Never Gonna Tell
Authors: Sarah M Ross
* * * *
Never Gonna Tell
Copyright © 2015 by Sarah M. Ross
Cover design by Regina Wamba of
Mae I Design
and Kelsey at
K- Keeton Photography
Editing by Tawdra Kandle of Hayson and
Kristina Circelli of
Red Road Editing
Formatting by
JT Formatting
ISBN:
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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NOTHING BUT BLACKNESS surrounds me. I can’t move. Why can’t I move? A shiver runs through me, both from fear and the cold of the ground below me. The air is stale and smells like the earth as I try to take a deep breath. I instantly know I’m inside of something, or maybe under something. “Hello?” I call, my voice shaking and barely above a whisper. No one answers. I try again, a little louder, as I fight back tears. The only sound I hear is my heart pounding in my tightened chest, the noise filling my head.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
I blink, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, but still I can’t see a thing. Pain radiates through my arm and head, but fear pulses stronger. The air around me grows thick and heavy. Sweat trickles down my face. My clammy hand trembles like a leaf in the wind as I stretch forward, feeling for something—anything. “Calm down,” I command my nerves. “It’s going to be okay.” But even I don’t believe my lies.
I move, just an inch, to test my arm. The pain is still throbbing, but it’s manageable enough to try to get out from … wherever I am. Taking another stale breath, my right hand reaches out and connects with something hard and scratchy. Wood? It’s all around me, maybe a foot or so away. I push against it as hard as I can with one hand, but it doesn’t budge.
I’m trapped. I can’t move and I want to scream. It’s bubbling up inside, but I quash it back down. Screaming will only let them know I’m awake. That I’m alive. Panic begs to take over, to take control, but I need to get out of here before that happens. I want to take a deep breath, but can’t. There isn’t any to fill my lungs.
But there has to be air coming from somewhere or I’d be dead by now,
I remind myself.
And that’s all I need
. I focus on keeping my breathing even, counting each breath. After reaching thirty, I reach up again, trailing the tips of my fingers along the wood, hoping to find a handle or knob, but there is only a large, flat, solid piece of wood.
This is it. My worst fear is coming to life. Everything I worked for, everything I sacrificed, was for naught. My mom and dad’s faces pop into my mind as tears well in my eyes. I was so stupid. So foolish to think that I was doing the right thing. Now look where that’s gotten me.
I’m going to die tonight. I’m sure of that now. All because I vowed that I was never gonna tell.
IF DANTE ALIGHIERI were alive today, I’m pretty sure he would add an eighth layer of hell: high school. People always say that your senior year of high school is the greatest time of your life and you should savor every moment, but I’m pretty sure those people are smoking something. In extremely large doses.
Between the catty girls who would sooner claw your eyes out than offer a smile and the guys whose every last brain cell is either focused on sports or getting laid, I’d rather have skipped these four years entirely. I’d go right to college where thinking outside the box is encouraged and finding likeminded people who share your interests is actually possible. I glance up at the clock and sigh. Will this day—hell, this year—ever end?
And it’s only the third week of school. Ugh.
“Hey,” the girl behind me whispers. I can’t remember her name. She’s one of the stoners, and I’m surprised she’s even in class today. Most days she doesn’t bother.
I look up from my notebook that contains no notes, only doodles, and turn toward her, raising my eyebrows as if to say, “What?”
“No, not you. I don’t even know you.” She glances over my shoulder to the girl seated in front of me. “Hey, Hailey, you goin’ to Noah’s party tonight?”
Of course she’s not talking to me. I sigh and stop listening to their hushed conversation and try to figure out where we are in the textbook. I’ve been attending Jefferson High School here in Hope Mills, Tennessee for the last two years, and I’m pretty sure there are a total of five people who even know my name, including teachers.
I’m okay with that. I like it that way.
I’m sitting in senior English as Mrs. Timmons drones on and on about Beowolf and Grendel. As I glance around the room, only two students are even paying attention, and based on the blank stares as she asks about the symbolism of the grand banquet, I’m ninety-nine percent sure only one actually read the book. Everyone else in the class, myself included, most likely just saw the movie with Angelina Jolie instead. I’m still not sure why teachers assign books from hundreds of years ago. They know we’re just going to watch the movie. Besides, fiction is not my thing. Give me the
Washington Post
or
Chicago Sun Times
over a cheesy romance novel any day.
“Reagan? Are you paying attention? Can you answer the question, please?”
My head shoots up to see Mrs. Timmons staring daggers at me through the top of her wire-rimmed glasses and tapping her foot impatiently. She’s one year away from retirement and actually has a countdown on the bulletin board behind her desk. I don’t blame her.
“Um, can you repeat it?”
She sighs. “I said, ‘Who foreshadows war and death in Geatland?’”
My hands deftly flip through the worn paperback trying to find the right page. Crap. Was that John Malkovich’s character?