse to blame someone else for your lie.