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Before I know what’s happening, he is yanking out the blade from my stomach—it’s much more painful than when it was when he dug it in—and I feel the blade making its way again to another part of my stomach, but the knife never does more than scratch the surface. Suddenly, my father is yanked back, thrown on the door next to me, and Carter is beating him. His fists connect with my father’s jaw, nose, and neck over and over again until my dad collaps
es down to a fetal position, which doesn’t take much more than fifteen seconds. Carter is ripped, huge, and strong. He is a bouncer, and a good one. Now Carter is on top of him, straddling him, beating him up so methodically, and the whole time, his face is completely relaxed and composed.
As if nothing’s happening inside of him.
A psychopath.
It’s clear to me now.
Carter is a psychopath.
I slap a hand over my mouth as I watch Carter beating the life out of my father. At first, my dad struggles. Not exactly fighting back, he is too weak and old, but definitely crying and yelling and begging. I clutch my waist where he stabbed me and double over. It’s painful, and I just want it to stop.
When my dad stops screaming and begging, Carter lets him go. His whole face is just blood, really. He’s completely unrecognizable. And dead. So very dead.
I should feel relieved, or maybe even happy or satisfied, but I still feel nothing. Nothing at all except for the fire in my stomach.
I should have died.
It should have ended.
But he saved me.
Carter wipes his bloody hands over his shirt silently before taking it off, forming it into a ball of fabric and tucking the shirt into his back pocket. I shouldn’t admire his six-pack, so I don’t. I just note that his body is very big and very strong, and it makes me feel very little, but not in a bad way.
The feeling it stirs in me is awkward. I should feel uncomfortable about his formidable size, but I don’t. Am I stupid enough to think he won’t hurt me?
“I’ll need to get rid of him,” he tells me, still detached. “But first, we need to make sure you’re stitched and wrapped. Where do you live?”
I tell him where I live. He approaches me, and without a warning, sweeps me up into his arms so he is carrying me honeymoon-style. I wrap my hands around his neck, and it doesn’t feel wrong. Not at all. But I try not to think about it.
“It’s a short walk,” he informs me after I give him my address. “I know you’re hurting, but it’d help if you don’t make too much noise. We don’t want to draw attention to you.”
I just got stabbed, and he’s acting like I sprained my ankle. His calm is my comfort. His tranquility quiets my storm.
When we get to my apartment, he puts towels over my bed, lays me down on it, and plucks a bottle of whiskey from the counter in my kitchen. The only reason I keep it is so I can forget things when I need to, so it seems ironic that he is using it now, in a rare moment I feel like I’d like to remember.
It’s not often someone else takes care of me.
He opens the whiskey bottle and hands it to me silently, choking the neck of the bottle. I grab it and take a swig, not because I want to, but because he asked. Sort of. The alcohol burns its way through my throat, but this time, I don’t welcome the numbness it brings with it. Carter pours some of the whiskey onto one of the clean towels and wipes my injury after rolling my shirt all the way up until my bra is completely exposed. My head against the pillow, I inspect him as he cleans my wound meticulously and quietly.
It’s burning so bad I want to grab his hair and rip it out as I scream my lungs out, but I want to be good for him. I want him to be proud of me. It’s so ridiculous—my need to impress him, even when I’m at my worst. Stabbed by my small-time pimp, alcoholic father.
I wish I could thank him somehow.
He seems like a good man, to me, at least. To everyone else…who knows?
After he’s done cleaning me, he motions for me to drink some more. I take another sip, but this time he shakes his head. “The whole thing.”
“Are you serious?” I choke on my saliva. He nods, his face void of emotion.
“I’m going to stitch you up. You might not wanna be completely present when that happens, if you know what I mean.”
Reluctantly, I drink the rest of the alcohol. He asks me where my sewing kit is, and I tell him. Despite his best efforts to numb the pain, I feel it. Every time he inserts the needle, which he burnt beforehand with his Zippo, I let out a soft cry. Every so often he pauses and strokes my hair with his free hand. I don’t even think he notices when he does that. Caresses my hair. I wish he would stop. It stirs something unfamiliar in me. Something I can’t identify.
Carter is meticulous in movements, almost mechanical. After he stitches me up, he tears one of my shirts and wraps it around my stomach tightly. I feel myself tear up, because even through the pain, I realize that I’ve never felt so…cared for before. I pretend for a while that I’m just a normal girl, and that Carter is mine and I am his. What would it be like to be loved by someone like him? I feel a single tear slipping out of the corner of my eye and into my ear at the thought.
“I’ll ask Graham to send someone to watch over you while I go clean up the mess in the alleyway,” he tells me without making eye contact, and for that, I’m thankful. I nod, my eyes hard on the whiskey bottle.
