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I didn’t want to go home. Home meant I’d failed. Home meant Morris got to keep being Morris.
I couldn’t go to Law’s.
So I ambled around during the witching hour. I must have been adrift in my mind because I didn’t notice the sound of danger. By the time I did, it was too late.
“Give me all your money.” Are you fucking kidding me? I spun around to face the joke. Three men dressed in black with ski masks held knives to me. Was this really happening? I looked around to see if anyone would help, but it was just me on the street—not like anyone would offer aid, anyway.
I couldn’t muster any other emotion besides indignation. I had literally just come from the devil’s den, and now this?
“What is this?” I asked, eyeing the men and their knives. Of course I hadn’t brought my gun. Of course this would be happening to me. I was Nami DeGrace, bad luck magnet.
“Knock your purse to us.” I held my backpack tightly at their request. It didn’t contain much, not even any money. It only held my USB and what few files I thought might be useful in framing Morris. It was all I had made of this pointless night. It was everything.
“Who sent you?” I asked suspiciously. Was it possible Morris had sent some of his goons? Did he know what I’d taken?
“Look, bitch,” one of them said. “Knock the purse over or we gut you, simple.” The man looked to his left and right, shaking the knife slightly.
“It’s not a purse,” I explained desperately. “It doesn’t have any money in it.”
“We’ll decide that.”
“No.” I clutched my bag tighter and inched backward. Glancing back, I could see I had about a yard before the street opened up to another busier street. I wasn’t sure I could outrun them, but it was my only shot. If I made it to the street I could scream bloody murder and hopefully someone would hear me. If I stayed, I was as good as dead. I took off at a sprint.
“Fuck!” one of them yelled out. I could see my freedom. The street approached me. I reached a hand out toward it, but liberty was yanked away. One of them grabbed my shirt and pulled me back. I fell to the concrete, my head landing with a sickening crack. All three towered over me, peering at me with disdain.
“Shoulda just given us the damn purse,” one of them said.
“It’s not a purse.” I still clutched the bag, my arms feeling limp. I didn’t know when the first blow landed, just as I didn’t know when the last blow ended. It was a symphony of hits, punches, and shots. My ribs crunched and my organs crumpled. I tasted blood.
I stared up at the moon. It was red, looking like blood had dripped all over it. It was apt that it was called the blood moon. Was it coincidence or fate that I would bleed out on the night of the blood moon? Probably neither, just my own stupidity. As I stared at the starless, cloud-covered night sky, I realized something: I was without.
Without purpose.
Without reason.
Without a soul, even.
I’d been mugged and the first thing to come into my head was “It must be Morris.” Even then, I still believed it could be him. Morris had become my god. He was omnipotent and omnipresent. Months later, he was still inside me.
I rolled over to my side and vomited. I vomited the day, which consisted mostly of a muffin I’d had for breakfast and water. On the crumbly, dirty sidewalk, I returned whatever was in my stomach, and probably a bit more. My hurling turned to dry heaves. I was too mangled to move, too shattered to stir. I had to lie there as my expulsion leached its way across the pavement and toward me, weaving its way into my hair a
nd skin.
I had officially hit rock bottom. I viewed my freedom, the alleyway opening, sideways. In the opening, a shadow of a man appeared. Inwardly I groaned. Was this horrible night not over? Had another demon appeared to finish me off?
The moon above was growing bigger, like it was coming for me. I felt like I was joining the sky. The clouds parted, showing the full, red face of the moon. Copper-colored, like blood after it had dried. Or maybe I was just seeing the blood that had spilled from my own head.
Slowly the shadow advanced. I gasped when I finally saw who it was. “Law?”
Law picked me up and carried me down the street. I coughed, blood seeping down my chin. My vision started to swirl. I felt lightheaded, drugged, and dreamy. I wasn’t sure if I was talking or thinking, but the sentiment was the same. “I think you might’ve been one of the good guys…”
I felt warm, despite the freezing air around me. The edges around my eyes were growing fuzzy and black. Everything was either all black or blackening. I could only feel, feel as Law’s warmth disappeared when he lay me down in what I assumed was a car.
“Nami?” Law asked, his voice betraying concern. “Nami hang in there.” I knew I should probably be fighting the warm feeling that was engulfing me. I knew that, but part of me was so sick of fighting. It would be so easy to give in. When the car started and I felt the engine rumble against my skin, I was so ready to float away, to let go of everything, even if that meant letting go of me.
“Nami what the fuck happened?” I barely registered his voice.
“Were you one of the good guys, Law?” I murmured, sinking farther into the warmth of the car.
