Sever

by J. M. Miller

I wasn’t sure of his intent, but if he didn’t back off I was ready to take this conversation to a whole different level. “I think you need to move now,” I warned, sliding my hand into my back pocket, finding the reassurance of my blade. My fingertips clenched the solid metal, preparing for the worst.

  His thin lips quirked into a crooked smile. “Easy, Syn. I just want to talk.”

  “And I just want to leave.” I stared at the wall behind his head, focusing on the cracks in the white stone, hoping he’d lose interest.

  He laughed a breathy laugh similar to Damian’s, but it had a sharp edge with no good humor behind it. “There’s the girl who gave me a black eye back in the day. You seem to be pretty good at breaking shit. So tell me, what made you break Damian? Not that it’s hard. He’s always been a little soft. But you aren’t, huh?” Keeping one hand on the wall, he slid the other hand down my arm.

  I shoved his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

  “After that night at the marina, I wondered why he’d kept you away. I think he just knew he wouldn’t be able to handle you. Is that it? Is he not getting the job done?”

  I scoffed. “Oh, he gets the job done better than you ever could.” The words flew out of my mouth without thought. I knew he was goading me. He wanted this reaction, any reaction—it was fun for him. Even our brief bout as kids had been for his amusement. This was his game.

  “I’ll take that bet,” he grumbled, pushing hard against my body.

  My hand pinched between my body and the ladder rungs, forcing me to release the grip on my knife. I used my free arm to shove Seth’s torso hard. “Get the fuck off me,” I yelled, frightened by the reality of the situation. My voice was swallowed up by the stone tower.

  No one would hear me.

  “Come on, Syn. I know you like it rough.” He sneered and pushed his body against mine again.

  I reached for my knife again, but his hands clamped around my biceps and shoved them behind the ladder, pinning my body even more. Pain ripped through my arms. “Ah! Let go!”

  He didn’t respond, just looked around like he was debating how to control me in such a small area.

  With my arms pinned back and very little options, I glanced down to his feet and stomped one as hard I could.

  He sucked in a breath but didn’t budge. “Should we go tit for tat?” Bending my arms farther around the ladder, he grabbed both wrists with a single hand, freeing his other. He held the hand up for me to see then stroked the side of my face before smacking my cheek.

  It was forceful enough to bounce my head off the ladder, and the pain from both hits ricocheted around my skull. I closed my eyes for a moment but they flew open when his hand dipped under my shirt and climbed up to my breast.

  I kicked and thrashed, knowing this wasn’t going to end. He wasn’t going to stop. My mind scrolled through self-defense moves, searching for one that might injure him enough for me to escape.

  “Oh, fuck yeah,” he murmured, blowing hot breath across my ear. “No wonder he was keeping you to himself.”

  I twisted my wrists in his grasp, but it was no use. I couldn’t free them. He continued to grope me, getting rougher with each passing second. I felt his excitement growing, pushing high over my hip. I kept kicking, hoping to create some space, any space at all. He backed off a tad with an irritated laugh.

  “You know, that slap was a warning. I still owe you for that black eye.” He slid his hand down to my jeans and his eyes followed, paying close attention as his fingers worked to unfasten the button.

  I needed to catch him off guard so he’d look up. Whatever shot I took had to be clean because I knew it might be the only one. I went limp, stopping the struggle, stopping all movements. Even though the very thought of enjoying this turned my stomach, I pushed past the revulsion, softened my voice, and attempted to sound delighted as I cooed, “Oh, Seth.”

  His face lifted immediately, shock and excitement gleaming in his eyes. I felt his grip loosen. An elated smile tugged at his lips for a single moment before I bucked my head forward into his nose and yanked my wrists free from his hand.

  “Fuck,” he mumbled, grabbing his face.

  Not giving him a chance to retaliate, I shoved his body backward. He stumbled, stepping back with nothing but air to step onto. “Shit,” he yelled, realizing what was about to happen.

  It felt like slow motion, like I had all the time in the world to grab his hand, his shirt, something, but I wasn’t about to help him after what he’d just done. His body floated at first, until logic pushed past the shock. He writhed midair, twisting halfway around before his knee crashed into the first slab of granite.

  I cringed and ran after him. His body tumbled down what remained of the twenty-seven stairs, flipping end over end until finally reaching the bottom.

  “Ah!” he screamed. It was throaty and real, raw enough to make me feel the slightest bit sorry as I stepped down the final stairs and jumped over his body. Both hands were covering his face, which was pointing upward at the underside of the staircase’s spiral.

  When I cracked open the door, I felt his hand wrap around my ankle. Instinctively, I grabbed my knife, freeing it right away this time.

  “I think my legs are broken, you fucking bitch,” he said through heavy grunts, blood dripping from his nose.

  I looked at his legs, knowing he was probably right. “Good.” I pocketed my knife again and looked over at Damian’s keys on the ledge. I didn’t want to know how he’d get them back. Would Seth give them to him and admit he was at the lighthouse? I doubted it. He would be too proud to mention anything had happened, and that was just fine with me. The last thing I wanted was Damian finding out. Things would only get more complicated. The situation was handled, and I was sure Seth would have plenty of recovery time to consider his mistake.

  Muting Seth’s screams, I closed the lighthouse door behind me. The night’s air had changed somehow. It was no longer sad. My heart continued to race, but everything felt settled. Calm. I was okay with all of it. My choices. My fights. Who I am and what I want.

  I texted Tanner for a pick up at my house and he pulled up in a rusty Chevy truck fifteen minutes later. He leaned over the cracked leather bench seat and pushed the passenger door open from inside. A small smile pulled at his lips at first glance, but it was replaced by a scowl within a second. “What the hell happened?” He slammed the truck’s shifter into park so he could slide closer as I climbed in beside him. His fingers reached up and brushed over my cheek.

  “I’m fine,” I dismissed, pushing his hand away.

  “I’ll fucking kill him,” he whispered.

  “It wasn’t Damian.”

  “I’ll fucking kill whoever it was.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s handled.” I smiled at him for reassurance and watched him closely.

  The spiky brows over his green eyes gradually smoothed back into their natural disarray and his shoulders relaxed. “Do you need to go to the police?”

  “Ha!” I laughed at the irony. “Before or after we break into the storage unit?”

  He didn’t laugh. “The tools aren’t important, Syn.”

  “I know, but it really isn’t necessary. Just believe that, okay?” I turned forward to look out of the windshield, hoping he’d let it go. When he didn’t respond, I pressed further. “Can we just go get your shit before I change my mind?”

  He ran a hand through the brown wave of hair on the top of his head and let out a hesitant sigh. “I’m glad you’re okay.” His hand cranked down on the shifter and he pulled his foot off the brake. “I will pay you back one day.”

  My eyes wandered down the road, finding the faint glow of the lighthouse downtown. “You know I hate pay backs, but I might take you up on that,” I said, wondering what my future really held now that I knew I no longer had Damian.

  Half an hour later, Tanner and I were tossed into the back of a police car.

  I had the answer for my future, and I was okay with it because I knew it wou
ldn’t end Damian’s.

  “No!” I screamed, crawling toward Tanner while Damian and Seth tumbled toward the kitchen.

  Time seemed to stop as I grabbed him and rolled him onto his back. Drops of red blotted the wood floor beneath him. I unzipped the front of his jacket. Everything was bloody. His shirt was saturated, glued to his body.

  He coughed a few times, rough but weak.

  “Oh, God. No, no, no …” I mumbled. “Tanner. Tanner!” I yelled at him, watching his cloudy green eyes shift only a fraction. Glancing back down at his chest, I knew I had to put pressure on the wound. I pushed my palms against him. Warm and wet, the blood seeped between my fingers and coated my hands.

  “Tanner.”

  His eyes shifted again, their pupils growing larger. “Sorry … Syn.” The words were just a breath, leaving his lips for the last time.

  “No, Tanner. You have nothing to be sorry for. No. Tanner.” I sobbed and touched my fingers to his cheek. “Kyle …”

  Everything stilled: his face, his chest, his heart.

  I pushed on him. Once, twice. I laced my fingers and leaned all my weight on his chest. Over and over, over and over, until my teary eyes blurred, until my breaths were ragged and my sobs turned to gravel inside my throat.

  He was gone.

  I heard a yell in the distance and a clatter of something landing on the floor. The volume of every other noise slowly crept back into my ears—pained grunts, heavy breaths—reviving the situation around me. Damian and Seth were still fighting. I got to my feet and stared at the blood on my hands for a shocked moment before wiping it on my jeans and refocusing my thoughts on Damian. When I stepped toward the kitchen, I noticed movement in the dining room. The extra chairs were tipped over on their sides and Damian and Seth were wrestling on the floor behind them.

  Neither had the gun. It was nowhere in sight.

  Having rolled onto Damian, Seth had the upper hand. Hit after hit rained down on Damian, his face, his chest. Most were blocked by his arms but a few went unanswered, slamming him in the jaw, in the nose.

  Not willing to waste time looking for the gun, I jumped over the chairs. Seth had killed Tanner. Nothing was stopping him from killing again. I knew I couldn’t win a one-on-one with him, but I could distract him. I threw myself onto his back and cinched an arm around his neck. If he continued to hit Damian, he risked me choking him out.

  He landed two more hits to the side of Damian’s face and suddenly everything flipped. Seth stood with me still latched on his back, turning fast toward the living room. I glanced at Damian before Seth walked us away. His body lay motionless just like it had when I’d found him earlier. I had to stop Seth. I squeezed my arms tighter around his neck, hoping I could maintain the same pressure, restrict enough oxygen.

  After a few steps, he slowed, swaying toward the edge of the living room wall. His body stiffened and he grabbed at my forearms around his neck. I thought he was going down, but then he took a determined spin and rammed backward against the edge of the wall.

  “Ah!” I screamed as the corner of the wall jammed into my back. Stars burst behind my eyes and shock waves shot up and down my spine, but I kept my arms around his throat, holding on with every bit of energy I had.

  He jumped forward only to slam me back again. This time it was too much. As I released him from my grasp, tears streamed from my eyes, not simply from the pain—letting go meant the end. I couldn’t stop him.

  I dropped to the floor and watched the back of his jeans stride toward the kitchen. He was going for the gun. Through the dining room, Damian still lay unconscious on the floor. I needed to keep Seth’s attention away, to keep Damian safe. If I could kill more time, Damian might wake up. There was still a chance.

  I scrambled to my feet, shaking from the pain in my back as I darted toward the kitchen. Letting him get the gun was not an option. If he did, it was all over.

  He crouched down low, scanning the floor next to the stack of boxes in the kitchen. I picked up the pace, dodged the island, and threw all my weight at him, spilling the boxes over and knocking him onto his back. Images of our first meeting flashed to mind: a younger version of us fighting on the patchy grass at River Park. I cocked my arm back and landed a punch reminiscent of the one I’d landed that day, the one that had given him a black eye.

  He yelled and I kept swinging, but my hitting streak was short lived. One of his hands managed a block and the other grabbed my ponytail from the back, yanking me off his body and slamming me down beside him.

  I grunted from the hit and reeled back as he released my hair.

  Still on the floor, he drew his leg back for a kick. I tried to dodge his boot but I was too slow. It connected with my chest, knocking my body back toward the fridge, amongst the contents of the boxes strewn across the floor. His body was on mine before I could take a recovery breath.

  I swung my arms, smacking him in the face. He grabbed them easily and pinned them back behind my head.

  “God damn,” he huffed, grinding his hard-on against my pelvis as I thrashed inside his grip. “Fucking you would be something to remember. Too bad I’ll never know. Unless …”

  “Not a fucking chance.” I bucked my hips, popping his body up, but it wasn’t enough to toss him off.

  As much as I wanted to just push him away, my thoughts shot back to self-defense.

  Escape by any means.

  I pushed up on my arms, feeling him apply more downward pressure at my wrists. As soon as he did, I slid my arms straight out, taking his along. His face automatically dropped closer. I didn’t have the clearance for a good head butt, so I opened my mouth and bit down on his nose. He screamed and jerked away, releasing my wrists. I bucked my hips again. This time it knocked his balance to one side, enough room for me to slide out from under him. Within a second, the shock wore off and he recovered. As one hand shielded his bloody nose, the other swung in my direction, only catching air.

  “You fucking bitch.”

  I glanced at the items on the floor—Tupperware, pots and pans, dish towels—no gun in sight. With two bodies and the spilled boxes, the amount of room between the fridge and the island was nonexistent. I needed to move, to get more space between us, but I also needed him to follow so he wouldn’t look for the gun.

  He lunged at me again and I dove sideways, landing on a stainless steel saucepan. I grabbed the handle and took a haphazard swing through the air, clipping the side of his face. I continued to crawl backward as fast as possible, my socks slipping, hindering my progress.

  The hit slowed him a little, though not nearly long enough. He picked up one of the other pans and chucked it. The handle’s edge smacked my knee and I let out a hiss from the pain, but I was able to get to my feet.

  Noticing my movement, he hustled to follow, kicking more kitchenware around the floor. When he stood, he paused, threw back his shoulders, stuck out his chest. Everything about him looked evil: his glare, his posture. My mind flashed back to the night I’d held a knife to the same kind of evil and my hands began to shake. I bumped backward into one of the chairs and scooted around toward the open space of the living room, careful to walk around Tanner’s body without looking. I couldn’t bear to look.

  Seth raised a swollen eyebrow. “Okay, Syn. Let’s see how hard you can really swing that thing.” He wiped some blood from his nose and darted forward.

  My heart hammered in my chest, making my head pound harder and my vision blur. I blinked several times, trying to keep my focus on him and his movements, but in the corner of my eye, the blade of the kitchen knife glinted from beside the couch. I pinned my eyes to Seth, keeping the blade in sight.

  Seth didn’t play around. He knew he was almost out of time. His steps sped up and he rushed toward me, but his movements were sloppy. He was getting tired. I leapt to the side, thinking I had dodged him, but his fingers hooked my tank top. I spun around and used the movement to swing the pan. He stopped my arm with his hand, grabbing hold and yanking me closer. My
body reacted automatically, raising my knee and nailing him in the nuts. He doubled over, bowing in front of me. I tightened my grip on the pan, slammed it to the side of his head, and dove for the knife.

  Fearing his next move, I spun back around, but he was motionless, belly up on the floor. I jumped on top of his body, refusing to lose the upper hand. His eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths beneath me. He wasn’t dead.

  My fingers wrapped tighter around the wooden handle and I pressed the tip of the blade to his throat, focusing on the depression it created on his skin. Instead of my breaths slowing, they sped up, and suddenly my vision tunneled.

  Mommy screamed again. I tugged on the doorknob but it wouldn’t turn. The door was stuck and she kept screaming. They weren’t her laughing screams or her fun screams. She was hurt. I yelled for her, but she didn’t come. I kicked and hit the door and shook the knob over and over until it finally opened. My feet jumped down two stairs at a time, following her voice until I got to the kitchen. John was sitting on top of her, hitting her face. She cried. I ran to help her, punching him in the back as hard as I could and yelling to make him stop. He turned and looked at me with angry eyes and yelled bad words. His hand hit my face and I fell down and smacked my head.

  He started hitting her again. I had to help her, save her. The knife Mommy used to cut food was on the counter. She always said I shouldn’t touch knives, that they could hurt people. If I had the knife, I could stop John from hurting Mommy. I could hurt him.

  I stood up beside the counter. One of John’s cigarettes burned near the knife. The smoke burned my eyes. I reached around it and grabbed the knife handle with both hands. When John hit her again, I hit him in the back with the knife. He turned around to me and yelled again, but this yell didn’t last long. I pulled the knife out of his back and he fell over. He never got back up.

  “Syn,” a voice said. “Syn.”

  I blinked a couple of times, refocusing on the kitchen knife I had pressed to Seth’s throat. He was still unconscious beneath me.