“I see,” I say softly, sniffling and wiping under my eyes, even though enough tears haven’t gathered to actually fall. “A note?” I question, prying for more information.
“They said it’ll be quick if Marcus gives the word. Sorry this is happening.”
The mention of Marcus causes true fear to trickle in, but it’s tainted, stained by hate that anyone thinks they can kill me. I’ve never heard of Marcus killing a woman. Never. That fact alone makes me think she’s lying. Not about what’s to come, but about who’s behind it. Or maybe I just have too much faith in the faceless man I’ve read all about in those notebooks.
“Give me a smoke, will ya?” the woman asks as my mind wanders and a deep crease settles in my forehead before I notice the fingers reaching into the bars. A guard hands her a smoke and she gingerly accepts it, climbing off the bed and telling the guard thanks. Pulling a lighter from her pocket, she leans against the wall, flicking the small lighter back and forth as the tip of the cigarette turns a bright orange and she breathes in then blows out a billow of smoke.
“I didn’t think you could have lighters in here,” I barely speak, looking over her tattoos again on her inner forearm. I know them, I’ve seen them on psych patients before. They’re gang tats and the ones on her right forearm are credits for kills. I only got a glance but there are at least twenty.
“You can’t have lighters in here,” she answers as she plays with the lighter she has in her hand. Shrugging, she continues. “You can’t ask for a smoke and just get it. You can’t have this either,” she says and pulls a blade from her pocket. It’s a simple pocketknife, with a corkscrew at the end and she taps it against her temple. “The blade is cleaner but takes too long. The corkscrew is more efficient. Bloodier, but more efficient because of the size of the wound.”
Another guard passes and all the while, she has the knife out and a smoke in her hand. She takes a puff and blows the smoke my way.
“Why do they let you?” I ask and try to play up the naivety.
“Because we're all on the same payroll, working for the same higher command. Well, some of them… others, I pay off. I get paid to kill and I pay them to help me.” She shrugs, taking another long inhale. “This shift is full of people who’ll look the other way for the right price. It’s that easy.”
My breathing is shallow, my vision black around the edges. She’s not fucking with me, she’s truly going to kill me and the people in here will let her.
The true fear is back, but so much anger comes with the knowledge.
“I really am sorry.”
She talks to me like it’s a given. As if I’m easy prey.
It’s her. And me.
I nod, my lips still parted in feigned disbelief and then the woman lies back, not even looking at me.
I bring my knees into my chest so I can bury my head in them. I keep my eyes on her though. She can’t see my expression. She can’t see the unbridled hate.
Every footstep beyond the bars steals my attention.
She’s waiting on a note. I need to get that note first.
Seth
Their graves were right next to each other. Side by side. I knew mine would be the third. The plot was empty and I knew I’d be buried there. My grandfather, my father, and then me. My grandfather was a stubborn old man, set in his ways and vocal about them.
I never liked him much. You can’t ever like someone if you fear them the way I feared him. He died when I was young and as I stood there tracing the etching on his stone, I wondered if I’d feel the same way had I gotten to know him when I was older. After all, I feared my father, but I loved him. I hated him sometimes, but I respected and loved him. I understood. Children can’t understand this life and I stood there thinking, that must have been why I didn’t like my grandfather.
“You all right?” A small feminine voice broke through the hiss of the wind. Laura clutched her coat around her and I opened my arms so she could take refuge there.
“Fine.”
“Then why are you here?” she questioned. Her no-nonsense bluntness always made me smile, even that day. With the bite of the cold nipping my nose, I sniffed and then shrugged. “I can’t just come visit my pops?” I asked her, although it was rhetorical.
She peeked up at me through her thick lashes and said, “Please, Seth. Tell me what’s wrong.”
So much was wrong. She couldn’t do anything to change it and she shouldn’t have had to deal with that shit just because she was with me. I’d never make her take on my burdens.
“I was just thinking of my grandfather, that’s all. I promise.” I offered her a small smile, which she reluctantly returned and when she did, I kissed the crown of her head.
She leaned in closer to me, taking her hand from her pocket, wrapping her arm around my waist and she slipped that hand into my coat pocket. I liked the move. Even more, I liked that she’d been making them more readily. She wasn’t holding back anymore. I don’t know what changed, but she wasn’t trying to run anymore. I had her. She really wasn’t going to leave me, at least that’s what I thought.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” she asked me in a whisper. Her cheek was pressed against my chest and when another sharp gust blew by, she didn’t complain. She stood there by my side, quiet and ready to wait longer if I wanted.
“I know,” I told her although it was a lie. I could never tell her everything. There were some things she would never know if I could help it.
“Can I tell you anything?” she asked, and a hint of insecurity revealed itself in her tone.
Resting my chin on the top of her head I told her easily, “Of course.” Although nervousness crept in, not knowing what she would say.
“I love you, Seth, and I’m afraid you’re going to break my heart.”
I thought I came there to that grave to pray that when I died, I wouldn’t be buried next to them. That I’d be buried somewhere else, somewhere with a different kind of family. Instead I stood there praying that I’d never break her heart. It was the only good thing I’d ever have. I couldn’t break it. I’d never forgive myself.
“If I ever break your heart,” I told her honestly, “I’ll never forgive myself.”
My eyes barely stay open as the memory from almost a decade ago leaves me. My lids are heavy, but I fight it. I know I’m lying down; I can see the ceiling and fan blades whipping around. The light is bright and right above my head.
I’m hot, so fucking hot. But more than that, I can’t keep my eyes open. I fight it, willing my body to obey me.
It takes only a few seconds to see the IV stand, to feel the prick in my arm of a needle, to sense there are people around me.
“Stop drugging me,” I say and pull at the tube in my arm chaotically. Get it out. Get it out. The need to run is strong but I don’t remember why. The needle slips out but not fully, and the hot blood in the crook of my arm spurs me further, ripping pain through my forearm as I hiss, rolling over on the sofa although strong arms keep me down.
My hands wrap around forearms, trying to shove them away. My muscles coil and a new pain shoots up my right side. Before I can kick my feet up, someone yells, “Get him,” and pins my lower half down.