He doesn’t kiss me like our time is running out.
He kisses me like it’s already up.
And he’s right. Because before I have a chance to whisper that I love him too—before I can say goodbye to the man who taught me how to live—fifty thousand volts of electricity say it for me, seizing my muscles and bringing me to my knees.
Wes
The feeling of Rain’s body seizing against mine, the helplessness of watching her tumble to the floor at my feet—my handcuffed arms unable to catch her convulsing body—it destroys whatever’s left of me.
As the officer drags me toward the front door, I feel my soul, my heart, my fucking will to live disappearing with every step I take. They don’t belong to me anymore. Honestly, they never did. They belong to the little black-haired rag doll twitching on the floor back there.
By the time that asshole shoves me down the front steps, the crushing pressure in my chest is reduced to a hollow ache—just phantom pains from my amputated heart. By the time we get to his pig mobile, I hardly remember having feelings at all. And by the time he shoves me inside and slams the door, I’ve gone completely … fucking … numb.
I was never meant to get the girl. To have the happily ever after. That’s not how my world works, and this shit right here is proof. Rain has shelter, a means of self-defense, and money to get supplies. There’s nothing left for me to do. My girl—and my kid, if my suspicions are right—are going to have as good a life as anyone could hope for post–April 23.
And me?
In a few days, I’ll be fucking fertilizer, and I won’t have to feel this shit at all.
Rain
“Sweetheart, I did you a favor. I did all of us a favor. One day, you’ll see.
“Are you really expecting, dear? How long has it been since you got your cycle?
“A baby! Oh my goodness. What a blessing!
“Don’t you worry. Mama Renshaw’s gonna help you every step of the way. And Carter—oh, he’s gonna be such a good daddy.
“I’m gonna be a grandma!
“Sit up, child. I got you some water.”
When I don’t comply, Mrs. Renshaw cuts the happy rambling and switches into high school administrator mode. “Rainbow, sit up,” she hisses, snapping her fingers at me. “Don’t be so dramatic. I know you think you loved that man, but in time, you’ll realize that you only got attached to him because you’d just lost your folks. He was a monster, dear. You saw what he did to my sweet Carter. We’re all safer with him gone.”
“You’re the monster.” The words aren’t much louder than a whisper as they leak out of my parted lips and dribble down my cheek onto the hardwood floor.
“Excuse me?”
I swallow, tasting blood and feeling pulses of pain radiating from one side of my tongue. I must have bitten it during the tasing.
“You’re the monster,” I repeat, clearing my throat.
I don’t open my eyes. Don’t lift my head. I’m in the same sloppy fetal position I ended up in after the volts hit me, and I don’t plan on moving. Ever.
A new pain, deep and dull, throbs in my lower back, right where Wes tucked his gun into my waistband before the cops showed up.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and silently thank him for this last gift.
“Rainbow, I know you’re upset, but when you’re feeling better—”
“I will never feel better.”
And as soon as you leave, I’m gonna put a bullet in my head to match the one you just gave Wes.
“I remember feeling that way too, when I was expecting Sophie. I thought I’d never feel better. But after the first trimester, you’ll get your spark back.”
I hear metal scraping wood just a few feet away from my head and realize that Mrs. Renshaw must be picking up the key that I dropped. The one Wes placed in my palm right after we got here. A few minutes—that’s all it took for this woman to rip my future away from me. A few minutes is all it ever takes.
“Is that my front door? It is, isn’t it? Goodness gracious! If that ain’t a sign from God, I don’t know what is. It’s like he’s sayin’, Welcome home, Agnes!” Mrs. Renshaw’s voice cracks, and she sniffles back a sob.
“We’re gon’ be all right, baby girl.” Her weathered hand pats my exposed shoulder. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
“Get out,” I manage to rasp even though my lungs feel like they’re going to collapse under the weight of my despair.
“You’re right. I should go. You probably want some alone time. I’ll be back to check on you a little later, dear. Be sure to drink your water.”
Just as I hear her footsteps retreat toward the door, they stop a moment later and return to my side twice as fast as they left. “Oh, I almost forgot …”
The back of my tank top lifts, and the revolver Wes tucked into my waistband is jerked free. I hear the click, spin, clack of Mrs. Renshaw checking the barrel for bullets on her way out the door.
Then, I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and sob myself unconscious.
No dreams come to distract me from my thoughts of death. No visions of my parents or Wes arrive to soothe me. When I wake up—minutes later, hours maybe—I am empty. I am alone.
I am dead.
I just have to muster the strength to get up and make it official.
I push myself onto my hands and knees and crawl over to the stairs. The third one creaks under my weight. So does the fifth. And the sixth. This is the only home I’ve ever known, and it feels like it’s saying goodbye with every squeaking floorboard and groaning joist.
For the first time since I heard those shotgun blasts, I’m not afraid to go into my parents’ room. Nothing can hurt me anymore.
Not for long, at least.
I turn the corner into the master bedroom, but this time, I don’t find the faceless body of my mother lying in a pool of blood with the shades drawn shut. I find an empty wooden bedframe, illuminated by the afternoon sun. The curtains are wide open. The mattress and bedding, long gone. All traces of what happened here … erased. It almost makes me feel bad for what I’m about to do. For leaving another bloody mess in the house that Wes spent so much time cleaning up.
Maybe I should do it in the backyard, I think.
Maybe it doesn’t fucking matter anymore.
I flip the light switch in my parents’ walk-in closet out of habit and am surprised when the overhead bulb actually comes on.
The second I see their clothes, the smell of them hits me like a sledgehammer.
Stale cigarettes and hazelnut coffee.
I want to wrap my arms around my mother’s hanging dresses and make them hug me back. I want to sway with them and stroke their sleeves against my cheek. But what would be the point?
To make myself feel better?
Or to make myself feel worse?
Instead, I reach in between them and find a vintage briefcase I know will be there, hanging from a nail on the wall behind Mama’s church clothes.
I set the brown tweed case on the floor, spin the numbers on the little dial to 503—my birthday—and pop the dull brass tabs open with a click. Inside is foam lining, molded around a small black handgun. Daddy used to let me shoot cans off a tree stump with this one, back before he turned scary. He said this one didn’t have much “kick.”