Mark's hands flew up to the side of his face as he screamed in pain. Between his fingers, I could see a spreading red wound across his right cheek.
I dropped the stick, confused and frightened at the sight of his blood.
He looked at me, shocked.
I wanted to say something, but I couldn't make a sound. It was like a nightmare where you try to scream, and nothing comes out.
He turned and stumbled back in the direction of the cabin.
I should have followed, but I didn't.
I dropped down with my back against a tree, trying to catch my breath as Mark disappeared down the trail.
I should have gone back with him. I should have helped him.
Instead, for ten or thirty minutes or an hour—I wasn't sure how long—I just sat there, as scared as I had ever been. I was shaking uncontrollably.
When I returned to the cabin, the car was gone, and for a moment, I thought they had left me alone and gone home.
I stood in front of the cabin, looking at the tire imprint in the gravel, trying to figure out what I should do.
"Mark's mother took him to the hospital," Mark's dad said, standing in the doorway.
I looked over at him, "Is he okay?"
"Come inside," he told me, with a flat, tense voice that reminded me of Mark when he was angry with me.
I went inside.
"Sit down," he said, pointing at the couch.
I sat down. I was afraid to look up at him.
"I'm sorry."
"I want you to see something." He pulled out his phone, "I want you to look at this."
He showed me a picture of Mark's face, with a raw, bloody wound, a line running diagonally across his cheek, from just under his eye to below his ear.
I felt sick. I turned away.
"Look at it."
Couldn't he see that I already felt bad?
"This is what you did to your friend."
I started crying, but he kept the phone in front of me.
I knew I was wrong, and I knew why he was mad. But at the same time, I suddenly understood where Mark got his cruelty from.
"I'm...sorry," I managed to say again, though now I was gasping through tears. I wanted to explain what had happened, but I was afraid to try, and I didn't know if it mattered anyway.
He finally put the phone away.
"Your mother is going to drive up tomorrow to take you home."
The idea that mom already knew what I'd done and would have to drive four hours to get me was terrifying.
"Can I call her?" I asked.
I still didn't have my own phone. I never asked for one since I had no friends. I was thinking about asking since I'd become friends with Mark, but I never had the chance.
Now it wouldn't matter.
I spoke to my mom. She asked me how I was, I told her I was okay, and she said she would try to be up by noon.
I could tell she was angry, but I didn't want to say anything to her with Mark's dad standing nearby. I had no idea what she would do when she saw me. I'd never made her this mad or done anything to make her this disappointed.
I'd hurt Mark so bad that he'd gone to the hospital.
Now, she knew what I was really like.
I caught a glimpse of Mark sitting in the car when he and his mom came by to pick up his dad. His dad would get them checked in at a motel—I guess to keep Mark away from me—and then come back to spend the night with me at the cabin.
Looking out at the car through the window, I only saw Mark for a few seconds. The right side of his face was bandaged. He sat in the back seat of the car, eyes forward. He didn't look in my direction.
Before he left, his dad told me that I could get something out of the pantry if I got hungry.
Then I was alone.
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