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Jacob makes some noise behind me.
“Easy, dude,” Knox snaps. “Don’t be a dick.”
I giggle.
“Now, Melody,” Jacob says. His voice floats over my head. “I need you to stay very still.”
“Maybe you should put your head down,” Knox suggests.
He pulls my arm up and folds it on the table, then guilds me forward so my forehead rests on the bend. I breathe in slowly as fear takes over.
Is this a mistake?
But then Jacob’s hand is on my shoulder, his fingers digging in and loosening the muscles. “It’s going to hurt, songbird.”
“I know.” I shut my eyes.
“Squeeze my hand.” Knox’s fingers slip into my hand. “Try to break it, I dare you.”
Well, fine. I grip it, making some noise under my breath.
This is fine. Everything is f—
Ouch.
I bite my tongue. It’s an involuntary thing. Habit from when I was a teenager and Dad was in one of his rages. Back then, most of his violence was all manipulative, emotional damage. It wasn’t until he struck me when I was seventeen that I realized I should do something about it.
And now the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, and I’m reminded of every horrible thing my mother ever said to defend him. How she fed off his bad mood—especially if it was taken out on her—and amplified it in my direction.
Picking at my clothes.
My weight.
Forcing me on a scale or wrapping a measuring tape around my waist.
Withholding food, even.
The endless battle of a mother against her fat child.
Something warm trickles down my neck and onto my arm. It matches the tears that fall from my eyes to the table, dripping off my eyelashes. The pain in my neck spikes. I taste blood on my lips, and I grip Knox’s hand so hard it does feel like I might break it.
And then the pain eases.
Still there, still aching. Something clacks against the table beside my arm.
Hot new pain replaces the old. A stab, a dragging sensation.
“Almost done,” Jacob says. “You’re doing so good.”
It would be worse if I was sober.
But the stitching grows, and the vodka welcomes me into the darkness. My hold on Knox’s hand loosens.
And off I go.
63
JACOB
