I’m Breanna Miller and Kyle Hewitt took this picture of me and Razor after Razor saved me from a potentially dangerous situation. Kyle took pictures of me when I was vulnerable. He took this one when Razor was being a perfect gentleman. He took it in a moment where it looked like more happened than what really did.
And even if something did happen, that is between me and Razor and not between me, Razor and the rest of the world. Private lives should remain private. Period.
Kyle has been blackmailing me to write his papers. His first one is due on Monday. I won’t be writing it. In fact, because of this picture, I possibly won’t be in school anymore, nor will I be in Snowflake, and any dreams I’ve had for my life might be ruined.
I’m Breanna Miller and you’ll think of me whatever you want. Some of you might call me a freak. Some of you might call me a slut. Call me whatever you want, but I’m Breanna Miller and I know who I am and it officially doesn’t matter what any of you think.
Share, like, comment. It doesn’t matter. At midnight tonight, I’ll be deleting this account.
Breanna
LIAM’S ENGINE WHINES when it hits forty-five, so I’ve kept the speedometer to under forty. He’s going to be furious when he discovers I “borrowed” his car without his permission, but there’s too much at stake.
The muscles in my neck tighten as I turn onto the access road that leads to the bridge and my skin vibrates with nervous anticipation. This dread is like a sixth sense screaming at me that the world is collapsing. That’s because it is. It’s been a bad day, a bad night, just a bad...life.
But then I think of Razor’s hands touching my bare back, the way his lips feathered kisses along my neck. It’s not all bad. Some of it has been very, very good.
Razor. It’s like my soul breathed his name.
Razor is the only thing that’s been right in my life.
A rumble of an engine from behind me and my eyes flicker to the rearview mirror. The late-afternoon sun glints off the windshield and nausea strikes my stomach hard and fast. Cherry-red muscle car. It’s Kyle.
He lays on the horn and uneasiness tiptoes through my bloodstream. This area is isolated. No traffic, no houses, no farms. Just very, very alone.
Kyle blares his horn again and my palms sweat. Fading fall grass borders both sides of the narrow road. There’s nowhere to go. No sanctuary in sight.
He revs his engine and his horn sounds off again as he swerves. Kyle pushes alongside of me, the left side of his car angling up as he races along the grass. My heart beats hard and a million thoughts collide in my mind. Stop. Don’t stop. Grab my phone. Call for help. Go faster. Hit the brakes. Be better. Be smarter.
A flash of red. Metal crunches against metal and the steering wheel jerks. My body jars with the impact and I fight the losing battle to keep the car on the road. The frame shudders as I press the brake, but the car hurtles toward the tree. I’m going faster, why am I going faster? The brake, the brake, the brake.
I lift my foot off the gas, rip the wheel to the side, slam on the brake and miss the tree by inches. My body whiplashes to the side. Pain against my skull. And the entire world possesses a dreamlike haze.
The door to the car creaks. A combination of the warm sun and the cold autumn breeze drifts across my skin.
“Come on!” It’s Kyle’s voice, but his face is nothing but a blur.
The seat belt is unbuckled, my body is moving because of a pull on my arm and it’s odd how my legs work. There’s a humming in my ears and I close my eyes to gain my bearings.
When I open them, it’s too bright, and as I strain to make sense of my surroundings, the blue sky appears. The tugging on my arm grows stronger. My feet instinctually pick up the pace.
Kyle’s mouth is opening and closing. Words I can’t hear fall from his lips. There’s just the loud buzz and my moving feet. I blink. One time. Another. Recognition in the form of a memory causes me to trip over my feet.
“This is where Razor brought me.” My own voice sounds muted. Far away. As if I’m talking through a thick glass.
The hold on my arm tightens and it’s painful enough that a sharp “Ow” leaves my throat. That one declaration causes the fog in my head to sweep away in time for Kyle to step on the bridge looming before us.
My breath catches in my throat. Kyle.
Kyle has me and he’s yelling and he’s furious. His face red, his eyes wide, he’s spitting as he continues to scream at me and this isn’t Razor’s bridge. This is the other bridge. This is the one that the trains use. I snap my arm back and it slips in his clammy hand. “No!”
I spin on my toes and spot motorcycles. Four of them, then two more. They park in the grass next to the abandoned car. Racing off their bikes, yelling at us to stop. One of them has blond hair and he’s faster than the others, running as if he’s watching his life coming to an end.
“Razor!”
An arm around my waist and I’m being dragged. Onto the train tracks, onto the bridge, and below us the rapids swirl. The roar of the water replaces the buzzing in my head. White foam waves lash up, then get sucked into the undertow.
I have to get off this bridge. I need to get to safety. I prepare to kick, raise my elbow to strike a blow, then Kyle circles us and I can’t breathe.
We’re on the edge and he’s leaning me over. My feet scoot back and smack his and I recoil, but the more I struggle, the more he uses his body weight.
“Stay back,” Kyle shouts. “Stay the fuck back!”
Not quite a hundred feet—the drop is easily that huge. Into the rocky ravine. Into shallow rapids. At forty-eight feet, the chance of surviving a fall is fifty percent. At eighty-four feet, ten percent. I wish I had never read that article. Wish I could remain ignorant.