Chapter 2: The Basement Surrender
The hardwood floor of the hallway was cold against Mark’s legs. He stayed there, slumped outside his bedroom door, listening to the silence. It was a thick, waiting silence. He imagined her on the other side, perched on the edge of his bed, those hazel eyes fixed on the door, a predator listening to the frightened breathing of its prey.
A floorboard groaned from his parents’ room. The sound catapulted him into motion. He couldn’t be found here. He pushed himself up, his legs stiff, and crept down the hall, past the closed doors, to the basement stairs.
The door sighed on its hinges. The musty, damp air of the basement rose to meet him, a familiar scent of old carpet and concrete. He flicked the switch. A single bulb dangling from a wire in the center of the room buzzed to life, casting a weak, jaundiced light that made the shadows in the corners deeper. He descended, each step a creaking announcement.
The basement was a museum of his childhood failures. A deflated soccer ball. A tangled pile of Nerf guns. The old plaid couch, its cushions permanently dented from years of video game marathons. He fell onto it, the springs complaining beneath him. The flickering bulb made the room pulse.
He stared at his hands. They still smelled like her. That cloying, musky perfume was baked into his skin, mixed with the salt-taste of her he could still feel on his tongue. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, over and over, but it was pointless. The memory was a physical imprint.
Jason. It was Jason.
His stomach twisted. He’d kissed her. He’d… He looked down at the damp spot on the front of his jeans, the physical evidence of his body’s betrayal. Shame washed over him, hot and acidic. Then, a worse thought: what if Jason was sti