“Cut him! Cut him! Cut him! Cut him!” The crowd stomps and chants, loving what they’re seeing.
“Jo?” I hold the bloody scalpel out, and I wonder if I’ve pushed her too far. Blood drips down my hand, to my elbow, and then a bead falls to the floor.
She hobbles over and lays the crutches down as she lowers herself onto the floor carefully. I rethink what I offered her and wonder if I want her to bear this burden. I pull the scalpel away, but she grabs onto it, and the sharp blade digs into her palm. She’s used to the pain of a sharp knife digging into her skin.
My badass, tortured, strong, resilient woman has determination, anger, and the need to cut something other than herself.
We’re different, but in the ways that matter we’re very much the same.
Our cuts run so deep they run into one another, creating extra veins for our blood to flow into. When we don’t have life left in our bodies to give to the world, we give strength to the other. We’re interwoven through the divots in our skin.
The thirst for retribution is bright, gleaming off the scalpel. She places it against the back of his shoulder and glides it down the hint of free space I left for her. The crowd cheers, and Reaper’s laugh booms, but it’s all background noise.
It’s all static as a tear leaves her eyes and travels down to the curve of her smile.
There’s. My. Woman.
All fucked up and pretty, just for me.
“I trusted you,” she whispers, his body wiggling to get away, but the drug coursing through his veins doesn’t allow him to. “You were … you were my best friend.” She digs the sharp instrument down his other side. Deeper and much more painful with how he’s screaming. Her fist is wrapped around the silver handle as if she’s trying to shove it as far in his body as it will go. “You were … my friend!” she shouts, her voice breaking.
“How does it feel, Brody? To say no, to beg, to plead, to scream. To know that no matter what you do, nothing will stop me? How does that make you feel?” She shoves two fingers into one of the wounds, and he vomits up the beer, spewing it all over Tool’s boots.
“Fuck you. I just had these polished.” Tool jerks away and kicks his right foot out to sling the puke off, then he kicks Brody in the face, crunching his jaw.
Jo chuckles as the wet sounds of her fingers rub through the blood and flesh squelches. “I knew you’d feel this fucking good,” she says to him.
I have a feeling that’s what he said to her.
He gasps when she removes her hand from the wound above his ribs, and then she drops her attention to his ass, cocking her head to the left, then right, debating what she wants to do. I wonder if she’s thinking he looks like me now… I hope not.
She twirls the scalpel in the air, staring at it, then she glances at his ass. She spreads his cheeks and then thrusts the sharp end inside.
Brody doesn’t even scream. He passes out from the pain, just like the coward he is.
The more she twists the scalpel in his wound, the more she cuts, and the more blood that flows out of his flesh.
“Oh no! You don’t get off that easily, asshole,” I mutter and snatch the can of beer Tool is drinking and pour it over Brody’s head to wake him up. The liquid flows into his ear and cleans out the wound graciously on his cheek, before dripping down his lips.
He coughs and cries as he wakes, digging his fingers in the dirt of the floor, trying to pull himself away from the abuse.
Jo pulls the scalpel out, only to pierce his flesh again. “Doesn’t feel good, does it? To not be in control of your own body. I fucking hate you.” She releases her hold on the scalpel, the same scalpel that dug into my back all those years ago, and now I’m finally doing some good with it.
“I’m done with him,” she states. She tries to get up, and Braveheart tucks his hands under her arms, pulling her to her feet. He settles the crutches under her arms, and she gives Brody the dirtiest, most vile look I’ve ever seen.
I’m glad on I’m not on the receiving end of it.
I flip Brody over, and blood pools under his ass. He’s sobbing and saying something under his breath.
“What’s that?” I say, bringing my ear down close to his mouth.
“I’m … I’m … sorry,” he stutters.
“Sorry doesn’t take away what you did. Sorry doesn’t fix a pregnancy.”
His eyes widen, but before he can even think about asking about the baby—Brody would want to live and prove himself—there’s no chance for that.
“Well, I’m not done with you, Brody,” I say, gripping his head before snapping it to the left. Away from Jo. I don’t want him seeing her.
How fair would it be for an asshole like this to get to see Heaven before he dies?
He doesn’t deserve that.
No one deserves her heaven except me.
Scars and all.
Three weeks later.
I’m sitting in the grass and staring at a headstone.
There’s her name, date of birth, and date of death on it. Usually there’s a quote someone chooses to go in the middle, and this is what my mom picked.
“Now tell me you love me…”
I close my eyes, letting the tears fall, and lean back until I’m lying in the itchy grass. I’m still finding it hard to believe I said goodbye to my mother two weeks ago. The grass hasn’t even grown over the dirt that’s covering her casket. It’s still so new.
I’m not sure how to handle it, not really. I’m still trying to figure out how to live without her love every day.
Love never really leaves. Even when the memories fade, the feelings stay the same.
“Hey, you.” Jo’s voice has me turning my head, and I stand up and wipe my ass off, laying my hand on her tiny, swollen belly.
“Hey, sorry, I just… I don’t know. I needed time with her today.”
“Don’t ever apologize. You take as much time as you need. I wanted to come and be with you; that’s all.” Jo sits down and pats the ground next to me. “There’s no hurry. Let’s catch her up.”
“On what?” I ask, quirking my brow.
“On what we’re naming the baby.”
“We don’t even know that,” I say, sitting next to her.
I hate staring at that stone. It’s too damn… fresh.
“I was thinking, if it’s a boy, I want to name him Dean. That’s a good name, right?”
I nod. “It sounds strong yet simple, classic too.”
“And if it’s a girl, I was thinking we could name her Rachel. After your mom.”
I inhale a sharp breath and choke up. I hover my body over hers. “You’d do that?” My hand falls protectively to her swell, and the darkness that took root inside me lifts. Man, I know this isn’t my kid biologically, but I feel like it is. This kid is meant to be mine. There’s no other way about it. I’m connected.
I love them so fiercely my fucking core hurts.
“I’d do anything for you, Eric. I know how close you were with your mom, and I hope our… I mean… mine… our…” She gets flustered because she doesn’t know what to say.
“Ours,” I correct her.