Page 27 of Crusher's Illusion

I squeeze his hand, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I can breathe a little easier. Like maybe I’m not as broken as I thought I was.

We sit in the silence, his hand on mine. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. Just sits there with me like he’s willing to carry the quiet, too.

My phone buzzes on the table. I grab it instinctively, but the message on the screen makes my heart skip a beat.

A photo appears. A dark alley, lit only by a flickering street light. In the foreground, a man lies bleeding beside a newspaper clipping, my article, drenched in red.

The message below it reads:

This is what happens when you get too close.

I feel the world tilt beneath me. My skin grows cold. I barely register Crusher’s movements as he’s already beside me, his arm coming around my shoulders.

“Hey,” Crusher murmurs. His voice wraps around me, rough and sure. “We’re not letting anyone hurt you. They want to scare you,” he says, voice low. “They fucked with the wrong woman. ”

There’s something in his tone that turns my stomach and steadies it at the same time. Like he’s already decided who’s going to bleed for this. I’m shaking, but I force myself to breathe, focusing on his words instead of the picture. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to drag this into my life.”

Crusher’s thumb brushes against my temple, his touch soft but firm, making my heart flutter. “You didn’t ask for any of this, but you’re not in this alone. Not now, not ever.”

I swallow hard, trying to steady my breathing, trying to ignore the gnawing fear that’s starting to settle deep in my gut. “But I’m not strong enough, Crusher, I’m…”

Crusher’s hand tightens around me. “You are. You’ve been through hell and came out standing. You don’t see it, but I do.”

I close my eyes, leaning into him. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he whispers, “but you don’t have to be scared anymore.”

I don’t know how long we stay like this, his warmth, his strength, grounding me, protecting me. But in this moment, it feels like maybe I can face whatever comes next. With Crusher by my side, maybe I don’t have to be fearless, just brave enough to stay.

FOURTEEN

GHOSTS IN THE REARVIEW

CRUSHER

The soft song of crickets outside is the only thing keeping my thoughts from collapsing in on themselves.

Nevaeh is finally asleep, tucked beneath a blanket on my couch. Her breathing is slow and even, but I’m still wired. I still hear the echo of her voice, the things she told me. The fear in her eyes when that photo lit up her screen. The weight of her past is pressing down on her shoulders like she’s bracing for something worse.

I’ve seen that weight before. I’ve carried it myself.

Memories come back strong of me walking into a bar and spotting a woman with long, dark curly hair and piercing blue eyes. She was looking for a fight and almost had one with some egotistical douchebag. I was looking for a way to forget my anger and sadness over The General’s funeral, and I thought a night at the bar would drown my sorrows. I could tell she was ready to get up and kick this douchebag’s ass, so I sat down next to her, put my arm around her shoulders, and kissed the side of her temple. I acted like we were together, and was sorry I was late. When the asshole saw my tattoos, he figured out who I was andslunk away. Conversation ran deep into the night. We ended up going back to a motel around the corner. It was the best night of my life. She made me forget my pain and anger. The next morning, she got up before I did and snuck out of the room. No note, no phone number. No name. The only thing I had of hers was the memories we created and the claw marks down my back.

I haven’t moved for hours, staring out the loft window, arms folded and jaw locked. The cigarette between my fingers burns down to the filter, and I don’t even notice until the heat bites my skin. I drop it into the sink, flick on the tap, and let the water drown it. There’s no calming buzz in my chest. My hands are steady, but I feel like I’m on a fault line. Waiting for something to crack.

Jordan’s face floats behind my eyes.

He always had something to say about my bad habits. Told me cigarettes were just slow bullets. Told me I was too angry to live long and too stubborn to die early.

Only he got the shit end of the story. I buried him nine years ago with his favorite Zippo in his hand and blood on my knuckles.

People talk about ghosts like they haunt old houses or dark woods. But that’s not how it works. Ghosts live in the spaces between breaths. They come back when the world goes quiet. When you’re left with nothing but the weight of the ones you couldn’t save.

Jordan was fifteen. Bled out in my hands behind the shelter where I volunteered. I see it every time I close my eyes. The flickering alley light. The way his blood felt when it soaked through my jeans. How the sirens were close, but not close enough.

I thought helping people meant doing the right thing. Now I know better.

You don’t help to be seen. You help so you can live with yourself afterward.