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Violence is usual on the North Shore. We grow up surrounded by it. We see dead bodies from a young age, friends and family with bloody faces or gun wounds.
We’re victims of it ourselves. A good beating every now and then or are you even from here? The scar on my face is proof of our everyday lives.
Violence is our closest ally and biggest enemy.
But a wicked man covered in a stranger’s blood?
No, I can’t say I’ve seen that in my life.
I know Ethan is dangerous. People are scared of the things he can do. Iknow, but I never wanted to see it. I never wanted to be confronted with the reality of who he is under the weird behavior and dark tendencies.
I don’t think I have a choice now.
I get another dead smiley face band-aid before we settle around the kitchen table. It’s on my neck this time. Elliot had to take off the collar to stick the adhesive bandage to my skin.
I’m covered in Ethan’s hickeys where the leather should be. We might not have had sex this week, but he still marked me. He’ll usually wake me up by sinking his teeth into my skin.
When I sit at the table, Elliot still hasn’t put the collar back on, and it feels weird to not have the weight of it around my throat.
What started as an annoyance now feels like a reassurance I need.
Elliot sits down next to me, leaving a chair on the other side of the square table. When Ethan walks in, showered and dressed, he avoids my gaze.
Maybe it’s for the best. I’ve never been so terrified of him.
He sits down across from us.
“How are you feeling?” Elliot asks him.
I don’t doubt he couldn’t care less if he’s feelinggoodorbad. All he wants to know is if his brother is still feeling psychopathically murderous or if we’re all safe here.
Ethan refuses to reply. He puts his hands on the table, holding them together like a convict in a prison visiting room who’s not allowed to have his handcuffs taken off.
His gaze stays on his hands and mine does too. I just want to keep reassuring myself there is no bloody knife there anymore.
“Alright,” Elliot finally says. “I guess I’ll be the one fixing your shit. As usual.”
The lack of response doesn’t seem to bother him. He softly takes hold of the back of my neck, his thumb massaging behind my ear.
“Ethan and I had a…disagreement last week when you decided you wanted to sleep in his bed. Since then, he’s been desperately wanting to kill me. Instead of doing that—because I’m his brother and he loves me—last night he went out on a stroll and took out his anger on someone else. What was his name again, Ethan?”
He mumbles something, still looking at his hands.
“Sorry?”
“Mike,” he repeats louder.
My eyes automatically flick to the paper bag I dropped on the floor earlier, and my stomach twists. Is that why Ethan was at the diner in the first place?
“Right,” Elliot nods. “Anyway, that sleazebag cook from the diner who looked at your tits last time we went. Unfortunately, our little slayer is quick to murder, but not very useful when it comes to cleaning up or covering his tracks. When our boy is done, he just goes home, happy with himself. And guess who has to fix his shit every time?”
“Every time?” My lips are numb, and I don’t even feel like I’m the one talking. All I know is I can’t take my eyes off my ex-boyfriend. “H-how often does it happen?”
I’m really talking to Ethan, but Elliot is the only one who wants to answer me. “Too fucking often, if you ask me,” he snorts.
My ragged breathing worsens. “Why?”
“Why is the sky blue,” Elliot says lazily. “Why are oranges…orange?”
