Four Score

Five

Jase’s hair is still damp, his arm straight as a rod as he holds his aim steady. Neither of them have lowered their weapons, but Elliot has taken his ski mask off, and he looks pissed.

His jaw bunches as he looks from Jase to me, the bitter assumption in his eyes as clear as day. We’re both freshly showered and I’m wearing Jase’s clothes. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he thinks we’ve been doing. And it couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Well,” Elliot begins—

“Don’t start,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t even start.”

Some of the bitterness fades, but he doesn’t lower his gun.

“The cop himself.” Jase sneers over my shoulder as my gaze darts between the two. “Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you right here where you stand. You’d shoot me dead the first chance you got.”

“Give me your guns,” I say forcefully, holding my palms flat between the two of them. “Or you’re both going to end up shooting through me to get to each other.”

They both seem to think that over as the moments drag by painfully.

“We all have a common interest,” I press. “Making sure Dornan doesn’t hurt anybody else.”

Elliot snickers, slapping his gun into my left palm. He doesn’t let go, though, not until Jase reluctantly does the same.

“I think you’ll find the common interest is you,” Elliot says scathingly, letting me take the gun from his hand. Jase also lets me have his gun and I immediately locate the unloading mechanism for each one, sending two bullet magazines crashing to the floor and rendering the weapons useless. Tossing them onto the couch, I round on the two men who I have loved more than anything else in the world at varying stages in my life. Them, and my father.

Did he suffer?

No.

You’re not a very good liar.

My heart aches.

I pull out my own gun, the only one that’s useful at this point, and gesture for both of them to sit down on the couch.

“Take a seat, boys. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Jase looks at me incredulously. “You’ve got to be fucking with me, right?”

Elliot mumbles something under his breath.

“Pardon?” I ask him, my nerves fraying and my ears pounding.

He shoots me a shithead smile and repeats loudly, “I said, that’s what it looks like.”

“Looks like what?” I ask, suddenly irritated by the both of them.

“Like you’re fucking with me,” Jase says, looking bored as he takes a seat on the far end of the couch. “I think lover boy is a little jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Elliot shoots back, still seemingly reluctant to sit down anywhere near Jase.

“Dude, you are so fucking jealous,” Jase says. “Don’t worry. I haven’t touched her. My dad has, though.” He glares at me and something painful socks me in the chest as I try to put myself in his shoes.

I am so screwed up.

“So,” Jase says, propping his feet on the coffee table. “You’re a cop, huh?”

“Ex-cop,” Elliot bites back, hovering at the opposite end of the couch.

“Right,” Jase sneers, obviously not believing him. “Whatever. What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

Elliot’s fists squeeze tight. “El,” I say softly, a warning and a plea in one.

“I’m making sure you’re not killing my girl.”

Jase laughs bitterly, looking at me. “So he is your boyfriend.”

Irritated, I stare at Elliot. “Ex,” I say forcefully. “He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

“Huh,” Jase replies. “Did he think you were dead for six years, too? Or is that a special hell reserved just for me?”

That pain again, squeezing at my chest like a viper around my cold, dead heart. Oh, Jesus. This is so hard. Jase’s face is full of anger and hurt and I just want to take it all away, but I can’t.

I just seem to make it worse.

“I’m the one who saved her from your fucked-up family,” Elliot interjects forcefully, staring Jase down. Jase rises from his spot on the couch and the two face off, fists curled tight, eyes burning.

“Couldn’t stop her from coming back, though, could you, lover boy?” Jase retorts. They’re rapidly closing the gap between them, pulled together by some magnetic rage that is commanding them to take each other’s heads off.

“Stop!” I scream.

They both look at me like they’ve momentarily forgotten that I’m here.

“Please,” I implore. “Please can we just talk instead of all of this macho crap?”

Jase cocks an eyebrow but takes a step back from Elliot. “You’ve just killed four people, and now you want to sit down and talk?”

“Guy has a point,” Elliot says, rubbing his jaw. “You’re kind of bossy.”

“Extremely bossy,” Jase agrees, taking up his spot on the couch.

“Well,” I say sarcastically, a fake smile plastered onto my face. “Aren’t you two just best friends all of a sudden?”

Elliot laughs bitterly and perches on the other end of the couch, on the arm, as far away as he can get from Jase yet still technically sitting down. I fight the urge to roll my eyes and instead park my butt on the coffee table, my feet resting on the edge of the couch. I’m facing both of them, and this way, I’ll be able to shove myself in between them if another pissing contest gets out of hand. They’re both still clearly on high alert, but at least they aren’t throwing punches. For now.

I bite my lip as I stare at the back of the couch, trying to think of the best tack to take.

“You’re awfully quiet for a girl who wants to talk,” Jase says.

I swivel my gaze to him. “Just trying to find the right words, is all.”

“How’d you know it was her?” Elliot asks Jase suddenly, talking straight past me as if I don’t exist.

“You got a phone call,” I say suddenly, sitting up straighter. “Who was it? Do they know who I am?”

Jase puts his hands out in front of him, clearly annoyed by the barrage of questions. “Whoa. You’ve been dead for six years, and now you’re back fucking my dad, and you’re interrogating me?”

I slump again. He’s right.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“I had a friend look into some things. Into you, actually,” he says, looking at Elliot. “The trail led to that night at the hospital where Juliette supposedly died.”

Elliot’s eyebrows rise impossibly high. “So, based on that, you figured out who she was? That seems like a pretty fucking big leap.”

Jase’s jaw tightens and he appears to be gathering his thoughts.

“I didn’t mean to look,” he says, his cheeks flushing ever so slightly. He ignores Elliot and instead addresses me directly. “That night when my dad … stabbed you.”

Elliot sucks in a loud breath when Jase says stabbed and I hold my index finger up to him, motioning him to stay silent. He still doesn’t know about that night when Dornan tied me up and stuck his face between my legs before deciding to plunge a knife into my thigh.

Well. He does now.

“You were … hurt,” Jase continues, “and your clothes had blood all over them. I swear, I wasn’t trying to find anything … but I saw your tattoo … and for a second there, I thought I saw what it was hiding.”

Of course. My scars. I’ll never be rid of them.

“It was just a second, you know?” Jase says, his voice close to breaking. “I told myself it was nothing. That I was just imagining things. You were dead! And you don’t look like you. I made myself forget about it. And then when I got that call … I had to look again. I had to know.”

His face is lined with our horrid past. “You’ve been right under my nose this whole time.”

I don’t know how much longer I can hold myself together. I’m cracking, breaking under my deceit. What does he think of me?

God, he must hate me so much for the things I’ve done.

Elliot breaks the thick tension by adding some more of his own.

“She’s been under your nose for a few months. Your father and your brothers? They’ve been under your nose for six fucking years. And you haven’t tried to get away? You haven’t tried to kill any of them? After what they did to her? After what they put inside her?”

Jase’s face pales at the same time that my head whips around, my pleading gaze meeting Elliot’s. “El, don’t,” I say, panic bubbling up into my throat. “Not that.”

Elliot stands. “I held her hand while they fucking raped her all over again!” He’s got tears in his eyes and Jase is staring at us with his mouth open, gasping like a goldfish.

“What is he saying, Julz?” Jase says, his skin suddenly the color of a sack of flour. Drained, devoid of any color, warmth or energy.

“She was fucking pregnant because of what they did!” Elliot yells, pointing at me while he addresses Jase.

Jase chokes a little, his eyes bulging. “Julz, talk to me. I don’t want him telling me this shit. Talk to me.”

I shrug, the weight of the cold gun heavy in my hand. “What do you want me to say?” I ask softly. “He’s not lying. It happened. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jase mumbles in disbelief, echoing my words. “Of course it matters. I asked you to tell me everything. What else haven’t you told me?”

And now you’re back fucking my dad.

“Nothing,” I say numbly. “I was pregnant, I had an abortion. And then I wasn’t pregnant anymore.”

Jase covers his face with his hands; he’s shaking with rage.

“It was a long time ago,” I say softly. “There’s nothing you could have done about it.”

I watch, fascinated and sick, as Jase reaches for a vase on the coffee table and throws it as hard as he can at the wall, where it shatters into a million tiny pieces that rain down onto the sofa.

Elliot and I both jump at the same time as the vase impacts the wall, but Jase is oblivious. He’s so upset. He’s shaking. Violently. He looks like The Incredible Hulk right before he hulks out, and I hope he doesn’t keep hulk-smashing everything in sight.

I turn so I can keep one eye on Jase and one eye on El.

“You didn’t have to bring that up,” I mutter, my tone like a sulky child. “That was low, Elliot.”

“Shut up,” Elliot says loudly, and I’m taken aback. I don’t think he’s ever told me to shut up. “This isn’t a fucking joke, Juliette. You want him on your side? Fine. But that’s his father. His brothers. You’d better make damn sure you convince him how much they deserve to suffer. You think he’s on your side? Who’s to say he isn’t about to call them right now and tell them the truth?”

Jase seems to grow taller, his entire body tightly coiled and ready to strike. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he yells, storming Elliot. Elliot holds his ground so that the two face off, centimeters separating their contorted faces. I take a step back, overwhelmed by the two men in front of me. It’s frightening how much they both mean to me. And all they want to do is destroy each other.

That damn pain again, crushing my heart with its vice-like grip. I can’t bear it much more. For a moment I wish I didn’t feel anything for them, because it would be easier that way—but then I really, truly would have nobody on the planet. I’d be completely alone.

They’re both yelling, a tense exchange, and that familiar ring starts in my ears again. Just make it stop. I’m so tired.

A hand clamps onto my shoulders, Elliot’s hand, and he shakes me slightly as he points to Jase. “You can’t trust these people! They tried to kill you, Julz!”

I stare daggers at Elliot and open my mouth to reply, but Jase gets in first.

“I tried to save her,” he growls, his index finger jabbing into Elliot’s chest. “You weren’t there. What do you know?”

Elliot sneers, looking from Jase to me. “He’s Dornan’s son,” he spits, knocking Jase’s hand away from his chest with a swipe of his own hand.

Jase roars, tackling Elliot to the ground, where the two grapple and fight to overpower each other. Jase straddles Elliot and punches him square in the nose, and Elliot responds by somehow reaching up and getting Jase in some sort of reverse headlock that I can’t quite figure out. They’re pretty evenly matched in height, strength, technique—and anger.

And love for me, I realize sadly.

“You’ve got Dornan’s blood in your veins,” Elliot taunts Jase, as the two grapple. Elliot lands a punch on Jase’s cheek, and Jase follows that up with a swift chop to Elliot’s throat that leaves him gasping and choking for air.

“Stop,” I plead, standing over the two of them as Elliot again manages to overpower Jase momentarily, sitting on his chest and giving him another hit to the face. Jase’s face is cut and bleeding, which only spurs Elliot further.

“Elliot!” I scream, grabbing at his arms as he continues to pummel Jase, who by now is starting to slow. Elliot’s hits are becoming sloppy and unfocused, his only aim to make Jase’s face look like hamburger meat.

I take a step back and charge forward, all of my weight focused on my hands. I lunge for Elliot, aiming to knock him off Jase or at least get in between the two before he beats him to death.

It works, even though I’m probably half his weight and size. Determination and gravity work in my favor, and soon I’m straddling him. I hit my knee on the side of the glass coffee table as we both fall awkwardly between the sofa and the table, and it makes my eyes water.

Oh well. At least my face doesn’t look like a scalpel attacked it.

I’m kind of surprised, to be honest, that Elliot overpowered Jase. I always imagined it’d be the other way around. That El would be too nice and would hold back his full strength in a fight like that. Obviously not. He gave everything for me back then and he’s just given it all again here, tonight.

He sits up, clearly displeased, a hand curled tightly around each of my arms as he tosses me sideways off him and onto the couch. He staggers to his feet, just in time for both of us to hear the deafening click of a gun being cocked. Fuck.

Jase stands before us, his arm shaking, his face almost unrecognizable. One eye is swollen half shut, there’s blood coming from his nose, and the entire left side of his face is littered with cuts and swelling.

Oh yeah, and that shaking arm leads to a hand, holding a gun. The gun I was in charge of. Double fuck.

“Get up,” Jase commands, and Elliot rises to his feet swiftly, keeping his hands in full view.

“Really? You’re pointing that at my dick?” Elliot’s voice is still taunting and bitter, even when he’s in danger of being shot.

“Put the gun down,” I say to Jase, wriggling to the edge of the couch, where I stand, planting myself firmly between the two again. Jase ignores my request, instead aiming over my shoulder, at Elliot’s head.

“Jason!” I yell, trying to make eye contact with him. He remains steadfastly locked on Elliot’s forehead, the two shooting each other daggers so poisonous, that if looks could kill they’d both be dead already.

“Don’t aim at his head!” I yell, the words coming out wrong. Jase sneers, blood smeared across his teeth. A horrible shiver passes from the top of my spine to the soles of my feet as an image of Dornan biting my breast and drawing blood swims in my vision.

“If you move out of the way, I’ll point it back at his dick,” Jase offers sarcastically. “Your call.”

I stay put.

Jase shakes his head. “You don’t come into my house and tell me whose son I am. I’m NOTHING like that motherfucker.”

“What I want to know is why haven’t you killed him yet?” Elliot’s acting like he has the upper hand, when he’s the one who’s about to get his brains painted all over the wall behind him. Jase’s expression drops when he hears Elliot’s question.

“It’s none of your business,” he says through clenched teeth. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m the guy who saved the girl. The girl who would have died if it was left up to you,” Elliot spits, and I feel like I’ve been punched.

“Elliot!” I yell, rounding on him.

“Get out of my house,” Jase says, deathly calm. Too calm. “I won’t tell you again.”

Elliot throws a disgusted glance at Jase. “His brothers were waiting in the hospital corridor to murder you, Juliette. Don’t you remember?”

“Of course I remember!” I snap, tears filling my eyes. A rock forms in my throat that hurts to talk around.

“We need to leave,” Elliot says, taking my wrist. To the surprise of all three of us, I snatch it away. “Julz!”

I shake my head. “I’m not leaving, El. I’m sorry.”

The shock on his face is outweighed by the hurt. His cocky sneer falls away, replaced by a look of absolute heartbreak that makes me wish for the sneer again.

“Julz,” he pleads, gentler this time. His eyes wide, imploring me. I sob as he draws me close to him, tilting my chin so I’m looking up into his stricken face. “Don’t do this. Don’t go back to this life you fought so hard to flee.”

Love fights a bloody duel within my heart, and I’m torn between darkness and light, the pain a real and living thing. I shake my head, rising onto my tiptoes to brush my lips against Elliot’s smooth, but battered cheek. Then I push him away, even as the places he was touching me burn without his contact. Even as I know that he might not forgive me for this.

“Go,” I say, motioning to the front door.

He doesn’t move.

“Go!” I yell, more forcefully this time. I’ve broken his heart for real this time, I can tell. His eyes tell me everything: his sorrow, his pain, his rage. All there for me to behold.

Finally, he seems to come to a snap decision. He pushes past me, stopping briefly to grab his unloaded revolver and magazine from the coffee table. He shoves both into his pocket and then corners Jase, who doesn’t seem to mind being cornered, since he’s the one with the gun that works.

“I’m watching you,” he says menacingly, one finger pointed at Jase’s bloodied face.

Jase grins. “I’ve already been watching you,” he replies. “Next time you come into my house, you’re a dead man.”

Elliot storms out, slamming the door behind him for good measure. As soon as he’s gone, I start to panic.

Oh my God. What have I done? I just sent him away after everything we’ve been through? What kind of horrible, selfish bitch does that make me? He saved my life. He gave up his life and his career so that I’d be safe, and he came here tonight thinking that I was in danger … and all I did was hurt him even more and send him away?

It’s not right. It’s beyond wrong. I rush to the kitchen and grab my iPhone in one hand, the battery in the other, trying to stick the battery back in so I can call El and make sure he’s all right. I briefly consider following him, but I also can’t leave Jase here alone, his face completely messed up and with the weight of my secrets weighing upon him.

Torn between these two men. Six years, and nothing has changed, except now they both know I’m alive instead of one thinking I’m dead.

I’m fumbling with the stupid phone when I hear Jase behind me. I turn to face him, dropping the phone and rushing to him as he sways on his feet.

I wonder how long it’s been since he slept. Since he ate. He’s always asking about me, worrying about me eating and resting and if I’m hurt, and I just keep taking and taking without giving anything back. I loathe myself for it.

“Six years,” he says sadly, his dark brown eyes glassy and bloodshot, one half concealed by a swollen eyelid. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you call me?”

I don’t have an answer, except the one I carry with me everywhere. My answer to everything.

“I was afraid.”

He shrugs me off and hauls himself over to the refrigerator, yanking the freezer door open. He takes something out and kicks the door with his black boot. As it swings shut I glimpse a bag of peas in one of his hands, a bottle of vodka in the other.

I continue watching as he takes two steps and leans his back against the counter, sliding down to end up in a sitting position on the floor below the sink. I tilt my head, unable to take my eyes away from him, when I spy the roll of paper towels on the counter.

Yes. I should clean his face up. He’d do that for me. He’s done it for me plenty of times.

I step over and grab the roll of paper towels, stopping in front of where Jase is sitting, blocking me from the sink. I lean across the bench, wetting a thick wad of paper napkin, and then drop to my haunches beside him.

He’s not really paying attention to me, with the bag of peas obscuring his vision in one eye, and the other firmly planted on the vodka in his hand. So when I press the cold, wet towel to his cheek, he jerks back, dropping the peas into his lap.

“Sorry,” I whisper. He eyes me warily before nodding, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the cabinet door.

I take his nod and stillness as an invitation to continue, so I gently dab the blood from his face. Some of it has dried already, and I have to hold the towel in place until it dissipates. The thin material quickly becomes soaked in various shades of red, and I have to get fresh supplies several times before I’m finished.

Finally, I sit back on my heels, satisfied that I’ve done as much as I can. I notice Jase’s dark grey shirt, spattered down the front with his own blood, and probably Elliot’s as well. I reach out again with the last paper towel, intending to blot the blood from his shirt, when Jase’s hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist.

Our eyes meet, and I shiver involuntarily. His hand is like ice. Then I remember he’s been holding frozen peas to his face, and his freezing cold skin makes sense.

“He was going to kill me,” Jase says, referring to Elliot.

I shake my head. “He wasn’t.”

“He can’t come back here. Ever.”

I nod. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was going to be here.”

Jase raises his eyebrows. “Well, how the hell did he know you were here?”

I point reluctantly at my phone. “GPS.”

Jase’s eyebrows practically hit the roof. He puts the bottle down and gets to his feet, grabbing the phone.

He smashes it against the hard edge of the bench, sending pieces of glass and plastic everywhere. Great. First the vase, now the phone? We’re going to be stepping on glass for the next week.

If he even wants me to stay here, that is.

Jase slumps back to the ground, apparently not bothered about the mess, and resumes swigging from his vodka bottle. I stare into space, wondering what comes next.

I’m too tired to cry. Too shocked by Elliot’s sudden arrival and subsequent departure. My thoughts are whirling.

I’ve never been a smoker, and not much of a drinker, but if someone offered me a cigarette and a bottle of wine right now, I’d light up and suck that cancer stick in between drinking straight from the bottle. Then I remember sucking Dornan’s dick while he blew smoke down at me, and suddenly that craving vanishes.

Alcohol would be most welcome right now, though.

Jase seems to read my mind; well, kind of. He holds the vodka bottle in front of my face and waves it half-heartedly. Nice.

“I need ice if I’m drinking vodka,” I say, and sidestep the broken glass to the freezer. I grab two glasses and fill them with ice, returning to sit next to Jase on the floor.

He fills both glasses straight away and pushes one in front of me, where I watch the condensation form beads and then run down the sides of the frosted glass. Beside me, Jase’s ice clinks as he drains his glass in one mouthful.

I turn my head so that I can see him, my ear resting against the kitchen cabinet, as he pours a second drink.

“You shouldn’t write yourself off,” I say, pleased at only a small amount of ringing in my ears. “Someone else might abseil into your balcony.”

Jase gives me a sidelong glance, swishing the ice cubes around in his glass so they clink against the sides. “Why, got another boyfriend tracking your cell phone GPS?”

I roll my eyes. “Ex-boyfriend. And no. No more.”

Jase appears to be in deep thought for a while before he speaks next. Watching him, the way his mouth sometimes twitches when he’s in deep thought and the lines that appear and disappear on his forehead, I’m suddenly mesmerized by his presence. Finally. I’m here with him. Not as Sammi. But just as me. Just as us.

Whatever fucked-up “us” that may be.

Suddenly, I feel very, very lucky, and very, very happy to be alive. The feeling cuts deep into my chest, physical pain that makes me tremble. I haven’t felt lucky to be alive in such a long time.

I’ve just been existing for six years. This … this is so much better.

Jase glances at me again as he finishes the second drink and slaps it down on the floor between us. He doesn’t move to get a third.

“He really faked your death, huh?”

I nod.

“Left his job … packed up his life, and moved to Shitsville to keep you safe?”

I nod again. “Yep.”

“What did he ask in return?” Jase’s question has a dangerous edge to it.

“What?”

Jase scoops up my untouched drink and gulps it down in three seconds flat, slamming it back onto the floor.

“What was the payoff for him? What’d you have to do?”

I sit up straight, frowning. “Nothing.”

He’s talking about our relationship. I clear my throat. “Look,” I say. “I pestered him for a very long time before he’d even be in the same room alone with me. It’s not what you think. I loved him.”

Jase snorts. “Falling in love with your captor, huh?”

I bristle angrily. “He’s a good man. He gave up everything for me. His career. His future. His safety. Everything. And you know how I repaid him? I waited until he went to work at his shitty job he got to support us, and I tried to gas myself in his fucking garage.” Tears of rage and humiliation burn my eyes and slip onto my cheeks where I swat them away. Jase’s face has changed from annoyed to churlish, and he tries to take my hand, his thumb rubbing the slightly raised flesh at my wrist. He’s never noticed it before, but now he pulls it closer and studies the scar tissue that marked yet another unsuccessful suicide attempt made many years ago.

“I didn’t realize,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

I take my hand away and wipe my cheeks, pulling my knees up, and hugging them to my chest.

“You don’t need to be sorry for anything,” I mumble, shaking my head. “Just don’t talk about him like that, okay? If not for him, I really would be dead.”

“Well,” Jase says, his entire demeanor gentler and more cautious as he continues to glance at my wrists. “I suppose I should be thanking him, then.”

I smile sadly.

“I mean, I won’t thank him,” Jase adds quickly. “That fucker wants to kill me. But for you. That was a good thing he did.”

“Yeah,” I say sheepishly. “Well, he knows how I feel—” I catch my faux pas — “felt about you. It’s the reason he broke up with me.”

Jase’s eyes light up at that, his eyebrows practically touching the ceiling above us. “He broke up with you because of me?”

“I kept calling out your name in bed,” I explain. Jase laughs a low, throaty sound that makes me blush as I realize what I’ve just said. “Not like that.”

Jase is still laughing and choking on a mouthful of vodka at the same time. “Are you sure?” he manages in between laughing and coughing.

I roll my eyes. “Nightmares, Jason. Not the other thing.”

His smile vanishes and he straightens again, any bit of humor or lightness completely wiped from his face. Idiot! I fervently wish I hadn’t said what I said.

“Aw, fuck,” he says, frowning again. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry,” I admonish him with a small smile, trying to diffuse the tension that’s once again settled on us like a pillow held forcefully to the face. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Only me, and my lies on top of more lies.

He doesn’t seem convinced. “I do.”

I shake my head. “No, you don’t. You almost got killed by your own family trying to save me. There’s no shame in that.”

There it is again. We’ve been dancing around that day, that day when I almost died, that afternoon of horror and pain.

“I should have fought harder,” he said, his shoulders slumping. “I go over it in my head all the time, you know. I could have taken the gun and shot him. I could have gotten us out somehow.”

I place a steady hand on his knee. He’s wearing thick denim jeans, but I can still feel the warmth of his skin radiating underneath.

“There was nothing either of us could have done differently.” It’s taken me years and many breakdowns to realize that neither of us were to blame for what Dornan orchestrated that day. I’ll forever regret that I couldn’t somehow save my father and the woman he loved, but I forgave myself for being powerless in the wake of our collective destruction around the same time that the doctor was sucking the remnants of a product of rape from my womb.

I’m momentarily transported back to the past, to the moment the mask was lifted from my face a little under six years ago, the moment the doctor smiled underneath her surgical mask and told me it was done. I’d been emptied of their sins, painfully absolved, but it was still many years before I’d been filled again with the hope of my vengeance against them.

So when Jase clamps his grip on my hand and squeezes tightly, it’s almost as if I’m falling, tumbling back into the present to sit beside him, my hand at his knee, an angry film covering each of his eyes.

“I should have killed them all the first chance I got,” he says, his face twisted into a mask of rage and pain.

I lean forward, placing my hand on his hot cheek, and when he doesn’t recoil, I smile.

“There’s still time,” I whisper softly, to the first boy I ever loved.