Crack.
The wood splits clean. The sound rings sharp, satisfying. A violent release of energy.
I set another one.
Swing.
Crack.
I fall into the rhythm. Lift. Swing. Impact. Reset.
It’s meditation in motion. The burn starts in my shoulders, spreading down my back, firing the muscles coiled tight since the hospital garage. I focus on the mechanics of the motion: the rotation of the torso, the snap of the wrists. I focus on the cold air biting my lungs, scouring out the scent of her that seems to permeate the house.
Swing.Crack.
She’s a witness. A liability. A job.
Swing.Crack.
She’s smart. She treated her own wound without flinching.
Swing.Crack.
She looked at me last night in the kitchen like she wanted to crawl inside my skin. And God help me, I wanted to let her.
I swing harder, the axe biting deep into a knotty piece of pine. It doesn’t split. It sticks. I wrench it free, the wood groaning.
I’m sweating now, despite the freezing air. I strip off my thermal shirt and toss it onto the porch railing. Steam rises from my skin, a visible aura of heat against the gray morning.
I set the log again.
And then the weight of a gaze lands on my back.
Not instinct. Not metaphor. A biological fact: the skin between my shoulder blades tightens, nerve endings firing in a pattern I learned to trust in sniper hides in the Hindu Kush, in crowded marketplaces in Caracas before the shooting started.
I don’t turn around. Not yet.
I grip the axe handle tighter.
I swing. The log shatters.
I reset.
I know where she is. The master bedroom possesses a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the side yard. She’s there. I can picture her: tangled hair, sleep-softened face, maybe wearing one of the oversized T-shirts I left in the dresser because she didn’t have pajamas.
She’s watching me.
The thought floods my bloodstream like a shot of pure adrenaline. It shouldn’t. It should act as a tactical concern. A breach of protocol.
Instead, it’s carnal.
Let her look.
The beast inside me uncoils, stretching its claws. I want her to see me. I want her to see the violence, the strength, and the scar tissue mapping my life. I want to be acknowledged as the threat I am. Better if she fears me than if she trusts me. Fear keeps her distant. Fear keeps her safe.
I work harder. My exhalations plume white in the cold. My muscles burn, a vicious, clarifying ache that almost drowns out the want.
Almost.
