Michael

She drifts off into a light sleep and I watch a sheen of sweat glisten on her forehead. My forearm stings under the bandage. I wanted to hurt her with all my heart, to make her shut up and stop her ludicrous ramblings. Yet I couldn’t, not without becoming a greater torturer. So instead I slid my knife down my arm, hoping it would help. It did. The pain took the edge off in an instant and, as I watched the blood run down my arm, fury and the impulse to kill drifted away.

Do I wait till her fever breaks or should I get her some antibiotics or something? Do I offer her water, food? She’s delirious to the point she made a move on me in the middle of the night and proceeded to affirm she liked my lips in the morning. I wish I was awake enough not to instantly kiss her back. I even put my hand on her face, innately returning the gesture of desire. It can’t happen again.

I decide to stay in the motel rather than drag her with me somewhere I’m not even sure of going. We sleep through the whole day until she starts murmuring and calling out in her sleep. I ignore her until she wakes and sits up, shallow breaths escaping her lips.

“Bad dream?” I turn on a lampshade by the bed, wondering if I should force her to lie down. She coughs and wipes her hand over her clammy face, then looks around with a wide-eyed stare. “What is it?”

“The men,” she says, her voice flat. “Here to take me.”

“No one is here, freckles. I checked.” The sharp angle of the light accentuates every sweat-soaked detail on her body; her damp shirt, face, arms.

“You’re one of them…were. In my dream. Are. I guess.” Her glassy eyes stray away into the dark.

I can’t take it anymore. I sit and, despite myself, lay a hand on her shoulder. “Just rest for now.”

“How can I rest when I know I might get a bag put on my head?”

“It’s not gonna happen. I… I’ll keep you safe. You can rest.”

She frowns with a slight tilt of her head. “But you want me dead.”

Yes, I do. I wish she dissolved into the thin air and left me the hell alone. And then I don’t, because she was right when she said I might meet someone like her again, because I’m wanted by my gang either way, whether she lives or dies. “I won’t give you away to those men.”

She scrunches her face, lips pursed and a deep crease between her brows. Slow shock slithers into her face as the gears in her brain begin spinning. “You mean I’m not going to die?”

I feel my hand clutch her shoulder and my whole body tense in protest to my answer. “No. But—” She leaps from the bed and lists to the side till she rams into the wall, heaving. “Take it easy—”

“Are you serious?” She calls out, blinking with a surge of clarity. “Or is it some kind of a sick joke?”

I don’t know. “I’m serious.”

She lets out a trembling exhale as she props her hands on her knees, head down. “Oh, I feel faint.” But glimpses of a smile escape her lips. “God, I get to go home. Get to be happy.”

“Home won’t be safer—”

“Don’t ruin the moment.” She lifts her hand, ordering me to shut up.

She refuses the reality to live the dreamy picture she paints in her head.

My perception shifts.

I jump from the bed. I grab her shoulders and, deaf to her call of alarm, ram her into the wall. “How are you so blind? Can you not see what’s real, you idiot!”

“What are—”

My hand slides to her neck, squeezing it. “The fucking pain your damn dreams bring to others! To yourself! So you go back and you pretend that all is fine, that you can go on and reach for your happiness when everything around you is falling apart! It doesn’t work like that!” Her nails dig into my forearm, nothing but a scratch. She kicks me in the knee and another surge of rage fully blinds my already clouded mind. Why won’t she listen when I’m trying to explain things to her? Fucking brat!

“Listen!” I feel my fingers curl stronger. “You go and dream, and when it turns bad you wonder why it is how it is, but you don’t do shit about it, because you’re somewhere far away in your dreams! God, you’re driving me mad!” I chuckle at the words I started using. “God? There’s no God! No one will give you the things you want! No one up there listens!”

Her hands slip from my forearm, falling to her sides, and the flutter of her eyelids brings me back. Awareness soars into my mind, and my hand, crushing her neck.

I jerk away faster than I realize what I’ve done. She succumbs to the ground, half-conscious.

My whole body pounding, itching with fury, I pivot away and pull out my knife. I press the blade against my skin and cut, savoring and hating every second of pain that absorbs the anger like a sponge.

“So that’s what it is.” I hear her choked voice. “You kill people who want things, want happiness. Who, according to you, don’t live ‘in the reality’.”

“Shut up, freckles, I’m begging you,” I let out, only now understanding that I fucking hurt her. Again. I almost strangled her.

My legs shivering, I lower myself to the ground by the bed, blood from my forearm smearing the linoleum floor. Facing each other we cross our eyes briefly.

“Beg again,” she says, words not vengeful but rather like a soft prod.

“Please,” I utter. “If you keep talking, I’ll hurt you before your fever ends. So please, shut up. Not about what you want or wish for, or how good it’s gonna be when you get there.”

With a smothered cough she nods. “Okay. I get you, you know.”

I press my palm against my wound and let out a dismissive snarl. “How can you get me, freckles?”

“I almost killed you too, remember?” She says. “And at that moment, all I felt was rage, shock, panic, pain.” She looks at me with sympathy so deep it makes me uncomfortable. “You feel that too. Deep inside.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

I roll my eyes.

“Why are you crying then?”

Only now do I feel a single tear run down my cheek and wipe it with my fingers. “There’s something in my eye.”

She suppresses a laugh with a lopsided smile and props on her elbow. “Really?” She coughs again, a sound that makes me shiver, and clears her throat before she speaks. “You’re going with that excuse?”

I feel like I’m drowning, like I’m lost somewhere deep in an endless ocean without any idea of where the surface is, not even sure I want to reach it.

“You know what?” She shrugs. “Let’s not talk for like two days while we rest. A peace treaty, okay? We don’t talk and don’t try to kill each other, rest up and decide what to do after.”

I hesitantly nod.

“Do we have enough money till then?”

I tip my chin again.

“Good,” she utters, straining to get up. Then straining some more with no results. “You have to help me.”

I recoil, not trusting myself to the job. “No.”

She looks at me. “I’ll tear my stitches if I crawl.”

I turn my head away.

“I understand it’s harder to do what you’re not used to, Mike. But you hurt me, have the decency to fix what you did.”

I continue looking to the side, afraid to face her, avoiding anything and everything to do with the violence I created and the guilt that follows it.

To give myself some room I turn to the bathroom. “Michael!” She calls after me. “Help?”

I shut the door and wash my forearm, then bandage it, focusing on the action and not the thoughts in my head.

I hurt her. I hurt her…

When I exit I find her in the same spot, sitting.

“Come on, Mike, it’s not that hard.” She meets me with soft words. “I didn’t hurt you that much when I was angry and I sure won’t if you help me. You did already, once or twice.”

“Out of need,” I murmur. “Not free will.”

She squints. “I could force you, you know. But I won’t.” Her words reach me and so does the fact that she has way more power over me than I’d like her to. All she would have to say is torturer to make me help her. And I can’t do anything about it, which makes it worse. This ginger knows my deepest secrets better than anyone ever has.

“It’s just decency, fix what you did,” she utters, her head hanging low on her chest. “Oh, I’m so tired.” She slumps back on her side. “I’ll just sleep here.”

Inwardly fighting to recognize my defeat I force my feet forward. I wrap my arms around her, helping her to her feet.

“Thank you,” she bites out. “I know you said you won’t hurt me, but I get why you do.”

I scoop her up and carry her to the bed, silent.

“By the way, you can still protect me,” she pipes as I cover her with a blanket.

Though now gentle she’s still talking. “The peace treaty, freckles. No talking,” I remind her as I flop onto the bed and turn away to the wall.

“I’m saying it since you tortured me so much I can hardly do anything. You might as well protect me.”

I can’t form an answer, nor can I stop the fucking tears from rolling down to my pillow.

…

The two days of silence are a blessing to say the least. For all our faults we manage to keep quiet and it’s easier for me to care for her. Her fever rises, and so does my pain as I keep watching over her.

“Ugh,” she grunts. “I stink.” She hasn’t had a proper shower in three days.

Come to think of it a shower would be useful, to let her sweat-clogged body breathe and get rid of the toxins. Back in our gang Carl always put great importance on showering, since we gangers rarely did. He said it helps and all. And I do need her to heal faster so we can get back on the road again, or at least sleep in a car, that way saving cash.

I stand from the bed. “You need to shower.” She needs to re-bind her side too. I haven’t checked that wound in two days. I probably should’ve.

She groans for an answer and keeps lying curled until I pull the cover off of her. “Come on, freckles.” She moans again, persisting, and I tighten my lips, then shove my arms under her and lift her.

“Fine, fine.” She strains, but I carry her to the shower, noticing how indeed sticky her skin is, and place her there. She sways but leans against the shower cabin.

“Can you manage? Your wound too?”

She bends her arms and, exerting, pulls off her t-shirt. She doesn’t look like she’s getting better, otherwise she wouldn’t undress right in front of me. “I’m going, okay?”

“Yeah.”

I slide the door close and lean against the wall by the door frame, listening. Five minutes later water starts rushing, but I wait for what must be over twenty minutes. “Are you okay?” Nothing but pouring of water. “Freckles?”

When no answer reaches me I open the door and gape when I see her curled in the shower cabin, naked and asleep. Blood stains the water. Period? No. The red stems from her side.

What if she’s not asleep? I throw open the shower doors wider and squat. Water slides down my hair and face, catching on my clothing but I don’t care as I grab her shoulder and turn her on her back. “Freckles?” I lift her head up, my fingers tangling in her wet hair.

She blinks at me, drops gathering on her eyelashes. “I… feel very… hazy. Some men were here for me, put… a bag over my head.”

“No one was here.” On top of her fever I figure she has a fit of PTSD, deepening her catatonic state. I look over her body; no other injuries except her side wound, swollen and irritated with slime around my stitches.

“Fuck.” Damning my useless medic skills I pull her out of the shower and sit on the ground, holding her. I have to get up and help her—

As I meet her face my thoughts scatter. She glares at me with a thousand-yard stare, a stare so cutting I get lost at what to do with this naked girl in my arms.

“You’re crying,” she murmurs, her eyes half-parted. She doesn’t seem to register she’s naked.

I wet my lips and cover my eyes with my palm, trying to distance myself from this situation. “It’s water.” It’s not, but at least my hair is wet from the shower so she doesn’t pressure me.

I clench my jaw tight and with effort gather the anguished pieces of myself into my everyday blank composure. “Come on. Let’s clean you up.” I raise her to her feet, then slip from my jacket and pull off my t-shirt. I help her back into the shower and grab some soap. I figure I start from the back.

I move her wet hair to the front and lower my hands on her shoulder blades.

“The men,” she mutters, looking over her shoulder.

“No one is here.” I slide my hands down her legs, my eyes strictly on my fingers. Yet, containing my mind in a bubble of decent thoughts is harder than I thought it would be and I remind myself of the current situation, of the reality. This traumatized underage ginger is not the one I’d want to touch, even if I could. Yet my restrictive thoughts confuse me. Why her? Considering the fact that she made a move on me and the amounts of women I’ve been with I figure I’d have no hesitations. Maybe it’s the whole situation… I don’t know.

When I stand she covers her breasts, starting to tremble under my touch. It lets me know she awoke enough to realize I’m bathing her. Slow with movements, I put the soap back into the holder and back out of the cabin. “Can you finish by yourself?”

She nods, or rather shakes her head rapidly a yes, as if just to get me to leave. I don’t close the door fully when I hear her cry.

When she walks out, a good while later, I’m here to help her. “You okay?”

“You scared the fuck out of me!” She calls out, leaning on the door, her wet hair dripping all over her clothing. “God, you were with me! In the shower!” She pales before the full sentence leaves her mouth.

“Yes, because I found you curled on the ground in the cabin,” I raise my brows.

She frowns. “You did?”

“Yeah.” I assume she can’t recall me crying either, which is good.

“Oh, wait, I think it’s coming back.” She cradles her head and sways back to the bed. I help her by staying close. “I had a panic attack or something.” She slides into the bed and before she turns away, I catch a red flush on her cheeks. She murmurs a set of words under her nose.

I fail to pick them apart. “What?” I lay a blanket on her.

“You held me,” she grumbles clearer. “Naked.”

“Yes, I did.” I should somehow calm her. “I did and nothing happened, right?”

Silence. I tilt my head to the side, trying to imagine how would I feel if I were a seventeen-year-old girl held naked by a man almost twice her age. “Um… I’ve seen tons of naked women before. And what matters is that nothing happened, right? I was there and helped you out.”

“The men? Did you chase them away?”

“There were no men, freckles. But I guess I chased away your illusions.”

She shifts, looking at me over her shoulder. “Did you cry?”

I gape. If I tell her I did, it’ll soothe her, but at the same time it’ll become a leverage, another tool to use against me.

“No, I did not.” Is all I give her before I stand, damning the emotions my body shows without my approval. Instead I shift to another problem— her rotting side wound.

I’m forced to spend too great a part of my money on another incognito doctor and we end up staying in a motel for five days. Even in silence they’re nothing but torture for her. And me. At the end of a fifth day I almost begin wishing to see a smile on her face, to let me know there’s something more than pain— hope, dismissal, crazy hate, joy even— anything.

But her face stays blank, no doubt a mask she learned to keep to avoid irritating me. What else is there for her to do? I attacked her when she was happy.

She’s sipping water from the plastic bottle when I sit on the corner of the bed. Her sunken eyes wander over the blind-covered window, as if imagining the world beyond the wall.

“I’ll run,” I tell her.

She lowers the bottle, failing to conceal her anxiety. “Where?”

“Canada. But I need you with me until then.”

She shifts under the sheets, straightening her legs. “Why?”

“In case Jared, my partner, finds us.”

A shadow crosses her face. “So I’ll be a distraction? A shield? Or whatever else you might need me for?”

“Yes, also an insurance because you have information you can spill to the cops at any second.” She’s valuable, she knows Jared’s face, faces of other thugs, even a few safe houses back in New York. All of it because she went snooping around after I killed her sister, and I was too slow to kill her. Then her brother learned what she knows and sent the cops after us, starting the dismantling of our small crime ring. After that I had to make sure she and her brother disappear for good. I assume Shia tried to keep her out of trouble by not telling her much about the feds he’s been involved with, but it didn’t work. She snuck into one of our major safe houses, thinking she was following Shia. But he followed her instead. It ended in a shootout during which she started a fire and booked it. So did I, after her. “And… you still might die.”

“I figured.” She takes another sip.

I lift my brow, expecting more than that. “So?”

“So what? I don’t think I have a choice, do I?” She murmurs. “So if I help you get to the border and beyond then I’ll be free, right?”

I nod. “If Jared and his criminals don’t capture you after. But it’s gonna be your problem and I won’t be involved.”

“What if I get captured prior? Will you save me?” Her words sound doubtful, as they should be.

“No.”

Though she’s probably screaming inside she maintains her expression blank. “You’re not worried I’ll rat you out?”

“That’s why I’m running.”

Bottle in her grip squeaks and the muscles in her neck tense, drawing attention to my handiwork. My breath hitches in my throat. I didn’t think I squeezed hard enough for the red marks to stay this long. Maybe she’s too delicate and too malnourished that after five days the burns are still healing? After all, I managed to send her to the ground with one slap.

“You’re a liar.” Her snappy words pull me back into the conversation. “You told me you were gonna let me go.”

“I told you I wasn’t gonna give you away. It didn’t include you being captured during or after our trip.” I take my jacket from the nightstand and dismissively throw it on. I don’t have to explain myself to her.

If I want to make my trip across the entire country to Canada I need to change vehicles, sell my wrecked car to the nearest junk yard and steal a new one. “I’ll leave for a while.”

“Where?”

“Vehicles.” I also mustn’t forget to clean up the room from all the blood and fingerprints.

She takes another sip. “Okay.”

I unzip the duffel bag and she curses, realizing what I mean. “Fucking zipties, right?”

“Right.” Her fever is mild and she’s restored some of her strength, so I have no choice but to tie her up. Properly this time.

When together with zipties I pull a white rag from the bag, she gapes, almost slamming the water bottle on the nightstand. “A gag?”

“Mhm.”

“What if I have a panic attack? I’ll suffocate.”

“You’ll pass out at worst,” I tell her. “Learn to breathe at best.”

Her chin wobbles, holding back the tears. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Her fear jabs at my chest, but I can’t leave her able to call for help. Can’t drag her with me either. “I’ll try to be quick. No one will get you here.”

She flutters her lips and sniffs. Then probably decides to save her strength and turns, placing her arms behind her back. “You better be there for me if you find me catatonic.”

“I will.”