Author: Cheryl McIntyre

His arm sweeps around my waist and he lifts me. I have the vilest case of déjà vu. Not again.

Not. Again.

I walked out of Link’s class when he covered this, but not before he discussed several simple moves. I try to remember just one of them, but my thoughts are so scattered—half in my past, reliving Garrett’s attack—half just desperate to get away.

I part my lips, ready to scream again. Cowboy’s hand clamps down on my mouth. I bite at his fingers, nipping one enough to make him snatch his hand away.

“You’re fucking feisty, little cowgirl.”

Something about the taunting tone of his voice settles my racing thoughts. I envision Link stepping up behind the volunteer in class. I focus on him for just a second, recalling his words. And then I throw my head back hard, connecting with Cowboy’s face. I hear the sickening crunch as my skull smashes into his nose.

He cries out in pain and relinquishes his grip. I fall to the ground hard, landing on my ass. Rocks poke and jab at my flesh as I scramble away.

I hear Cowboy cursing in anger. “Fucking crazy bitch.”

I push myself up and run for the gym doors. As my fingers curl around the handle, I look over my shoulder at my hunter. His hands are cupped over his nose, blood seeping from between his fingers. His eyes are irate and full of dark promises. He backs away, continuing to watch me. I pull the door open. He pivots on his heels, turning around casually, and I hurry inside.

Thirteen

Link

I’m sitting across the street from Anthony’s house. It’s my new pastime. Ever since he came home bearing gas station flowers for the wife, I haven’t been able to budge.

I can’t believe I forgot Olivia’s flowers. Every Monday. Every single Goddamn Monday for years. And I forgot.

If Livie was alive, would I do that? Would I bring her flowers? Is it only because she’s dead that I do it?

Would I forget like I did yesterday?

I’m losing her. Every day I’m losing her more and more.

How could I forget her flowers?

My phone vibrates against my leg. I ignore it until it immediately begins again. I lean back, prying it from my pocket. Augie’s face grins back at me from the illuminated screen. I almost decline the call, not in the mood for his chipper, Irish voice, but he’s taken all my appointments for me. I can at least answer his call.

“Hey bastard,” I say in way of greeting. “What the hell do you want?”

“Hey, man, you should probably get to the gym.”

His somber tone surprises me. I sit up, groping around for my seatbelt. “What’s wrong?”

“Some asshole attacked Joe’s sis in the parking lot. Joe wants to call the cops. She doesn’t. There’s one hell of a battle ensuing.”

“Fuck,” I sigh. “Is she all right?”

“Define all right?”

Right. Dumbass question. “Where’s the guy?”

“He took off.”

“Okay. I’m on my way.”

“Should I call the cops? File a report?” he asks.

I turn the key in the ignition and pull onto the road. “Did he hurt her?”

“I don’t think so. Looks like she just gave herself a headache. She nailed the guy with a reverse Glasgow kiss.”

I smile proudly. She was paying attention during class. “Good girl. She get a decent hit?”

He chuckles. “She thinks she broke his nose, so I’d say it’s a pretty reasonable assumption.”

“Broken nose? Not bad for her first headbutt.”

If she doesn’t want to file a report, I don’t think we should force her. “Don’t call the cops unless she wants to,” I say. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

***

I’m met with heated voices as I open the door to the gym. Joe and Rocky are so caught up in their argument they don’t notice my arrival. Augie’s leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest, legs crossed at the ankle. He raises his eyebrows as I come closer.

“Donnie and Marie haven’t stopped since I called you.”

“I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn,” Joe shouts, his frustration clear in his tone. He rakes his fingers through his hair, yanking on the ends.

“Why should I report this when the cops aren’t going to do anything anyway?” Rocky counters. “I don’t want to sit through an interrogation that isn’t going to do shit.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Joe says lowering his voice. “This guy could go after another woman.”

Rocky shrugs, shaking her head emphatically. “Not my problem.”

“That’s bullshit, Rock, and you know it.”

She pinches her eyes shut as if she’s in pain. I watch her chest shake as she inhales deeply. “What I know is that I did the right thing with Garrett Marshall and it did absolutely no good. I’m not putting myself through that shit again. Just fucking drop it.”

Listening to the agony in her voice—the honesty of her words—it brings back the countless emotions I went through those first few months after I woke up. But mostly, I hear the beaten down, brokenness that injustice leaves behind.

Rocky turns, noticing me for the first time. Her gaze slides right over me as she heads for the door. I cut her off, stepping in front of her before she can leave.

“I’ll take you home,” I say. I present it as a request, but it’s not. I’m not letting her walk out of here alone.

Her dark eyes roll skyward, but she doesn’t allow them to fall on me. “I’m not your responsibility,” she replies. There’s no inflection. She sounds lifeless. Defeated. Just the way she was when I first met her.

“That’s the problem with society,” I murmur, stepping closer. “People rarely claim obligation for others. We should all be responsible for one another. It’s common, human decency.”

Her eyes meet mine and I think, for just a second, she’s going to give in. “I’m not a decent person, Link,” she whispers so quietly I almost miss it. I lean in, inclining toward her naturally. “And as someone willing to assist me in the murder of my rapist, I question your level of common, human decency as well.” She moves around me, pushing the other door open. “My brother can take me home.”

***

I question my decency as well. I ponder it as I drive home, as I walk into my house where I have a man held captive in my basement, and as I prepare a ham sandwich. I consider it as I take a towel and washcloth from the bathroom closet, and as I crush tablet after tablet of the sleeping pills I bought in bulk after I left the hospital.

I continue to contemplate it as I pour the crushed pills into a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, as I unlock the door to the storage closet, and even more so as I remove all of the tape imprisoning Aaron to the chair.

He’s weak, almost frail. His hand is swollen to twice its size. Angry purple bruises stand out on his battered flesh.

I did this to him.

Me.

Aaron raises his head, his eyes blinking open slightly. It’s actually an improvement from yesterday. I almost blow chunks as I grip him under his armpits and lift him from the chair. He smells so badly. He’s soiled in days of sweat, piss, and shit. It’s nearly unbearable.

He’s like this because I kept him bound to a chair for days.

Me. I did this to him.

I drag him to the makeshift shower, lean him against the wall, and turn the water on. He flinches against the spray. And then he parts his lips, letting it fill his mouth. He makes loud, gulping noises as he drinks ravenously.

He moans, the sound animalistic. They’re the first noises he’s made since I opened his prison door.

When I think he’s not going to fall over, I remove his shirt. He doesn’t fight me. I don’t know if it’s because he has no fight, no will, no strength left. Or if he’s finally giving in to me. Maybe he’s just resigned now.

I soap up a rag and drag it across his skin. Over his face, causing him to wince and suck air through his teeth as I wash away the remnants of glue left behind from the tape. His breath is foul. I ignore it and remove the rest of his clothes. Sliding his soiled pants off is the worst, but I keep going, scrubbing at his filthy flesh. My fingers work the bar through his hair, soaping it up. Bubbles take a slow path down his face. He makes no move to wipe them away as they near his eyes. I shove his head directly under the water, rinsing him.

The water begins to run cold, so I shut it off and pat him dry.

“Get dressed,” I say, nodding at the pile of clothing I set on the small table in the middle of the room. He shuffles wobbly to the table, clinging to it for support. I kick a chair over to him and he falls into it heavily.

I take a seat across from him, watching his slow movements as he dresses himself. He cringes from the effort.

And I’m the reason he struggles.

When he’s finally dressed, I slide the plate holding the sandwich across the table. He looks down at it and I can see how much he wants it. The hunger in his gaze is almost frightening.

“Eat,” I command.

His eyes haven’t moved from the plate. His hands shake as he scoops it up. He takes a bite and groans in pain and appreciation as he swallows.

I can only imagine what it’s doing to his stomach after so many days without food.

Because I starved him. I denied him nourishment.

As he finishes the last bite, I lean my elbows on the table, and I place a notepad and a pen in front of him.

“Give me the names,” I say softly.

Without a word, he picks up the pen and scrawls quickly across the page. He sets the pen down and tears pool in his eyes.

I had no idea he was capable of such an act.

I place my index finger on the pad, pulling it back to my side. A shiver jumps up my spine, causing the hair on my arms to stand on end. My head is tingling. My ears roaring as the pressure builds in my head.

They’re there. All four names. Like a confession.

Aaron Woods

Steve Morrison

Greg Anthony

Carter Bates

And then, as if two words have the power to change anything, he’s written: I’m sorry.

As if his apology can erase what he did. As if it can bring Livie back.

I pick up the bottle of Jack and twist the cap off slowly, wearing my mask of indifference. “This deserves a drink, Aaron,” I say mildly. “In fact, this deserves a whole lot of drinks.”

Some people are undeserving of human decency.