by Tijan
Before I can continue, he tells me, “I have a name, but it’s useless.” His dark eyes lift to mine. “We think he got her hooked, intentionally or not, but he can’t be tied to anything else. Nothing ties him to her death.”
“Give me his name.” The strong woman inside of me applauds my efforts, rejoicing in the fact that it took this much to make him speak and that I was able to push myself to this point.
And that I have a name.
I have someone I can blame and punish, someone I can make pay for what they did to my sister. They tortured her. Broke her body. She was gone for so long, I don’t know how long it went on. And then they burned her. They left nothing of her for me.
There will be nothing of them left when I find them.
“No.” His answer dies in the tense air between us. It takes me a long moment to realize what he’s even saying no to. My mind has gone to darker places, and tears streak down my cheek thinking about what she went through and that I wasn’t there. I couldn’t save her.
“Tell me who it was,” I say as I move a bit closer, holding the knife with both hands, barely keeping it together. I let the tears fall with no restraint, and no conscious consent either. “I want his name!” I raise my voice and even to my own ears it sounds violent and uncontrolled.
Jase stares straight ahead, ignoring me, not answering.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” The confession sounds strangled.
“You don’t have to,” he answers.
“Give me the name, Jase!”
“You’ll get yourself killed!” he yells back at me and the sound bellows from deep within him.
“You don’t understand what they did to her!” I scream at him, feeling the well of emotion filling my lungs. I remember the fear when she went missing. “She would text me every day when she woke up, regardless of what time that ended up being. Sometimes she forgot. But every day, there was at least one text…” I trail off, remembering how angry I’d been when she messaged last. She wouldn’t come back after I made her admit she had a problem. She refused to come back and get help. But she still messaged me every day. Until she didn’t.
“And then there was nothing,” I speak so softly, using what’s left inside of me as the tears fall freely down my face.
“For days and then weeks, there was nothing but fear and hope. And fear is what won. Every day she didn’t text me. The fear won.” As I try to regain my composure, I wipe haphazardly at my face and focus on breathing.
“I waited in silence for nothing. The first forty-eight hours, no one did anything at all,” I say and my words crack. “Why would they? She was reckless and headed down the wrong path.”
The knife is still in my hands, still pressed to his skin when I tell him, “I knew something terrible had happened to her, and I could do nothing. She was still alive then. I know she was. I remember thinking that. That she was still out there. That I could feel her.”
I’m brought back to my kitchen, crying on the floor, hating myself for pushing her away, regretting that I yelled at her, all alone and praying. Praying because God was the only one left to listen to me. Praying he could save her, because I couldn’t.
“I had no name. No one had a name for me. But you do.” I twist the knife just slightly, and suddenly feel it give, but I don’t dare look. I don’t look anywhere but into Jase’s eyes, even as he seethes in pain.
“Give me the name.”
“He’ll kill you, Bethany.” Sorrow etches his eyes and I know his answer already even before he says, “I won’t do that.”
I scream a wretched sound as I pull back the knife. It slices cleanly, so easily, leaving a bright red line in its path. Small and seemingly insignificant, but then blood pours from the wound and he bites back a sound of agony.
It’s bright red. And it doesn’t stop.
What have I done? Jase’s intake is staggered but he doesn’t show any other signs of pain.
“Fuck!” The word leaves me in a rush. “Jase,” I say, and his name is a prayer on my lips. “No,” I think out loud as my hand shakes and the knife drops to the floor. There’s so much blood. There’s so much soaking into the bed as it drips around his body.
It doesn’t stop.
“Jase,” I cry out his name as I ball up the bed sheets and press them to the laceration.
He breathes deep, staring at the ceiling. Silent, and ignoring me as I press more of the cotton linens to his chest, only for it to be soaked a half second later.
There’s so much blood.
“I’m sorry,” I utter as I rip the sheets out from under him, desperate to make it stop. “I’m so sorry.”
The blood soaks through the fabric within seconds, staining my hands.
Staring down at the blood that lines the creases of my palms, I take a step back and then another.
What have I done?
Jase
It’s like when you wake up from a nightmare. There’s a moment where it all feels real and then, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, reality comes back to you. The horror stays, the damage done, the terrors in your sleep lingering as you walk down the steps of your quiet house to get a drink of water. And sometimes those monsters stand behind you. You can still sense them, even when you know they’re not real.
That’s what this feels like as the slice on my chest rips agony through my body. Like I can’t get away from the ghosts in her eyes, even if she’s woken from her dream. Even if disbelief and regret are all she feels, all she sees, all she recognizes.
The ghosts will still be there, waiting in the dark.
Every time she presses the sheets to the wound, a renewed sense of pain spreads through my body, but I refuse to make a sound. My hands turn to fists and I pull against the cuffs, feeling the metal dig into my wrists.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t… I didn’t mean…” she says, choking on her words.
“I told you I would tell you,” I remind her, flexing my wrists and breathing through the pain. I’ve had worse shit done to me. “When I know who it was, I will tell you and I will make them pay.”
Besides, I fucking deserve this.
“I’m not going to give you a name without knowing for sure,” I confess to her, letting her believe that’s the only thing I’ve withheld, the only lie I’ve spoken. “I promise you.”
Her beautiful hazel eyes lock onto mine, begging and pleading for forgiveness but more than that, an out. A way out of the nightmare she’s in.
There’s no way out of this shit though. This is what life is. It’s what mourning is. A waking nightmare.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts out before turning her back to me and running to the bathroom.
I hear her open the medicine cabinet and when I do, I push the escape lock on the cuffs with my thumb. It would be all too fucked up for her to have found the cuffs in my car; the ones I put on her, the ones I keep in my car. And not these safety cuffs I intend to use when I light her ass on fire with my paddle. The ones for play sold at sex shops.
Maybe I shouldn’t have let it go on for as long as I did, but I think she needed this. She needed to get it out of her system.
I’m quiet as I unlock the ones on my ankles, taking my time to put them away, gritting my teeth every time the sharp pain reminds me that she cut me.
With the drawer open, I drop the cuffs in, one by one when I hear her close the cabinet and I wait.
Her gasp is telling and I turn around slowly to see the halo of light surrounding her from the bathroom door. A bandage and gauze in one hand, and hydrogen peroxide in the other.
Horror plays in the depths of her eyes as she freezes where she is. She’s a beautiful, broken mess.
I take a single step toward her; the floor groans and the only other sound is the hushed gasp she makes.
“Jase,” she pleads, not hiding her fear. She doesn’t hide anything; it’s a big part of what I admire about her.
“Jase,” she says again and this time my name is strangled as it leave
s her. So much begging in only a single word as I take another step.
She trembles where she stands. I reach out for the bandages, and her arm drops dead to her side as she awaits her sentence. I place the bandage over the cut without sparing it a glance and wipe up the remaining blood with the gauze before tossing it behind her into the bathroom and onto the floor.
And she flinches from the movement. From my arm moving her way.
It fucking kills me. My chest doesn’t feel a goddamn thing from the cut. But it feels everything knowing that she thought I was going to hit her. That I would strike her.
Everyone deserves punishment for their sins. And I accept mine. But I won’t accept losing her.
Her eyes never leave mine, and mine never leave hers.
She doesn’t beg for mercy; she doesn’t try to run.
The world is full of broken birds and pain. I won’t add to it.
Not her. Not my fiery girl, my cailín tine.
“Jase.” She says my name thickly and swallows after a second passes of silence. Just the two of us knowing the other’s pain, knowing what’s happened wasn’t a nightmare, it was real.
“I’m sor-”
I cut her off with my own apology. “I’m sorry I can’t bring her back.” The emotion wells in my throat as I add, “If I could, if I had that power, I wouldn’t be feeling the same shit you are.”
The tense air changes, and everything falls around us. For me it does. Nothing else exists for me but her.
“If I could, I would,” I tell her as I brush her hair off her shoulder and lower my lips to hers. It’s all done slowly. I’ll be sweet with her tonight.
Her lips brush against mine gently and then she deepens our kiss.
Her fingers are hesitant at first, as if she’s still expecting me to snap like she did.
I have all the time in the world for her tonight. To see what’s really here. To know what’s between us.
I can show her, and I do. Slowly, gently, and with every small touch, I chip away at any armor she has.
I don’t want the hate; I don’t want the fight.
Not tonight.
Tonight I make her feel loved.
A part of me knows it’s selfish, because I don’t deserve her or any of this. But tonight I need to feel loved too.
Bethany
The Coverless Book
Fourth Chapter
“Do you think Mama will be okay with it?” I ask Caroline, nervously peeking up at her. The silk is like water under my fingers. So smooth and easily flowing. “I’ve never worn anything like it.”
“It’s perfect for your first date,” Caroline tells me with that sweet Southern charm.
I turn around fully to face her, repeating my question, “But do you think Mama will be okay with it?”
Caroline’s expression falters.
“I think your mama would love it, Emmy,” Caroline says, forcing that false smile to her lips. She’s worked for our family since just before I got sick. I know all her tells and that smile she’s plastered on her face is only there to hide the truth. She hates my mother, but I don’t know why.
“She’s sick too,” I whisper defensively. “That’s why she’s not here.” The excuse falls flat, just like it does every time.
“She’s not sick like you. She’s just in pain,” Miss Caroline corrects me.
Those in the most pain, cause pain. My mother told me that once. It was a while ago and she said that’s why she doesn’t see me very much. She doesn’t want to hurt me. I know it kills her inside to know what’s happening to me. “Pain is a sickness, isn’t it?” I ask Caroline.
The false smile wavers as she reaches down to pick up the pair of shoes. “Your first pair of heels,” she states and pretends she didn’t hear me. She does that sometimes. She doesn’t answer me when I ask questions. I know they’re insignificant, but I have no one else to talk to. Some days I wonder if I’ve spoken when she does that.
I only know I have when I hear her sniffle. They don’t like to see me like this, frail and losing weight and muscle like I am. No one does. I’m not just sick; I’m dying. That’s what the doctors say.
Smoothing the ruby red silk fabric with my hand, I turn to the mirror thinking, Jake will like me in this dress. He won’t mind seeing me sick. He doesn’t cry when I tell him I’m invincible, not like Mama and not like Miss Caroline.
Jake thinks I’m pretty. He thinks I’m sweet.
“Soup, Emmy,” Caroline calls out and I can hear the spoon clinking against the porcelain.
“Is it- “
Before I can finish, Miss Caroline nods and says, “Of course it is. I had to make your favorite for today. Drink up, baby, you need to be strong.”
“I already am strong,” I tell her with a smile, feeling the excitement of tonight. “Haven’t I told you? I’m invincible.”
The story grips me as the pages turn. A young boy and a sick girl, falling in love even though they know it won’t last. I can’t help but to think it’s not that simple. I hate her mother and I like Miss Caroline, but I feel sorry for Emmy. It’s funny how they feel so real when I curl up under the blanket and let the night disappear in between the pages of The Coverless Book.
Lines of a dark blue ink run along the pages. And with every line, I add it to the list in my notepad.
I’m invincible.
Those in the most pain, cause pain.
I don’t feel sick when he looks at me like that; I can only feel cherished with his gaze on me.
Agony is meaningless; only love can relate.
There is no pattern. No reason to think there’s a hidden message lying inside. But I do. I can’t help but to hope that I’m missing something. Anything. I just want my sister to tell me something.
Or at least I did. Days ago.
Before that night with Jase. The night everything changed. Somehow, he took my fight away, but with it, there’s relief.
It’s been two days and he hasn’t messaged me, and I haven’t messaged him either.
I don’t know how it happened, but everything feels different now.
With every thrust against his bedroom wall, he forced the air from my lungs. He took it, he made it his. The air, my body… and more.
Forgiveness and understanding can do something to a person. Especially when you don’t feel worthy of it.
When I stepped out of that bathroom, not knowing what the hell I was going to do or what the hell I was thinking when I cuffed him, I wouldn’t have fathomed he’d be there facing me.
What did I think would happen even if I did get a name from him?
That somehow he would let me out of his gilded cage after he admitted what he lied about? That he wouldn’t hold it against me that I’d cuffed him up and threatened him?
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I’ve never been sorrier for hurting someone. I can’t believe I did that.
There will be consequences, I remember Jase’s words last night. Just before I fell asleep, he told me the night wasn’t forgiven wholly, until there were consequences.
And I accept it. Whatever those consequences may be.
I don’t know what happened to make me think I could, and that I should, lay a knife to his skin.
The only way I can justify it, is that I think it happened for a reason.
I think we were meant to have that moment. The moment when he kissed me, and he made it feel okay to let go. He made me feel like if I was with him, everything would be the way it should be.
He made me feel like I wasn’t as broken as I thought I was.
And I gave him everything I had to give. Even if it’s not much.
I would give him everything and anything from this day forward.
His forgiveness and touch are worth more than I’ll ever have.
Ping. My phone goes off with a text message, followed by another.
Are you okay?
How are you feeling?
Two different texts, from two different peop
le. And I’m grateful for the distraction.
One’s from Laura and one’s from Jase.
I’m feeling good, how are you? I text them both the same thing. I don’t even realize it at first.
I just haven’t heard from you. Anything new? Laura writes back first.
I write a few words and delete them. Write some more and delete those too. I finally settle on, Maybe. I’ll know more when we go out this weekend.
My heart does this little pitter-patter thing and my head tells it that it’s naïve.
The three dots at the bottom left of the screen tell me she’s writing something, but before she can finish, Jase messages.
I was hoping to see you tonight. But things came up. Tomorrow.
He doesn’t ask. He tells.
I debate on what to say, focusing on the first part and then the second. He was hoping to see me. The butterflies Emmy feels … I feel them too. They kind of scare me. Everything that’s happening scares me.
Before I can respond to him, Laura writes back.
What’s new? I can’t take the suspense. You know I thrive on instant gratification.
Shifting on the sofa, I pull the blanket up my lap, hating the draft coming from the old window and focusing on that rather than the butterflies.
I pick up my mug and take a swig of it; the decaf tea is lukewarm, but still satisfying.
I don’t know exactly what it is yet, I tell Laura. But when I do, I’ll let you know.
I press send and then realize I sent it to the wrong fucking person. The mug slams down onto the table when I realize, but thankfully my tea’s almost gone so none of it splashes out.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter under my breath, feeling my heart race.
Sorry, I meant that for someone else. See you tomorrow. I type out the response quickly, before Jase can respond. My heart’s a damn war drum as I copy and paste what I sent him to send to Laura.
“Fuck a duck,” I say out loud, letting my head fall back on the sofa. I am … a mess. A living, breathing mess.
Omg that’s so exciting! Tell me everything! Laura writes immediately.
