[ xii. get out ]

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THE FIVE TEENAGERS WERE frozen in petrified silence, their sun-kissed, trembling bodies pressed against the far side of Big John's office as they anxiously peered through the rickety blinds of a musty window, watching two darkly-clothed figures approach the Chateau.  With tearful eyes opened wide, quivering jaws dropped with horror and youthful hearts beating much too quickly in fragile chests to be safe, the five teenagers knew there was no denying that the violent men from the marsh had come back to finish what they had ultimately started.

"Oh, my God," Willa Deveraux whimpered, bringing a jeweled up to her mouth, snapping her gaping jaw shut.  She was the first to fall away from the window, backing up harshly against a wobbly table as she hastily blinked, already desperately trying to force from her mind the terrifying image of two burly men with gleaming handguns guns making their way right towards her.

Pope Heyward swallowed tightly and looked away from the window next, his smooth features twisted with pained disbelief.  "This is suboptimal," He concluded grimly.

"John B., I told you!" JJ Maybank hissed quietly, jerking a stern finger in his best friend's direction.  The riled blonde swiftly backed away from the window and stalked right past Willa as he made his way to the opposite side of the office, raking his hands through his disheveled hair.  Unable to pace any further, he began to angrily mumble to himself, working himself into a panic.  "Why does it always—"

Before JJ could finish his frightful tirade, John B. Routledge was noiselessly crossing the room and tightly grabbing a hold of his friend and ripping him back into their cruel reality with a firm shake of his shoulders.  "JJ!  Hey!  Hey, look at me!" John B. pleaded, his voice no higher than a whisper, but strong and precise all the same.  "Where's the gun?"

"G-Gun?" JJ sputtered out, his mind spiraling dangerously out of his own grasp as he stared blankly past his best friend.  His wide, icy blue eyes flickered towards the office's closed door, likely consumed by the grizzly thought of the two men bursting inside in only a few minutes.  JJ could not think of anything but the approaching threat, of the fact that they were actually here—the men that had nearly killed Lana were coming to kill them next.  "I, uh, I c-can't—"

Still alone at the window, Kiara Carrera stifled a sob that threatened to spill from her blubbering lips, but her eyes were now filled with tears, giving her evident fear away entirely.  "Now you don't have the gun, the one time we need the gun?!" She exclaimed uneasily.  Of the five teenagers, Kiara was the closest to breaking under the quickly approaching threat, her hands knotted together over her mouth to keep her building cries silent.

"I-It was in my b-backpack," JJ frowned as he spoke, the words breaking up in odd places as he struggled to keep himself sanely and firmly planted to the dusty oak floorboards that he currently stood upon.  "and then I left it—"

"On the porch," John B. instantaneously answered for him.

JJ's eyes flickered with a familiar spark as recollection hit him firmly in the chest, knocking him back and forcing him to stand up straight, all in the same breath.  "It's on the porch!" He confirmed, nodding his head anxiously.

In an instant John B. was releasing JJ and pushing him towards the door, ushering him to go grab the weapon before it was too late.  Willa's eyes widened as the creaky office door narrowly swung open, the burning sunlight now stretching down the formerly dark hallway and glowing uneasily on the Maybank boy's horror-struck face as he stared out into the unknown of the Routledge home.  What had once been a place of sanctuary for JJ had turned to one of uncertainty; now, the Chateau may become nothing more than a coffin to him, a prison he might never escape with his own life.  Nonetheless, JJ would swallow his fear of dying if it meant saving his friends, even if it could only surely cost him gravely in the end.  

On the far side of the office, still holding onto a wobbly wooden table for support, Willa shifted uncomfortably and her pounding blood turned to ice in her veins at the mere thought of JJ Maybank coming face-to-face, empty-handed, against two grown men who were more than capable of shooting him in the head right on the spot.  JJ did not know what awaited him beyond the office door, and neither did John B., Willa, Kiara, or Pope.  None of them could predict how this might end and because of that it was entirely unfair to send someone out there alone.  Not a single one of the teenagers should have to risk their life like that, regardless if it was for protection or not.  It was not worth it.  Not like this.  Never like this.  There had to be another way, another escape from this trap that did not involve the risk of a bullet when it could still be entirely avoidable.

"N-No!"  Willa quietly blurted out, pushing off the table as JJ immediately stepped into the hallway without a single look back.  His slim, tanned body was gone in an instant, blocked by the now closed door of the office, but that did not stop Willa from attempting to follow him.  She had to stop him.  She had to keep them all together, all alive.  Willa needed to pull JJ back into the semi-safety that the office ensured, but John B. was quickly preventing her from doing as such.  Before she could even secure a firm grip on the doorknob, the Routledge boy was wrapping his arms entirely around her small frame and locking her against his lean, bare chest in a desperate attempt to hold her back.  John B.'s skin was burning hot against Willa's, his pounding heart seemingly beating like a drum into her back, a feeling which did not sooth her in the slightest.  "No!" Willa cried out in alarm once more, her jeweled hands twisting with John B.'s calloused ones as she attempted to loosen his steel grip around her middle.  "W-We have to s-stop him!  T-They're right outside!"

"Willa, we need the gun," John B. reminded her firmly, his voice softening in an attempt to calm her down.  With his arms still tight around her, John B. quickly guided them both away from the door, knowing the Deveraux daughter was far from dropping this conversation and he could not risk them being overheard.  If Willa needed to scream, if she needed to cry—if she even needed to hit him to snuff out her own panic and rage—John B. Routledge would let her do just that, but he would not stop his best friend from retrieving the gun from the porch.  They needed a weapon if they wanted any chance at getting out of the Chateau alive.

Willa Deveraux fearfully shook her head and her churning stomach tightened queasily at the mention of JJ's secretive weapon.  Were they truly going to have to shoot their way out of this mess?  Was John B. actually suggesting that they might have to kill someone?  At the gruesome idea of Willa's own hands wrapped around the handgun, her own fingers pulling the trigger and firing a bullet into someone's skull nearly made her collapse, and if it were not for John B. holding her up, she surely would have dropped to the hard floorboards.

Only two days ago, Willa had feared for the lives of many at the sight of JJ Maybank with a gleaming handgun, firing bullets into the sky like they were nothing more than innocent fireworks.  Now, less than 48 hours later, the thought of JJ with a gun now becoming the only source that could potentially save five lives made Willa's mind spin.  When Willa Deveraux had knocked the handgun from JJ's hands on the Boneyard beach, that was supposed to have been the end of it.  She should have never been forced to come into contact with such a violent and deadly object again.  For a young girl of the Outer Banks, bullets and handguns, and shootouts were not supposed to be her life.  Willa Deveraux was only sixteen.  She was only a teenager.  She was not a solider, and she was most definitely not a killer.

"F-For what?!"  Willa hissed back.  She planted her feet firmly on the ground, no longer pulling against John B. and pushed his arms away from her sizzling skin.  His deep hickory eyes locked with her own burning sage, the small child within himself scared, too, of what may happen in the fallout beyond this moment.  "W-We c-can't shoot them!"  She exclaimed desperately.  Pulling the trigger on anyone was not plausible at all.  Even if deemed in the name of self-defense, it did not make any sense.  It did not feel real.  "W-We're kids!"

From behind Willa and John B., Pope made a noise in the back of his throat.  "We're about to be dead kids," He pointed out.

At his blunt words, Kiara's eyes widened in horror. "Pope, that is not helping!" She snapped.

Before Pope Heyward could harshly spit back a retort, informing the logical odds of their survival—mind them, they were not pretty odds—JJ Maybank was abruptly shoving his way back into the office and hurriedly dead-bolting the creaky door shut behind him.  As he shakily turned back around to face the others, the four other teenagers in the room quickly noticed that his hands were empty, not a single weapon to be seen, but his blue gaze now flickered wildly around the messy room as if he, himself, had already seen too much.

"Where's the gun?" John B. demanded quietly.

JJ shook his head and swallowed stiffly.  "They're on the front porch," He informed.

"John Routledge!  Come on out now!  Where's the compass?"

"G-guys," Kiara squeaked, her tearful eyes widening in alarm at the newfound voices.

Willa flinched at the booming, aching squeal of the weakened screen front door being flung back on its rusted hinges.  "Where you at, boy?" A deep voice snarled loudly.  Two pairs of loud, heavy footsteps soon stormed into the Routledge living room, and the sharp crunch of shattering glass filled the silence of the office.  For perilous seconds, the five trapped teenagers could do nothing more than listen in terror as the two gunmen began destroying the Chateau, bit-by-bit, dangerously working their violent way through, burning and breaking all that they touched, from front to back of the property.

"We need to leave!" Willa decided softly, daring to break the silence, knowing—hoping—that her quivering voice could not be heard through the vicious sacking of the Routledge household.

At the urgent suggestion, Kiara hastily nodded her head in agreement.  "Window!" She ordered, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.  In an instant, Pope and JJ were crossing to the far side of the office once more, the three other teenagers following close behind them.  As the two boys hastily undid a rickety latch above the windowsill, another shuddering shout echoed from deeper in the house, followed by a large crash as another piece of furniture was brutally broken.

"Hurry!" Willa pressed in an urgent whisper.

Pope grunted and jerked his hands back, his fingertips burning from pulling so harshly at the window, desperate to open it, but finding such a task much harder than anticipated.  "I'm trying!" He exclaimed with a huff.

"What's happening?" Kiara questioned frantically.  "Why is it taking so long?!"

"It's painted shut!" JJ hissed back at the girls, a trembling breath slipping through his clenched teeth as he pushed against the window once more.

Willa clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking as she stepped around JJ and Pope and went over to attempt opening another window.  Her fingers were trembling, her gaudy rings reflecting in the light of the world outside; a world of safety taunting her, just beyond her reach.  Willa's breathing was growing rapider the harder that she pulled, the air stirring tightly and painfully in her deflated lungs, and she could feel the familiar black stones of panic gathering heavily on her ribs, pulling her down, down, down into an abyss of terror she could not escape on her own.  Though she tried to hold it in, she was beginning to hiccup, her sobs of fear aching to be heard, to do her in as quickly as a bullet to the back of the head.

"I-I can't," Willa whimpered, shaking her head weakly.  She abruptly let go of the windowsill and threw her hands up, defeat pulling dangerously on her shoulders, her head pounding gratingly against the fierceness of her exploding heart.  "I can't o-open it."

"Routledge!" One of the gunmen coldly shouted from the kitchen.  Willa instantly whipped around, hearing a pair of footsteps grow closer towards the hallway.  John B. seemed to hear it, too, and was quickly crossing over to the locked door to press his own body weight against it in added defense.  "Where the hell's that compass?!"

More glass exploded outside the office and Willa flinched, side-stepping Kiara as she returned from Big John's desk with a sharp letter opener.  "Guys, guys," The Carrera girl softly called, pushing into the space between JJ and Pope beside the window.  "Here, move.  I've got it, I've got it."

"Hey, check that backroom!"

At the sudden command from one of the gunmen likely still located in the living room, John B.'s eyes widened with dread and he waved quietly to Willa, drawing the frantic girl's dizzying attention back to his own bruised and beaten, freckled face.  "Willa," He called out in a hushed whisper, beckoning her closer.  "Come here!"

Willa nodded her head in understanding, but it was several moments of agonized reluctance before her sore legs ultimately began to move.  Her movements were jerky and uncoordinated as her scatterbrain forced her hesitant body to crookedly move back over to John B.'s side.  John B. quickly stepped over, giving the Deveraux girl room to breathe as she pressed her left shoulder firmly into the wall, leaning her full, trembling weight against the wooden office door.  Despite their combined effort, deep down in her heart, Willa knew that the weight of two sixteen-year-olds would not be enough to stop two full grown men from entering when they inevitably discovered they were there.

Across the room, JJ Maybank knew it, too.  "Come on, Kie!" He ushered, looking anxiously back-and-forth from the locked door to the sealed window.

Kiara Carrera did not look up from her work as she spoke, still quickly chipping away paint with a very dull blade.  "I'm going as fast as I can!" She insisted sharply.

"Shh!" Pope Heyward hushed, holding a finger to his lips as his dark eyes drifted fearfully down to Willa and John B.'s bare legs, focusing in on the small space above the threshold.  A single pair of footsteps came to a halt on the other side of the office door; a silhouette against the sunlight in the hallway, practically peered back at the five terrified—and now deadly silent—teenagers.  Suddenly, Willa winced as the brass doorknob twisted painfully into her side with a sharp jolt.  The man on the other side of the door was desperate to find a way inside, but it would never be that easy.  With her bottom lip trapped between her teeth and her tearful sage orbs locked with John B.'s hickory ones, she carefully reached down to hold the squeaking doorknob still.  John B. Routledge was holding his breath as he watched her.

"You better not be in there!" The man on the other side of the door shouted to no one in particular, as if Routledge truly was the only other person on the property.  When there was no response, the gunman beat heavily at the door with a closed fist, the weakened wood pushing back against Willa's slumped figure as she determinedly fought to keep the door on its hinges.

Pope quickly joined Willa and John B. at the door as soon as the hits turned to kicks, the wood squealing and aching, threatening to crack in two.  Willa, the sixteen year old kook, was crammed tightly between the two pogues, their bodies all slick with sweat and their gasping breaths mixed together as they all dug their heels into the dusty floorboards, trying to keep as much traction as they could.  The three of them would do anything to hold the line; they were desperate to keep this one exit closed as JJ and Kiara hurriedly worked to open another one.

"Got it!" Kiara suddenly gasped in relief, setting the letter opener aside as JJ swiftly shoved the window upwards with hasty finality.

JJ Maybank was the first out the window, his nimble body landing easily in a crouch on the dead grass below.  "Let's go!" He urged breathlessly.  He held his hands out to Kiara Carrera, helping her out of the window, and Pope Heyward was scrambling up next to follow, leaving Willa and John B. behind at the door, the gunman still angrily kicking on the other side.

"John B.?" Willa murmured, unable to move, fearful that the moment she pulled away from the door that it would finally give way to both gunmen.

John B. sensed her dread, undeniably feeling the same.  Nonetheless, they could not let their fear of the unknown take them hostage now.  They had made it this far.  They were getting out of this fucking office.  In an instant, John B. Routledge was reaching down to grab Willa Deveraux's free left hand, his thumb instinctively curling around her studded rings just as it had that night on the Boneyard beach, and pulled her away from the warm, shuddering office wall.  "Now!" He ordered in her ear.  "Get out!  Get out!"

The two teenagers were across the room in a flash, their heads ducked down as bits of splintered wood sprayed lightly at their backs, stinging against their exposed skin, the office door mere seconds away from caving in behind them.  Willa and John B.'s hands were soon an entangled trembling and sweaty mess as they held tightly onto each other, each climbing out the small, square window as quickly as they could and as quietly as they dared.

Once they were both on solid ground, John B. turned to run, but Willa froze where she stood. Without a moment's hesitation, she stepped onto an extended pipe below the square opening, and abruptly reached back up towards the window.  "Willa!" John B. growled, turning back around to grab her.  His shaking hands were gentle against Willa's hips, but his inner, underlying strength was not.  John B. was practically restraining himself from the panicked urge to tear the sixteen-year-old from the side of the house like a rag doll so that they could finally run.

"Wait!  Wait!  Boost me up!" Willa whisper-yelled back to John B.  "We need to close the window!"  Otherwise all that the five teenagers had just gone through would be for absolutely nothing.

Regardless of his desire to escape, John B. could not argue with that, his heavy heart slamming painfully in his chest at the realization that they had come so close to a fatal screw-up.  Without any warning at all, John B. tightened his grip on Willa and lifted her higher, her head now level with the open window.  Her sage eyes were wide with horror as she looked towards the office door, much of its wooden frame splintering away with the ferocity of the gunman's approach.  With each kick, her heart seemed to leap higher into her throat, suffocating her.

"Come on!" John B. urged, ripping the girl from her frozen focus.  The Deveraux daughter abruptly tore her gaze away from the door and up to the window, and hastily pulled it back down with a gentle snap.  Willa would have pulled the blinds down, too, but she could not dare risk the additional noise it might make.  A closed window would have to do to hide the tracks of the fleeing teenagers.

"I'm good!  I'm good!" Willa Deveraux breathlessly affirmed, tapping John B.'s shoulder in warning to lower her back down.

As soon as her sandaled feet hit the dead grass once more, John B. grabbed tightly to Willa's hand and yanked harshly on her arm, pulling her away from the side of the house, once and for all.  Her shoulder burned with searing pain from the harsh tugging as she allowed John B. to blindly guide her to where the three other teenagers were frantically scampering into the nearby chicken coop on the Routledge property.  With panicked tears still pricking at the corners of her eyes and her bottom lip trapped tightly between her teeth, drawing fresh, hot blood into her mouth, Willa ran towards them with her head down to the ground.

And behind them, in the silence of their rapid escape, a booming lone gunshot echoed loudly from within Big John's well-deserved haven of a home as the violent gunman finally broke through the office's deadbolt barricade.

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LESS THAN TEN MINUTES had passed since Willa Deveraux had taken cover in John B. Routledge's chicken coop, but the threat of two looming gunmen made it feel as if ten years were slowly passing by, the young kook girl now waiting painfully and fearfully for her next approaching doomsday. 

After all, it certainly felt like doomsday was unfolding in the chicken coop, the air stifling and hot as Hell itself.  Beads of nasty sweat ran down Willa's prickling face, chest and legs, and her clothes—Kiara's clothes—clung uncomfortably to her sticky body as she shifted on the muddy ground below.  Around her, John B., JJ, Pope and Kiara were all struggling to stay calm, also, their own bodies on the verge of giving out to insanity at the mere thoughts of being confined to this deadly trap any longer.  The five teenagers were pressed so closely together now, doing absolutely nothing to help battle the humid heat, and in the midst of their huddle, one lone rooster was currently losing its shit, squawking and clucking aimlessly at the newfound intruders of its own cramped residence.

"Do something, Pope!" JJ Maybank hissed through clenched teeth, his cold blue eyes narrowed dangerously at the crowing rooster.  He was sitting kitty-corner to Willa in the chicken coop, his body poised in a nervous crouch with his hands balled into angry fists.  "Shut him up!"

The rooster clucked nervously as it bounced unsteadily around the Heyward boy's dusty feet.  "What do you want me to do?!" Pope exclaimed quietly.

"P-Pet it, or t-talk to it!" Kiara Carrera quietly sobbed, her voice cracking with a frail squeak.  Her shoulders were racking with silenced cries, her hands pressed tightly over her heaving chest, as if she could reach within her own torso to cease her own pounding, erratic heart rate.  "I-I don't know!"

"Shh, shh," Willa Deveraux attempted to sooth, her lips quivering as she leaned forward in the dirt, scuffing her already bruised knees as she attempted to reach for the rooster.  Beside her, Pope reached for the feisty bird also, but it immediately recoiled at their reaching advances, and the rooster promptly and viciously pecked into Pope's exposed palm, drawing a small bead of fresh blood.

"Ow, shit!"

The rooster crowed loudly within the coop at Pope's small cry, sending Willa and the others flinching back against the walls with soft thuds.  Suddenly, from Willa's other side, John B. let out a gasp of surprise and lurched away from the exposed wire of the coop, ducking his bronze head down in fear.  "Shit, get back! Get back!" The Routledge boy whispered sternly.

Somewhere beyond the chicken coop, Willa heard the familiar creak of the screen front door swinging open once more, and two harsh voices immediately followed, slipping darkly into the spaces of sound when the rooster was not squawking.  At the sound of the approaching gunmen, Willa pulled her knees close against her chest, and curled her own lanky figure into a ball as tightly as she could, trying to hide her body against a mere piece of wood.  Across the chicken coop Kiara's eyes were now clenched shut, but the tears continued to stream beyond her closed lids and down her tanned cheeks, twisting and curling on her skin like their own little rivers.

Suddenly, the frantically wandering rooster cried out once more, and JJ Maybank immediately threw himself down onto the tiny bird with a soft grunt, his strong fingers locking firmly around its fragile neck.  With a swift, vicious hit, the bird went limp in JJ's hold, and stray feathers began falling haphazardly from its body.  The horrifying sight made Willa's jaw drop in pain and tears immediately sprung from her burning, dusty eyes at the bloodcurdling sound of the frail bird's weak cries, pleading for its own life.  A loud sob escaped Willa's blubbering lips and for a split moment she forgot entirely about the fact that two gunmen were likely standing just outside the chicken coop, her attention now focused solely on the life of a meager rooster.  A rooster that was likely going to get them all killed.  But in that moment, Willa Deveraux did not care.  She could not care.  No animal deserved to suffer as cruelly as this.

"J—" Willa attempted to tearfully protest.  Before she could get a single word out, a strong hand was slapping harshly over her mouth, cutting her off.  John B. Routledge was now holding Willa's knotted head back against the wood of the chicken coop by how fiercely he forced her mouth closed, and he did not dare release his grip.  Beyond them both, Kiara's own sobs were growing louder at the sight of the dying bird, and John B. quickly grabbed her hand with his own free one, attempting to bring her back down to earth, too.  After he had unsteadily calmed the Carrera girl down, John B. then looked back to Willa and in the dusty, hot space between them, his hickory eyes pleaded with hers, his own gaze glossy with unspoken fear.  Willa could now only shake her head back at him, feeling herself slip further and further away from his touch, his presence.  Turning her head away from John B.'s hold, Willa buried her face in her dirty hands and held her breath, silencing her own traumatized cries as the rooster's life was snuffed out at her blistered feet.

Had Willa Deveraux ever given much thought to how she might die in the past?  Of course, she had.  Is that not what all children did at one point or another, whenever their young minds became temporarily consumed by the idea of death?  After the death of her grandmother on her father's side, Willa—at only ten years of age—had been entirely intrigued by the wonders of how a person could be there, living and breathing, one day and then simply gone, a ghost on the wind, an echo of the memory, in the next.  Her grandmother—her Grammy—had died of a heart attack, completely unsuspected and entirely traumatic to the entire family.  It had been six long years ago, but it sometimes only felt like yesterday.  Willa Deveraux often wondered if her own death might leave such an impact.  Would anyone miss her?  Would anyone mourn her death with every waking moment, praying to the stars above for just a single moment where they could go back in the past to see her for one final time?

As a young child, Willa never thought she might die from a gunshot wound.  She never thought she might bleed out in the arms of her old classmates, of her old friends, whimpering to be in the arms of her younger brother instead.  As a young child, Willa had wanted to die in the arms of Cruz, her hands held tightly by Hudson.  She wanted to die surrounded by the two people she loved most in the world.  Willa did not want to die in a chicken coop, her body stained with tears, blood, and feathers.  She supposed, though, in the end—if there was any silver lining at all—at least she was not drowning.  Of the many deaths Willa Deveraux had once imagined for herself at only ten years old, drowning in the deep blue sea that was less than six-hundred yards from her own backyard had been the most horrifying.

"Ratter!  What the hell are you doing?!  Let's go."

Willa abruptly lifted her head from her hands at the harsh calling, and her vision blurred with tears as her attention immediately fell to Pope Heyward.  His hands were clenched into fists and buried tightly against his eye sockets, his teeth clenched tightly with apprehension.  When he finally opened his eyes and looked to Willa, neither teenager could move, trapped in a bubble that could so desperately be broken by one false move.  Several long moments passed in terrified silence before Willa recognized the all too familiar sound of a truck's engine revving back to life, and Pope's shoulders loosened slightly, his chest still cautiously taut.

The five teenagers were all panting heavily, their cramped, sweaty and tearful bodies pressed against the dirty walls of the chicken coop, even long after the truck had pulled from the front yard of the Chateau and started back down the dirt drive, leaving the Routledge household behind in tatters.  No one had yet to move—to release the tight, agonized breaths that they were all holding.  If they moved, all that they had just experienced became real, and that was a frightening reality that Willa, John B., Kiara, Pope, and JJ could not rightfully accept just yet.

Five long minutes passed before Willa dared to break the raw silence.  "I-Is it o-over?" She forced out from between chattering teeth.  Her cheeks were sticky with a thick layer of tears and sweat, covering her like a second skin.  Despite the heat, Willa now shivered as Kiara let out another long sob, now free to loudly regain her composure without fear of getting a bullet to the back.

"I think so . . ." John B. finally assured her.  His voice quivered as he spoke, his shoulders shaking very profoundly now, able to let his own guard drop just the slightest as he cracked beneath the pressure of his father's forgotten world above him.

Elsewhere, across the chicken coop, JJ dropped the dead rooster from his trembling hands and dared to look up to his surrounding friends.  "For now," He concluded grimly.

No one bothered to shout at or correct the Maybank boy for his warning words.  JJ now told nothing but the truth, and all five terrified teenagers knew that.  Willa Deveraux could not be fooled into believing this stage of danger was over in its entirety.  For now, they might be safe, but as surely as the tides rolled in, the gunmen would likely be back before she could rightfully gain her breath once more.  Luckily for her, Willa Deveraux had long since learned to hold her breath.  At only ten years old, Willa had once accepted her fate, had prepared for her fate of dying a dreadful death.  Of course, never in a million years did she expect she might meet her anticipated ending so soon, but Willa would not go down without a fight.  Willa Deveraux was not a killer, but she was a fighter, through and through, and she would fight until her fateful last breath. 

Until the drowning tides of the Outer Banks pulled her away from the beachy shallows of soft sand and the dying stars of the universe pulled her away from the warm light of the everlasting summer forever.

~~~~~~~~~~

if this hasn't been made abundantly clear by now, willa deveraux is the most protective bitch you will ever meet. homegirl was literally trying to save a rooster.

like regardless of who you are, willa's gonna protect you (unless she already doesn't like you). after all, this girl practically had to raise her four younger siblings, she's got maternal instincts that could challenge maren for sure. and now she's got four new idiots to look after.

anywaysssss, my heart is breaking for how scared willa was in this chapter. she's only sixteen, y'all. like i couldn't even imagine being in her shoes. she's a baby. none of them know what's going on, this is truly going to be so traumatizing for her character... and this is like the least worst thing to happen to her. she's got a wild rollercoaster ahead. on another note, what do you think of willa's reaction in this chapter? i hope it came across okay.. do you think willa's mentality towards guns will change by the end of season one?

another crazy long chapter, so what're y'all thinking?! a lot happened. i hope it came across okay. my heart is just breaking for willa; she literally only wanted an apology and now that damn apology is going to become the very least of her concerns. ugh, she deserves the world...

so, how are we all feeling about willa? i'd love to hear your thoughts on her.

like, i really enjoy all the feedback on potential love interests, but how are we feeling about OUR GIRL?? i'd love to hear your thoughts and what you'd like to see next! so please, leave some votes and comments because your girl would really appreciate it! thanks for reading! and i hope y'all are having a lovely day or night.

stay safe and stay well.

--B.

and back to our regularly scheduled meme shit-storm. as always, credit goes to tumblr and instagram users!! these always give me a good laugh.