I try to snatch my arm away.
He looks up at me with those soulless ash-colored eyes. “Stay still.”
“I’ll do it myself.”
“The only thing you can do yourself is harm yourself.” Something molten stirs in the depths of gray, like fire flickering beneath ashes. “The next time you hurt yourself, do it knowing I’ll inflict double the pain on that motherfucker.”
I frown. “You can’t blackmail me.”
He takes out his phone and shows me a photo. It’s Salvario. He’s sitting on a chair, his hands tied to the armrests, his face filled with rage and pain. But that’s not what makes my heart stop. It’s the blood dripping from the cuts on both his wrists, down the wood of the armrests.
The wounds are exactly like the one I made on myself. The piece of glass I used to do it rests on the table in front of him. It’s an image of my house’s living room.
Hunter pulls the phone away from my face. Slowly, my breathing resumes, and within seconds I’m panting with anger, so much anger I could kill this monster.
I grab the first thing my hand lands on—a frying pan—and smash it against his head with all the strength I can muster. It connects with a loud, sick clang.
“I hate you!” I shriek. “I’ll fucking kill you!” I smash the pan against his head again.
Blood drips from his forehead down his cheek to his jaw. He doesn’t even flinch, nor does he let go of my elbow.
“Are you done?” he says, his voice completely blank.
The adrenaline dies down, and the horrible, bloody scene I’ve made spins before my tear-blurred eyes.
Hunter
Her body sways. Before she can fall, I catch her in my arms. I carry her unconscious form into the bedroom, lay her down on the bed, take off her flip-flops, and cover her with a quilt. Then I leave the room and head back to the kitchen for the first aid kit.
Coming back inside, I remove her bloody bandage. The stitches have torn. I remove all of them, clean the wound thoroughly with antiseptic, then restitch it. I apply a thin layer of antibiotic ointment, cover it with a sterile gauze pad, and secure it with fresh bandage tape.
Once I’m done, I gently place her hand on the bed beside her and watch her sleeping face. Tears cling to her porcelain-smooth cheeks; her lips are still blue from the cold. I lean forward and brush my rough thumb lightly against her tender cheek, wiping away the wetness there. I do the same with her other cheek.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper. “It kills me to see you like this, but it would kill me more to let you go. If it were possible to live without you, I wouldn’t have hurt you this much. But it’s not possible. And I’m too selfish to die.”
I kiss her forehead and get up. First aid kit in hand, I walk into the bathroom. There is no door to this room or the bathroom, I had them removed, along with having the windows barred.
All product containers and holders have been replaced with plastic. Not just in the bathroom, but in the kitchen too: anything that comes into contact with heat is stainless steel; everything else is plastic. The knives are kept in a locked drawer. I take one out for chopping and put it back immediately. She can’t have access to anything she could use to harm herself.
I see my reflection in the mirror. Blood has dried on my face and neck, some is from her clawing, but most of it is from the wound on my head. I clean the wound on my forehead, apply cream, and cover it with a bandage. It’s not deep enough to cause trouble.
My phone rings in my trouser pocket. I take it out. Logan’s calling.
I pick up and press the phone to my ear, still washing the blood from my face.
“How’s everything going?”
“Perfect.”
“And by perfect, you mean...?”
“In the evening, she came back to consciousness, tried to leave the forest, hit me with a pan, and then fainted.”
“Fuck, man. If this is your perfect, then I hope every perfect thing stays far away from me.”
“She could have tried to kill herself the moment she opened her eyes. But she didn’t. She still wants to harm herself, but it’ll stay low from now on.”
“And, might I add, harming you is also on the table.”
