ã€ŠStockholm&#x27;s Messã€‹


 Chapter 1 - Hanna

    Chapter 1

    Hanna

    I thought I had a lot of problems when my sister was murdered. Now, to my delight, I have more. When the man who murdered my dear sister kidnapped me.

    It¡¯s a long story I¡¯d run in my head over and over if my brain wasn¡¯t freezing from fear.

    Oh, I¡¯m scared. I shivered awake in this room a few minutes ago and found myself lying on a single bed imbued with dust and man sweat.

    A sour tear runs down my cheek. Yes, I¡¯m crying. Who wouldn¡¯t be?

    I remember rushing away from that abandoned complex where my encounter with a gang occurred, and where, in desperation, I started a fire. My brother covered me, giving me time to escape. I bolted, but by the time police sirens echoed over the industrial buildings it was too late.

    No one ever held me in a chokehold before. My throat burned under his iron hold as I watched smoke rise into the black sky¡­

    This sucks. I¡¯ve lost count how many times I wished it didn¡¯t. But it does.

    My sister was a part of recent murders done by one serial killer. Random men and women were killed off over a period of six months. Nothing was stolen. No other damage inflicted.

    Why am I kidnapped then? I¡¯m a negligible girl not worth anything. Just my luck.

    My stomach growls. With all the hustle I haven¡¯t had a thing in my mouth since yesterday, hadn¡¯t had a drop of water either. I¡¯m afraid if I get up my head will spin, resulting in a fall and a loud thud.

    A few minutes later the thirst wins and I wobble up. The room¡¯s as wide as the bed I lay on, and windowless.

    Running my tied hands along the dusty wall I tiptoe to the door in my worn sneakers.

    Why is it always a girl that gets kidnapped? So not fair.

    I wipe the tears from my face before I grab the knob and twist it, one part of me hoping for it to be stuck and the other begging it open. It cracks. I leap back with a yelp I didn¡¯t think would burst out my lips from the damn door opening.

    I peek into a tiny apartment. The blinds cover the windows and all the lights are off, dipping the place into the gloom.

    Looks like a suburban house.

    And I think he¡¯s gone.

    I step out into the corridor and scurry across the den to the kitchen, whisk open the fridge.

    Fucking tits! ¡°Empty? What do you eat you son of a bitch?¡± The man is muscular if anything. Yet my vision doesn¡¯t lie. The fridge is a hole to another dimension but for one soda can I don¡¯t dare to take.

    On a counter I notice an apple and my lip quivers desperately. I must¡¯ve missed it with my scattered brain. What if it¡¯s his?

    He didn¡¯t kill me, but I¡¯m too terrified to imagine what he might need me for. There are millions of options; from his insane mind twisting, to the thugs in charge of him changing their mind about keeping me alive.

    I close the fridge and lag for a moment. Why am I searching for food when the house is empty? Why am I not escaping?

    In haste I check the windows and doors. All locked. But I could easily break one, right?

    I wasn¡¯t ready to go down when he killed my sister, when he stalked me and my friends for months. I wasn¡¯t ready to go down after I had learned that my brother and he had a brief history and that both, in their early years, were heavily involved in crime.

    And I sure as hell won¡¯t go down now.

    One after the other, I swoop open a row of drawers in the kitchen. Just as a container with cutlery reveals itself the main entrance door cracks, freezing me in my spot.

    Robust steps reverberate off the creaky wood floor when he walks forward. The lights come up and I snatch the biggest kitchen knife before I hide behind the wall next to the doorframe, my breath bursting in and out.

    ¡°Put that knife down.¡± His gruff yet placid voice floats through the apartment.

    Carefully, I turn the blade in my grip and, slice after slice, cut my ropes. What do I do? I have a weapon now. I can give it a try.

    Against a man twice my size with a gun? Really? I¡¯m not very smart when I panic.

    I raise my hands up and step out, still clutching the knife.

    His gray gaze sends cold down my spine to my heels. It¡¯s his dead gaze that¡¯s taunting really, because nothing else about him would make me think he¡¯s a mass murderer. Sure as hell not his clothing, not a leather jacket half the city wears, nor black combat pants or brown boots. His face isn¡¯t distorted nor crippled either. All that¡¯s a bit off-putting are dark bags under his eyes and a few scars on his forehead I only catch when his wavy hair shifts to the side.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    His gloved hands hang peacefully at his sides, unarmed.

    I clutch the knife in front of me. God, I must try.

    He raises his brow lightly and pivots to me fully. ¡°Move aside.¡±

    Before my rational mind resists the statement my body is already in the corner, allowing him his way to the kitchen. My hands with the knife shake as he passes, inches from me. Stab him, come on, Hanna! Stab son of a bitch! Yet my fear chars away the brain links to the command attack.

    A car drives past our house. Its lights hit the curtain-covered windows and slide over the interior. People are right there behind those walls! People who could help me and who are absolutely oblivious to a damsel in distress locked in this house.

    Another car rolls by, but this time its tires screech as it comes to a stop, forcing me to turn my head and follow the sound. Did someone stop nearby?

    A huff of hope escapes me and I push off the wall¡ª

    Before I know it his tight fingers seize my upper arm and he pulls me back. I swing the knife, but he scathes my wrist.

    ¡°Hel¡ª¡± His palm cups my mouth as he presses me to the wall with his body.

    ¡°Shut up.¡± He pins my wrist at my side, squeezing it so hard my fingers release the knife.

    I tense, struggling against him. It¡¯s no use. His eyes snap to me sharply and he presses me against the wall harder. ¡°Let me listen, okay? Someone¡¯s here.¡±

    I puff a breath through my nose and we both turn our gazes to the door. Muffled steps crunch in the snow and a second later a sleazy voice breaks the silence. ¡°Michael! Are you in there?¡±

    Past his shoulder, behind the frosted window, I notice a shadow sneak outside. Two of them.

    I try to jerk my head to warn him, but all that comes out is a, ¡°mm¡± from deep within my throat. He looks at me and I widen my eyes, indicating behind him.

    The pressure on my mouth weakens, just enough for me to speak. ¡°Two of them, just rounded the house,¡± I utter, my heart thudding against my ribcage so hard I think he might feel it. ¡°Friends of yours?¡±

    A familiar click of a gun behind the door turns both our heads to the side, our breath stilling.

    The gunfire of an UZI pierces the air.

    He leaps to the kitchen and to the ground, shielding his head. With a shriek I curl in my spot, my head bowed to my chest and my hands covering my ears.

    The house creaks from the bullets, shredding the furniture and walls in their way.

    What the fuck did he do for these thugs to retaliate like this?

    The gunfire ceases as quickly as it started and somehow, before footsteps enter the house, I manage to grab the knife from the floor and stand.

    ¡°Oh, the bitch!¡± A fat man looks at me as he steps through the broken door. Uzi hangs at his side and three of his thugs follow him. They must be my kidnapper¡¯s gangmates, not so happy with him for some reason. ¡°Where is he?¡±

    I gulp, looking around for the man, but the kitchen floor is empty. ¡°He-he was there.¡± At their approach I shy away to the kitchen doorframe, clutching the knife to myself.

    A hand seizes my shoulder from behind. I yelp as Michael emerges from around the kitchen doorway and pulls me to himself, extending a gun over my shoulder.

    Thugs raise their weapons and all I manage to understand is I¡¯m being used as a shield before gunfire erupts. Two of the thugs drop and the fatty hides behind the room corner. The remaining ganger shoots at us a few times before Michael ducks behind a sofa and drops into a squat. As soon as my shoulder is free of his grip I bolt upright and blindly leap head first through a shattered window. I roll over my back and land on my belly, face planting into the snow. With a gasp I prop on my arms, knife still in one hand. Somehow I didn¡¯t stab myself.

    ¡°Stop!¡± One of the thugs approaches me, so close I can see his wrinkle wedged face. Gun in his other hand he wraps his fingers around my bicep. ¡°I got her!¡±

    Panic rolls over me and, slipping on the snow, I stab him in the belly. He gasps, firing a few shots into the snow. I stab him into abdomen again, then kick him and send him to the snowy ground with a thump. He pulls me with him. Grunting, I yank the knife out and stab him into the heart, and then again and again, as deep as my strength allows. It¡¯s not until my hands are sticky with blood do I register his unmoving face and frozen eyes, fixed in place.

    I lurch away and fall on my ass, staring at the butt of a knife stick from his blood overflowed chest.

    A voice sharpens in my mind, louder and louder. ¡°Run!¡± I jerk my eyes up at Michael, bolting toward me. ¡°Run!¡±

    Leaping up I snatch the man¡¯s gun and rush into a back yard and into a tall wood fence encircling it.

    Voices, following Michael¡¯s footsteps behind me, grow closer. My heartbeat lurches. An engine roars and tires screech and I risk a glance back. Another car pulls into the driveway. Its white lights cut around the corners of the house, highlighting the man I stabbed to death only moments ago.

    With two steps I sprint up the fence, grab the top, pull myself up and twist my body over it.

    I land on my feet on the other side, panting with sudden exertion.

    Michael lands next to me. A puff of snow mushrooms around his feet. ¡°Go! Come on.¡± I pivot away from him and lift my gun.

    He backs off and I do too, keeping my distance.

    Here¡¯s my chance. The chance I¡¯ve been waiting for.

    Breath hitches in my throat when a sharp pang travels through my side. I glance down at my abdomen. Am I¡­ am I shot?

    I straighten my gun. ¡°Don¡¯t move.¡± My hands shiver and blood stains my skin. Blood of a man I stabbed¡­

    I stabbed a man.

    I stabbed a man.

    I¡¯ve seen my sister''s dead body. I¡¯ve been dragged around by the police and the FBI, questioned, then questioned more. I¡¯ve seen photos of other victims and after all this time I¡­

    You¡¯ll get your revenge, my brother told me once.

    ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t want revenge.¡± A cloud of warm air from my mouth evaporates into the coldness. My hand with the gun shakes so bad I¡¯m not sure if I shot I¡¯d hit him. Michael stares at me from under his brows, blank.

    My hand falls to my side when flashes of what has happened occupy my head. The shootout, the blood, the dead man¡­

    Fuck revenge.

    Voices call out from behind the fence and I jerk, awakening once again. Police sirens below and I think I hear a distant roar of a helicopter.

    Before I will my awareness back into my head Michael grabs my wrist. I let him lead me away, over one fence, over another. Finally, all I do is follow his back, because I don¡¯t know where else to run. My mind is blank and all I see is my hand with a knife, jabbing the man. Again and again.

    Shock, I think people call it.

    It¡¯s not until he shoves me into his car¡¯s front passenger seat do I wake from my experience.

    I pivot in my seat, but the gun from my hand is gone and instead his weapon stares straight into my forehead. ¡°Stay,¡± he orders. ¡°Or I will shoot you.¡±

    He hurries around and subsides into the driver''s seat. Starts the car.

    ¡°Where are we going?¡± I bite out a few words. ¡°What do¡ª¡± A stab of pain halts my breathing. I shove my hand under my sweater. Shot.

    I glance at him sidelong. He doesn¡¯t seem like he noticed as he keenly watches the road. Pressing my palm against the wound and rest my head against the headrest.

    Fuck.

 Chapter 2 - Michael

    Chapter 2

    Michael

    She¡¯s hurt. It¡¯s hard to dispose of bloody bodies, especially in the winter, and I have to dispose of her. I failed because of her, and now she and her brother know too much. And if she hadn¡¯t been relentless and unreadable like an itch I would¡¯ve been able to kill her and leave her for the cops to find.

    But no. Now instead of simply killing her I have to make sure no one ever finds her. It¡¯s my own fault I dragged doing her in for this long, ever since I killed her sister.

    But¡­ but I wasn¡¯t sure if she fit the criteria, my criteria for killing someone¡­ I never imagined my personal reasons get in the way of my job. They did. Every time I observed her I wasn¡¯t sure what on earth does this girl want. Maybe she was this depressed only after the death of her sister, maybe not. Either way, it took me too long to decide and in the meantime she and her brother discovered too much. It¡¯s too late now. My gang is after me for my failure, for allowing everything to become too public.

    But I can still fix everything and plead for forgiveness.

    ¡°Where¡¯re we going?¡± She pipes.

    I¡¯m still deciding. I could sell her for prostitution, but she¡¯d still be alive and it¡¯s a risk. Kill her in a forest and bury her there? Digging the frozen ground would take forever.

    I glance at her- an obstinate itch who sticks her nose into the wrong business. A freckled ginger, a seventeen-year-old who always gets into trouble. World¡¯s full of them. Even I was one.

    She stares at the road as persistently as I do. Her eyes widen when we leave the night city and hit the white fields. By the time the vehicle rolls through a deep temperate forest tears roll down her cheeks.

    ¡°I¡¯m so tired,¡± she utters when I stop in a clearing. ¡°Make it quick.¡±

    Despite myself, I look at her. What am I doing? What on earth am I doing hurting this child who already has nothing to lose? Who strives for nothing, wants nothing. This is not why I kill. She¡¯s not that kind a person I kill. She used to be, back when she had her sister, and dreams, and future, but not anymore.

    And my gang mates? What¡¯s the chance they¡¯ll take me back to be their hitman? One fail is often enough for them.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    I can still fix it, I tell myself.

    ¡°Get out.¡± I leave the car and early morning chill drifts under my jacket. She doesn¡¯t and I open the door to her seat. ¡°Get out.¡±

    She snaps her head at me. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you leave me with them, with those thugs?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯d be tortured for intel, used and killed.¡± I pull her out by her upper arm. And I finish the jobs I start. Usually.

    She whimpers as she looks around. ¡°And you¡¯re so amazing. You¡¯re just going to kill me. Like that is any better. After you used me for a damn shield.¡± She pulls up her sweatshirt, revealing a bleeding bullet graze for me to see.

    Ignoring her I open my trunk and take two shovels, throw one at her feet.

    ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± She cries, hugging her side tightly. Thankfully, her blood hasn¡¯t hit the snow yet. ¡°Is it not enough death, not enough dreams broken?¡±

    ¡°Pick it up,¡± I tell her.

    ¡°To-to dig my own grave!¡± She calls out.

    I walk ahead, probing the earth with my shovel.

    A loud crash stops me in my walk and I twirl to find a side window of my car shattered. She shivers next to it, a piece of glass in her hand and one of her wrists pouring blood. Instantly, she cuts her second.

    Fuck.

    ¡°At least I choose how I die.¡± She sways on her feet.

    My heart skips a beat. None of my victims ever took their own life. All begged, pleaded for their children, their families, their bright future¡­

    She turns and begins staggering away, bleeding all over the snow.

    I grind my jaw and pull out my gun, aim at her head. Yet I can¡¯t pull the trigger because she¡¯s the last person I can kill. She¡¯s too broken to die¡­

    I grind my teeth and jerk my arm down, for the first time feeling my morals tear me apart. Only now do I understand what an idiot I am, thinking I¡¯d never face a case like hers. This girl is a definition of a different case, from her knowing too much, to wanting to die. I don¡¯t kill people who seek death. It¡¯s a result of a life of suffering, and suffering people are ought to be respected. They deserve to live.

    And yet, no matter the pain she¡¯s in she didn¡¯t shoot me. I thought I was a goner, but she didn¡¯t take the shot when she had a perfect chance. I don¡¯t know why.

    She shrugs past a shrub and it shivers off its cover of snow. I sigh. A trail of evidence will follow her path if I don¡¯t figure out what to do. I could chance a drive to the Stewmaker. A few days trip all the way to the Mexican border by which time she¡¯ll definitely bleed out.

    I could help her last, then make sure the Stewmaker kills her in a quick and painless way.

    My chest eases. I can do it all, get rid of her like I should¡¯ve, the way that pleases me, and then get back into my gang, proving them wrong. Seems like an okay solution to me.

    The dawn lit shrubbery shakes as she falls to the ground and a scant cover of snow settles on her body. As I cross the clearing I lean my shovel against the car and angle my body to avoid further disturbing the bushes. The snow melts under her heaving breath. Her wrists bleed, but she cut herself like an amateur which makes it easier. When I squat down she shuffles her shivering fingers, putting her last strength into the gesture.

    The middle finger comes up.

    I don¡¯t have a tendency to describe my victims, but this girl is the best and worst one I¡¯ve ever had.

 Chapter 3 - Hanna

    Chapter 3

    Hanna

    Exhaustion spreads into my flesh. The more it envelops me the softer, calmer it feels. It¡¯s better this way, quicker. My brother might miss me. Might. He and my uncle never were close enough to keep me safe anyway. Well, they were as close as they could get, and they tried their best. I know it.

    Yet, deep down I want to live, oh so bad¡­

    But there¡¯s no way to stop him from shooting me. All I can do is make it messier.

    I stagger away from the car, my arms hanging and massive droplets of blood warbling down into the snow. The cuts on my wrists sting, but not as bad as they would if I were fully alert.

    When I make it past a few bushes my feet tangle and I flop to the ground. Morning light rakes through the bare forest, making my blood-stained skin look almost innocent, as bright as a Christmas ribbon.

    Short and shitty life. At least I had my sis¡ª Selena. I¡¯ll see her soon. I visited church too many times not to meet her in the afterlife.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    Michael¡¯s shadow blocks off the cold light as he squats next to me. I twitch my arm and bring my hand closer to my face. My freezing fingers shivering with the movement I raise my middle finger up.

    I may not have killed him, but I believe I have the right to hate the man. And I do. So so much.

    He turns me on my back. Above my head a canopy of naked trees sways in unison, a blurry network of branches, highlighted by the morning sun.

    Pretty.

    ¡­

    I tear my eyes open. There¡¯s no Selena, no heavenly angels, no God.

    And it¡¯s because I¡¯m still fucking alive!

    Tears erupt from my eyes and with a newfound surge of energy I shift strongly enough to wriggle free from someone¡¯s arms. As I stumble away I perceive a different place around me¡ª a gray toned motel room.

    Michael stands by the door, his face void of emotion.

    ¡°No!¡± Erupts out of me, a desperate and shrill sound. ¡°God, no! Why am I not dead? Why?¡± I prop on a shabby bed and notice my wrists bandaged. I flip my sweatshirt to find a bloody bandage around my side.

    It horrifies me, to the point I begin heaving for breath. Did his plans change? Will he torture me now? ¡°Please.¡± I lift my eyes at him. ¡°Please, just kill me!¡± He steps closer and I scramble to the nearest wall. ¡°What-what the fuck do you want?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re bleeding. That bandage won¡¯t hold for long.¡± Is all he gives me, undeterred by my outburst.

    Deaf to his words, I throw myself to the first door I see. It¡¯s a bathroom. I flick the lock, shutting myself in.

 Chapter 4 - Michael

    Michael

    I let her be, hoping she¡¯ll calm.

    Once she fell unconscious I carried her to the backseat of my car and bandaged her wounds, then cleaned the shattered window and taped it up so it¡¯d look more or less decent. After, I took off to the nearest motel on the way to Mexico border. Thankfully, no one noticed me carrying her to a motel door.

    I succumb on a foot of a single bed and bury my heavy head in my palms. I haven¡¯t slept for a while.

    Ten or fifteen minutes pass as I rest. The last noise she made, of running water, I heard ten minutes ago. Now it¡¯s dead quiet and I begin to think she might¡¯ve hurt or killed herself in there.

    I stand and rap on the door. ¡°Get out.¡± No answer. ¡°Get out!¡± I bang it with my fist.

    ¡°Where¡¯re we going?¡± Her voice breaks through, a worn squeak.

    ¡°Get out, now.¡±

    ¡°Not until we get this straight!¡± She calls out. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you kill me?¡±

    I roll my eyes. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you kill me?¡±

    ¡°Fuck you.¡±

    ¡°Fuck you too.¡± I hope to agitate her. It works as a few seconds later the door bangs open.

    ¡°You don¡¯t get to fuck me!¡± She points a bloody and shaky finger at me. ¡°It¡¯s you who fucked my life, okay? It¡¯s you who killed my goddamn sister! It¡¯s you who¡ª¡± she cuts off, uncertainty settling behind her eyes. She lowers her finger slowly, staring at me like a mouse at a cat, like she¡¯s recalled who she¡¯s talking to.

    She swivels back to the bathroom, but I snatch her forearm before she closes the door and pull her back into the room.

    ¡°Get away!¡± She pushes me and stumbles onto the bed, blinking out the pain that no doubt stung her side. ¡°Son of a bitch.¡± Unnatural green colors her face.

    She¡¯s turning delusional. If I don¡¯t patch her proper she¡¯ll die before we get to the border. If not from her wounds then from exhaustion and stress.

    ¡°You¡¯ll bleed out,¡± I tell her. ¡°Let me help.¡±

    ¡°What for?¡± Even exhausted she¡¯s able to connect some dots and think of questions like this. ¡°Just kill me, you pussy.¡± I twitch from her words and from her thorough observation. Only now do I notice her eyes are dark gray; a shade darker than mine. ¡°Unless you can¡¯t, for some reason you can¡¯t. Or won¡¯t.¡±

    I won¡¯t, because she¡¯s not¡ª

    My phone vibrates in my pocket, cutting off my racing thoughts. The screen flashes Jared; the leader of my gang. Great. I let out an angry huff through my nose and answer, blurring words in quick succession before he starts his temper tantrum. ¡°Yes. Listen, Jared, I¡¯ll get rid of her like I promised and I¡¯ll be back¡ª¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve done fucked up, Mikey!¡± He yells and I move the phone from my ear. ¡°Do you think I would¡¯ve shot up your house if I wanted you back?¡±

    I swallow. ¡°I can make it back. I¡¯m headed¡ª¡±

    ¡°Where?¡±

    I glance at the girl, watching me. She¡¯ll figure it out eventually, if she hasn¡¯t already. ¡°To the border. To the Stewmaker. She¡¯ll be gone.¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t change a thing! The cops are all over us, because of you!¡±The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    ¡°You should¡¯ve taken into account that I¡¯m not a contract killer,¡± I grunt.

    Jared, on the other end, clicks his tongue. ¡°Don¡¯t patronize me, Mike. You always did the job and I expected that from you. Every kill, you did, smooth and perfect like titties. Those murders were supposed to be a distraction for the cops, you know it.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°So what happened, man? Did I do you wrong? Were you not happy with the girls, the pay, your brothers here?¡±

    ¡°Listen, it¡¯s my own fault.¡±

    ¡°Damn right it is! Now we have that cunt you¡¯re dragging with you and her brother¡¯s trying to rat us out to the fucking feds, man.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± I say. The girl listens, her ear turned to the side, and I assume she didn¡¯t make out Jared¡¯s sentence about her brother. If I want to get back into my gang I¡¯ll have to deal with him too, despite long ago briefly being friends.

    ¡°You¡¯ll be gone too, you asshole! I don¡¯t care what you do I¡¯m sending people after you!¡± Jared shouts.

    ¡°Jared, listen¡ª¡± The call ends and I squeeze the phone so hard the plastic cracks under my gloved fingers. I¡¯ve known Jared for a long time. He practically raised me and he values me no matter what he says. Once I solve this I¡¯ll still be able to get back.

    ¡°You¡¯re dead whether I die or not,¡± she utters and throws her head back with a shrill laugh, then falters to her feet, leaving drops of blood on the bed.

    I clench my jaw. This thing is spiraling out of control. I hate it. I hate being out of control.

    She sways up to me and looks me dead in the eye. ¡°Come on, Michael, kill me. Kill me¡­¡± she taunts, her eyes bloodshot and overwrought expression psychotic. ¡°Kill me!¡±

    My hand flinches faster than I know it. I backhand her across the face, sending her flat to the ground with a resounding thud.

    ¡°Ah, fuck.¡± She turns on her back and begins laughing as if she¡¯s discovered my soft side.

    She did. Not directly, but she did.

    Her laughter rings through my head and I try to block it off by shutting my eyes and focusing on my breath instead. It doesn¡¯t work, so I stare at the torn wallpaper on the motel wall because that¡¯s all I can do. Her laugh dies off, replaced by panting and then silence. Yet even in a quiet room I still hear it, a haunting voice, pulling and tugging at the memories I fight to keep forgotten. They never are.

    My mom laughed like this once.

    I notice my fingers shake. I shouldn¡¯t have hit her as it only proved her point. I can¡¯t fight away the memory of my drunk father beating mom just the same. And she, an idealistic dreamer that she was, kept on taking it, kept reassuring him and me she¡¯ll make it better with her stupid poetry. But all she did was write, without a single action taken to be with her family or to even get herself out there to fight for her dream. ¡°It¡¯ll happen when it¡¯s mean to, Mike,¡± she used to tell me. She refused to see or believe anything else. First, it cost her job and my father his sanity, later, everything else.

    She did wake from her reverie on that one night. When Father was beating her and when I, a nine-year-old kid, couldn¡¯t take it anymore. I still recall the clarity behind her eyes when Father slumped to the ground. She and I watched him choke on the knife I had stuck into the side of his neck.

    Finally, my mother was here. And she laughed. Back then I didn¡¯t know what her laugh was about. Now I do. It was a laugh of revelation, a laugh people let out when they see something for the first time.

    She could only take the reality for a mere week before I found her body swinging from a kitchen lamp.

    Her dreams killed our family bond, my father, and finally her.

    And I, over all my years on the streets, grew to pick victims who seek things, who dream. It¡¯s easier when they don¡¯t annoy you with their goals. Be it for girls, money, luxury. In this life they¡¯re bound to a failure. If others don¡¯t bring them down they get lost in their own fantasies, only to become a toll for someone else.

    I look at an unconscious girl on the floor. She lives the reality to the point she wants to die, she wants nothing anymore.

    What is the point of killing a suicidal person? They can do it themselves.

    I lay her on the bed. Her chest rises and falls unevenly, and her body shivers even in her unconsciousness.

    I pull off her sweatshirt and lift her t-shirt, exposing her midriff. One of the UZI bullets grazed her side and red stains my feeble bandage. I¡¯ll have to sew her wound proper.

    The problem is I¡¯m as good a medic as Jared is a cover model. Back in my street gang, people would get shot, but we always had Carl; our doctor. I picked up some skills from him, but other than that I¡¯m useless.

    I clutch my fingers into a tight fist, observing her. Out of twelve people I killed she¡¯s the first one like this. First one suicidal. Even if I get back into my gang I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ll be able to kill if¡­ if I get more victims like her.

    Stop, I tell myself. Instead of spending time on self-defeating thoughts I need to find someone with proper medical knowledge.

    I think whether I should cover her, but if I do she might wake sooner than I need her to. Yet, for her this whole experience is nothing but pain, way greater than I¡¯d like it to be. Agitated, I pull the covers from underneath her and cover her legs up to her crotch. Then leave.

 Chapter 5 - Hanna

    Hanna

    I wake with a soft grunt. A cold draft from the dark and frosted window chills my face. Weakness flows up and down my body, but I manage to lift my hand to my waist. I find it tightly wrapped with a firm bandage.

    Michael¡¯s voice reaches my ears and, with greater effort than I thought it would take me, I struggle my head to the side. He passes some money to an unfamiliar man in the doorway.

    Horror bleeds through me and I strain to get up, my muscles tingling with the movement.

    By the time he shuts the door I¡¯ve managed to prop on my elbows. ¡°Lie down,¡± he says calmly.

    I don¡¯t listen even when he sits on the edge of the bed. Silent, he puts his big hand on my shoulder and pushes me back no matter how strongly I tense to get up. ¡°He was a doctor.¡±

    I part my lips, noticing itching dryness sear the insides of my throat. ¡°And he didn¡¯t say anything?¡±

    ¡°We made a deal.¡±

    He counts the rest of his money as I watch him, swallowing my spit to lessen the thirst. ¡°You helped me so you can get me to the Mexican border and kill me there?¡±

    He glances at me but keeps silent. I shift, trying to roll off the other side of the bed.

    ¡°Stop it,¡± he says. ¡°Or I¡¯ll tie you to the bed.¡±

    ¡°Go ahead.¡± I tense and turn before he grabs me. I flop to the ground with my whole body. A yelp escapes me as the pain shoots through my side, followed by black spots, dotting my vision. My muscles can¡¯t seem to strain enough to get me up to my feet. I wish I stayed in bed.

    I look over my shoulder at Michael. He gets up and, after a disinterested glance at me, walks to the kitchen. When he opens the fridge I realize I¡¯m starving.

    He grabs a TV dinner and pops it into the microwave, then pulls a plastic bottle of water, unscrews the cap.

    I gape. My bone-dry mouth doesn¡¯t even water anymore. ¡°Can I have some?¡± With effort I manage to lift myself to my fours, gritting my teeth from the pain in my side.

    Michael fills a plastic glass and sets it on the ground in front of me. I extend my trembling hand towards it, fingers grasping for the heavenly liquid. Sure enough I spill it. ¡°Fuck.¡±

    Devastated, I slump back on the ground, laying my head on the ground and into the spilled water. Somehow there¡¯s enough liquid in my body for two tears to run down my cheek. ¡°Why is life so cruel? Why do I have to be tortured when all I want is to die?¡±This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    His reply is instant. And, to my surprise, double. ¡°I¡¯m not a torturer. I¡¯m not torturing you.¡±

    ¡°Yea, sure. And I¡¯m not being kidnapped by a murderer.¡±

    His large boots near me. He squats, then shoves his arm under me and turns me on my back. I¡¯m so tired I don¡¯t care what he does to me anymore.

    He lays me on the bed, then brings another glass and helps me sit. ¡°Drink.¡± He raises it to my face, holding his free arm around my back.

    I glance at him warily. What¡¯s the point? I¡¯m going to die either way. Yet my shaking fingers grasp the glass like a treasure, digging into his gloved hand. I set my lips to the rim of the plastic surface and let the cold liquid run down my throat. ¡°Can¡ª¡± I take a deep breath ¡°¡ªcan I have another.¡±

    He brings me another.

    I let out a happy grunt when I finish it. ¡°Another?¡± I utter.

    He brings me the whole bottle. Though he still supports my back with his arm I manage to hold the drink on my own. As I greedily drink I notice him look away, just turn his head the other direction and study the rotten interior of this room. What is it with him? He can¡¯t kill me for some reason, but he still wants me to die. Murderers¡ª you never get how fucked up they are and what¡¯s in their scrambled heads.

    With a few heaves for breath I force the water down my stomach, until he takes the bottle away. ¡°Hey!¡± I reach for it.

    ¡°Take it easy so you don¡¯t barf it out five minutes later,¡± he says.

    Good point. I already feel like there¡¯s a water balloon inside my stomach. ¡°Damn, that was good.¡±

    ¡°Hungry?¡± He asks.

    ¡°I am, but I don¡¯t see the point of depriving you of food when I¡¯m going to die.¡±

    For once his face looks lost, a quick emotion overtaking his usual blankness. ¡°Bathroom?¡±

    ¡°Nah. Not yet.¡±

    He places the bottle to the ground and turns his body to me, then lowers his hands on my upper arms, leaning me back onto the bed. Before I know it he grips my wrists and lifts them above my head. ¡°What-what are you doing?¡±

    I don¡¯t need to repeat myself when I see him pull a roll of thin rope from his pocket. He ties my wrists together, careful over the thick bandages, before he secures them to the bed frame. He glances at me periodically, as if looking for any signs of a fight.

    ¡°What?¡± I grunt.

    He sits on the bed and covers my legs with a blanket. I notice I¡¯m not wearing my shoes. ¡°No struggles?¡±

    When tears start rolling down my cheeks I turn my head away. ¡°Fuck you. I¡¯m going to die, aren¡¯t I? What¡¯s the point? It¡¯s like you¡¯re expecting me to be a feisty kid who¡¯s gonna give you a hard time. I accept my fate, okay? Now stop looking at me like I¡¯m some miracle.¡± I feel him move from the bed. ¡°Why can¡¯t you kill me? You¡¯re acting like the worst assassin ever,¡± I murmur with a glance back at him.

    Sitting on the ground against the bed, he leans his head back, eyes closed. ¡°I¡¯m a thug in a gang. Always been.¡±

    ¡°Got it. Good night.¡±

    Silence. ¡°What?¡±

    I assume my ¡®good night¡¯ confused him. ¡°Good night, you son of a bitch! That¡¯s what people say to each other.¡± Inside I proudly chuckle. For some reason I feel like I¡¯m actually living every second of whatever life I have left living. Probably adrenaline making things feel more real. ¡°Good night, Mikey,¡± I tease him sarcastically once again as I turn on my side and shuffle up on the pillow so my tied hands are more or less in a comfortable position.

    ¡°Go to sleep, freckles.¡±

    I chuckle. ¡°Oh, look who has a sense of humor.¡±

    He doesn¡¯t reply and I drift off into sleep, wondering how on earth did a serial killer just call me freckles.

 Chapter 6 - Michael

    Michael

    Snowy nature recedes, overtaken by stripes of copses mixed with green and brown fields. I keep my eyes on the road and she¡¯s asleep next to me, her hands wrapped around her side.

    This girl confuses me. It was yesterday night she fell asleep on that motel bed chuckling. How can she not care if she lives or dies? How, despite having a perfect chance, did she not kill me when I would kill me? How did she find the grit to wish me goodnight and then laugh about everything that¡¯s happening?

    Has she lost her mind?

    Her murmur catches my attention. She woke and now a soft string of words I strain my ear to distinguish pours out her lips. The murmur is a prayer.

    Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name¡­

    I wonder if she¡¯s religious, or just turned after I killed her sister.

    I listen to her and, for some reason, it hurts. Hurts my ears. My chest. She hurts me.

    She was supposed to plead for her life, not accept the demise.

    ¡­as we forgive those who trespass against us and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

    Amen.

    ¡°Who are you praying to?¡± I ask.

    She shrugs. ¡°God.¡± With disdain I tilt my head to the side and it gives me away. ¡°You don¡¯t have to tell me God¡¯s not real.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°You did, quietly.¡± She keeps her head forward. When I glance at her I can¡¯t fail to notice longing stain her eyes and sun rays filter through her red hair, framing her face in light.

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what I say or think.¡±

    ¡°On your opinion, Mikey,¡± an exhale leaves her lips as if she¡¯s having a conversation with a five-year-old, ¡°depends my life. Or doesn¡¯t rather.¡±

    Stop calling me that, I almost grind out but figure if I want her to stop I best ignore her.

    She touches her cheek and flinches. The bruise from my hit is impossible to conceal, as is the nagging feeling that I shouldn¡¯t have done it. I¡¯m not a torturer. Never was. I didn¡¯t throw her into a corner unattended and starve her. She chose not to eat herself. I didn¡¯t do many things I could¡¯ve done to her.

    I clutch the wheel, leather squeaking under my fingers, and try to convince myself I didn¡¯t bring her pain but for that one hit. Yet deep inside something disturbing hauls otherwise. It unnerves me when I realize it¡¯s been begging for attention my whole life.

    ¡°You okay?¡± She utters, her head turned to me. It irks me.

    ¡°Shut up and don¡¯t talk.¡± The tone of my voice cuts and she turns away, curling into herself.

    The sooner I get rid of her the better.

    ¡­

    I drive all day and only stop a few times at the lonely gas stations for refills. For the night I tie her up in the backseat of my car and, to my dismay, she doesn¡¯t protest or gives me any other signs that she cares to live.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    The following day turns hotter as we near the border. I follow the road signs I know will lead me into a little town where Stewmaker hides out. When it comes to disposing of unneeded bodies this small organization is the best. The word goes it¡¯s run by a mafia family, not even Mexican but Russian. Good for me, as long as they eliminate freckles here.

    The girl. I should call her the girl. Not Hanna. Not freckles. Even though her face is dotted in quite a handful I resentfully admit them to be cute. Those dots were the first thing I noticed when I saw her up-close.

    She begins shifting in her seat when we enter a dusty road into the town¡ª a suburban kind with a dozen low and ruined houses, hardly residential. One or two pedestrians shuffle along the side of the road, their clothes tarnished and guns poking from behind the waistlines of their pants.

    I take a right and pull up behind a complex of close-by buildings, resembling long shacks. I¡¯ve been here twice with Jared when he had some bodies to dispose of.

    ¡°Turn around,¡± I tell her once I shut the engine. With a deep breath of acceptance, she pivots, placing her hands behind her back. ¡°There¡¯s nowhere to run if you try.¡± She doesn¡¯t bother to reply or just keeps shut like I ordered her.

    Once I tie her bandaged wrists I pull her out and, holding her in front of me, cross a dusty alley between the buildings, keeping a sharp eye on my surroundings. I have to squint as with approaching nightfall the coarse wind picks up, blowing dust through the narrow passage.

    I rap on a metal door, an only entrance in a middle of a long windowless wall. A minute later it cracks and a scruffy man gives us a once over. ¡°Why she not dead?¡± He asks in a thick Russian accent and freckles backs away until she bumps into me. ¡°We don¡¯t sell them anymore.¡±

    ¡°I need you to kill her,¡± I tell him.

    Russian furrows his brows. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s you. Michael, right?¡± I tense at his words. ¡°Jared called me.¡±

    ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°Said you¡¯re in trouble.¡±

    I glare at him, squinting from the onslaught of blowing dust that gets caught in my eyebrows and hair. ¡°So will you take her or not?¡±

    Russian runs his tongue over his teeth. ¡°Come in.¡± I push her into a dirty and small foyer with another open door that leads into the main part of the building. The man twists back and screams through the doorway. ¡°Garry, bring the bag. The small one!¡±

    ¡°What?¡± She yelps. ¡°No! Oh my God, no!¡± She presses herself against me, her wet eyes pleading. ¡°Please, shoot me! Please! I¡¯m begging you!¡±

    I don¡¯t say a thing when Russian pulls her away from me and throws her into a nearby chair. His partner, Garry, comes with a plastic bag which he swiftly pulls over her head.

    I turn away, all but lifting my palms to clamp my ears shut. She trashes behind me, fighting for breath. Her suffocating gasps cut my head and I will myself to stay in place, fighting the urge to ask them to shoot her.

    Three minutes isn¡¯t that long, I repeat to myself. It¡¯ll be over soon.

    But every second drags and I can¡¯t help but count them.

    Two sturdy sets of footsteps step into the foyer and plastic rustles behind me. I swerve just as two men reach for me from behind, trying to grab me. One of the big Russians rams me back first into the wall and I pull my gun before another one snatches my arms. Barrel digging deep into his beer belly I shoot, then kick him in the groin and bend my arm in perfect time to shot another man through the chin. Before both of them drop I raise my weapon at Garry who¡¯s holding the bag over Hanna¡¯s head. His head jerks from the bullet and he slumps to the ground. The scruffy Russian, who stood next to Garry, backs off.

    ¡°Pull it off of her!¡± My ears ringing, I point the barrel at him. He pulls the bag off her head and steps away to the doorway. Freckles slides to the ground in a furious coughing fit. ¡°What the fuck!¡± I spit at the Russian. ¡°What did Jared tell you?¡±

    ¡°Jared has put you on radar,¡± he answers, his words thick. ¡°A good reward for you, dead or alive. Preferably dead.¡±

    No.

    Jared never would. Or I was being stupid and imagined he valued me more than he ever did.

    Footsteps approach the doorway from within the house. Three armed men appear behind Russian¡¯s back, about to enter the foyer, their guns raised at me.

    I¡¯m fucked.

    With a corner of my eye I see freckles lift her leg at the open door. ¡°Shoot him!¡± She kicks it closed in front of the three men.

    I shoot Russian in the head and ram my shoulder into the door, click the lock, shutting us in the foyer. Shots pepper the metal from the other side, but the door holds firm.

    I pull out my knife and cut her bonds. ¡°Back to the car if you want to live.¡± I help her to her feet, but her legs wobble, and she lists like grass in the wind. Fuck, she hasn¡¯t eaten for three days. I forgot.

    Just leave her here, I tell myself. Save yourself. They¡¯ll kill her, one way or another.

    But I can¡¯t. God save me, a murderer I am, but I hate torture.

    ¡°You have to walk.¡± I straighten her by her upper arms.

    Before I know it she ducks down to Russian¡¯s dead body. She snatches a small gun from behind the waistband of his jeans and extends her arm at me. I dodge on instinct, covering my head as the bullet hits the wood-paneled wall behind me with a creaky bam, and leap outside into the sandstorm. Voices echo from the nearby buildings, indicating the incoming reinforcements.

    So, lifting my t-shirt to cover my mouth and nose, I leave her to her beloved God¡¯s will and dash back to my car.

 Chapter 7 - Hanna

    Hanna

    On wilting legs I rush out after him, almost tripping a few steps down. I shoot his disappearing form once again, but miss it. ¡°That¡¯s right! You better run, you cocksucker!¡± I tear my dry throat. ¡°Fuck you!¡±

    To my right, the locked door in the foyer bangs open. Through the gusts of sand I discern three men before I sprint an opposite direction to the back of the long building. Inside I pray for my body not to fail me. Bullets sear the tempestuous wind, missing. As I successfully reach the end of the building I stumble, almost tripping.

    A ladder!

    My muscles tight with a surge of adrenaline I trot up onto the roof, then lean out to look at the men on the ground. Nothing but a mass of blowing dirt. I shoot blindly down a few times, coughing from the dust in my throat, and dash along the roof to the other end of the building.

    I cover my face with my sleeve, squinting into the descending darkness. The mass of dirt envelops everything like a fog and I can¡¯t help but feel it wrap around me, shrinking my surroundings into a tiny claustrophobic space with barely any visibility. A few lights pop up around town, letting me locate other buildings, and I shuffle along with stronger confidence. But I¡¯m helpless¡­ too weak to fight, too weak to run far¡­

    It dawns on me. If I actually want to escape, I need Michael. He¡¯s my only chance at survival.

    At the end of the roof I see his car, pulling back into the road. Its red rear lights blink on, allowing me to gauge the position and the distance better. I shove the gun behind the waistband of my pants and pick up speed, praying I make it. My body relaxes and I let my instincts carry my movement. Because that¡¯s the only thing they¡¯re actually good at. I¡¯ve spend half of my childhood hopping roofs in Bronx. If only I had more brain than agility.

    My feet kick off the roof and the firm ground disappears from under me.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    I land on the roof of his car with a thud, pain jolting from my heels up to my spine. I lose my balance and fly forward onto the car hood. The impact knocks the air out of me and I gasp a few times before I notice Michael¡¯s eyebrow jerk up as he stares at me, probably wondering if I¡¯m gonna try to kill him.

    Shots wake us both. He punches it, jerking the car forward with me on it. ¡°Get inside!¡± He rolls down the window.

    Three shots pelt the back of the car, shattering the window. I pull out my gun and fire whatever bullets I have left into the storm.

    ¡°Inside!¡± Michael gestures with his thumb, keeping the car straight.

    ¡°Open the door!¡± I scream at him, trying not to slide off.

    He does and, keeping my body low, I slide up on the roof and, holding onto the door, lower my body inside. Thank God for my athletic skills. Or rather thank my skills for my skills.

    I pivot in the seat, staring out for any pursuit through the shattered rear window. Nothing but a gray mass of dust, blowing through the gloom. No headlights. No shots. The Russian-speaking men must not deem us worthy enough to follow through the night sandstorm.

    Yet I scramble to the back seat and watch the road as if the pursuit could teleport in right behind us.

    Michael speaks but I can¡¯t hear him. The sounds around me die down, lost in the engine noise, wind, and my heartbeat.

    ¡°Hanna!¡± I jerk at his yell.

    ¡°Yeah?¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re gone. It¡¯s okay.¡±

    The laugh that escapes me must¡¯ve frightened him. I scoot behind his seat and reach my arms around him. Before he knows what¡¯s going on I grab the seatbelt and wrap it around his neck. My mind relentlessly chirps danger, danger, danger into my ear. I have to survive.

    The car swerves until it comes to a sudden stop, brakes screeching. I pull on the belt with all my strength and only faintly hear a click of a switchblade before the belt snaps lose. My back hits the seat and Michael coughs, panting.

    His painful gasps enter my head together with my own rattled breathing. At last the reality of the situation hits me. Without any control, my world shifts from day to night, a change like a bullet, entering my head and lungs. All the experiences shrink around my head.

    ¡°Oh, fuck,¡± I heave. The surroundings glaze over and it feels like I have a bag on my head. Silhouettes of men appear out of nowhere. ¡°No!¡± I try to force them away, but I¡¯m bound and helpless and there¡¯s nothing but hot air gathering around my head as I heave, each time harder and slower.

    I feel a hand grip my face and pressure on my lips makes my eyes refocus. The visions scatter and all there is are his lips against mine, his rough stubble against my skin, and smell, somehow pleasant, reaching to the depths of my lungs.

 Chapter 8 - Michael

    Michael

    She¡¯s having a panic attack, so after pointlessly trying to snap her out of it with light slaps on her cheek I run out of ideas. I grab her face and kiss her. Her eyes widen with shock, stronger than the horrors she¡¯s been through and she tenses, perceiving me on her in the back of the car.

    ¡°Breathe,¡± I whisper when I pull my lips from hers. ¡°Breathe, freckles.¡± She blinks at me, her mouth parted and pupils so tiny they might as well be fully consumed by the gray of her traumatized eyes. ¡°It¡¯s okay.¡±

    And just like that she breaks down in tears three-year-old¡¯s cry with.

    ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± she slurps as she draws herself into a backseat corner. ¡°I can¡¯t do it anymore! Just as I want to die, I live. And just as I commit myself to living shit like you happens.¡± She hits me on the shoulder with her palm. ¡°I can¡¯t juggle both! I¡¯m going insane!¡±

    I don¡¯t argue, because she is going insane, in a steady and painful descent.

    And it¡¯s a proof to myself that I am a torturer. I torture her in a way I wouldn¡¯t wish on my enemy.

    Shivering, she curls into a ball. A feeble overhead lamp highlights the dirt on her face and her mat hair, sticking to her face and neck in sweaty strands. She hides her head under her bent arms, bawling.

    I hover close, unsure how to help her. I do want to help her. Somehow¡­

    I could just let her go?

    No, I¡¯m supposed to get rid of her. Not help her. What am I even thinking?

    I look down at my own trembling hands and squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out the pain in my leg.

    ¡°For now, focus on living,¡± I tell her, hoping for a response, yet all that accompanies her sobs are the winds, banging against the car and howling through the shattered rear window. Only now do I notice the back seat¡¯s blanketed with shards.

    I return to the driver seat, click the overhead light off, plunging the car into the dry night, and pull back on the road. I roll down the window and throw away my cellphone. Considering the bounty on my head and condition we¡¯re in we need to stop by a motel in a more populated area and try to lay low for a few days. At least until I figure out what to do.

    ¡­

    When I find a cheap motel in the city of Odessa I¡¯m all but falling asleep. The entire time I drove I kept glancing at her, lest she tries to kill me again. Thankfully, she fell asleep.

    We check in. The receptionist looks over us with suspicion, especially at her who stands like a bloodied nightwalker about to flop face first to the floor.

    With my eyes, I follow his every move, hoping it¡¯ll intimidate him.

    ¡°Do you need a med kit?¡± The receptionist asks, sort of calm. We mustn¡¯t be the first bloody travelers he sees.

    ¡°Yes, thanks,¡± I tell him, wondering if I should pay extra to keep quiet. I leave him another fifty and grab the keys together with a red box he passes.

    We shuffle out.  ¡°You¡¯re limping,¡± she says after her lengthy silence.

    ¡°You shot me,¡± I whisper, opening the door too our room and letting her in first. A gush of cold air sweeps in after us and drafts out through all the nooks and crevices with a high-pitched whistle. That¡¯s one shit of a room.

    ¡°Oh.¡± Despite the double bed she slides down the wall next to the door, flops on her side and falls asleep before I even reach the kitchenette.

    I set my duffel bag on the counter, then bandage my thigh and lie on the bed, facing her. Just in case, I pull my silver switchblade and shove my arm under the pillow. I need shuteye for at least a few hours before I find a doctor and spend a fortune on him again.

    ¡­

    When I wake, hungry and thirsty, she¡¯s still on the floor. I visit the bathroom before I prod her with my boot. She groggily parts her eyes. ¡°You have to clean up.¡± All the dirt and bloody bruises draw too much attention. Her shoulders slumped, she sits. ¡°Take a shower. I¡¯ll go buy some food and clothing. Fine?¡± And hopefully find a vet who¡¯ll patch me up.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    I observe her as she struggles to her feet. I don¡¯t help her on purpose, judging how weak she is and if I should tie her up before I go. She might try to escape, even though it looks like running is the last thing on her mind.

    From the half a minute that it takes her to gather herself up I figure she won¡¯t get far even if she wanted.

    When she locks herself in the bathroom I count my reserves. Enough for now, but it¡¯ll get tighter. It¡¯ll be pain in the ass to find a day¡¯s worth job during a recession, and with my shot leg¡ª

    ¡°Fuck!¡± I jerk at her voice, dulled by the bathroom door.

    ¡°What is it?¡± A solid minute of silence follows. ¡°Freckles?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m bleeding.¡±

    ¡°Your side?¡±

    ¡°No, well yeah, but not only.¡±

    It takes me a second to understand. ¡°Oh.¡± She¡¯s a girl, right. ¡°Um, I¡¯ll buy you what you need.¡±

    She doesn¡¯t answer as she¡¯s probably busy dying from embarrassment, so I leave, locking her in. I still loiter by the door for a while, making sure I won¡¯t see her break open a window. Nothing. Thus I set out, worried over my money.

    After I check my car, inconspicuously parked down the road, I limp down a poor street, surveying my surroundings for a clinic or a vet. I stop a few times when my head gets fuzzy. My strength is ebbing away.

    ¡°Hey, bud, you okay?¡± A man stops in his walk to look at me.

    ¡°Is there a vet or a clinic nearby?¡±

    Once the man takes in my dusty appearance he backs away a step, squinting at my gloved hands with distrust. ¡°Yeah.¡± He points down the street and describes a few turns before he scurries away.

    Find the vet I do and go in through the back door. It¡¯s not the first time I¡¯m barging into the vet clinic, and definitely not the first time I talk my way out of trouble. I¡¯m not a good actor, but this story of my older brother being involved in a gang has worked six out of eight times I used it.

    ¡°We gotta call the cops,¡± a vet lady says over the yapping of dogs. Her partner sews the bullet hole in my thigh.

    ¡°No, no, please. They¡¯ll kill me, kill you, and oh, God¡­¡± I lower my forehead onto the table, pretending to hold back my tears.

    ¡°It¡¯s okay. We¡¯ll help you and let you be. And you let us be,¡± the man says, his worried voice music to my ears.

    ¡°Thanks, man, thanks.¡± I arch my head back to look at my leg. ¡°Is it deep?¡±

    ¡°Hit your muscle at an angle. Looks like a small caliber.¡± The man inspects the bloody slivers of a bullet.

    ¡°Good.¡± The gun freckles pulled from the Russian¡¯s body did look of a small caliber, but it was still a gun that could¡¯ve killed me had she been more alert.

    Once my leg is safely bandaged I leave some money for the vets and set off to find a mall. Limping through the aisles I collect some canned food, bread, TV-dinners, water, zip-ties, and two baseball caps. I stall for a minute or two in the maxi-pad section, lost in the vastness of options, almost as vast as the selection of alcohol. Finally, I grab the cheapest pack and move to clothing, then the pharmacy for a medical thread and a needle.

    When I return she¡¯s still in the bathroom. ¡°Freckles?¡± I rap on the door. No answer. I rap again. ¡°Freckles?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± a lazy grunt reaches me. ¡°I fell asleep.¡± She cracks the door and I pass her a bag with clothing and everything else I bought for her. ¡°Thanks.¡± She disappears.

    I pop a TV dinner into the microwave and have enough time to eat it before she stalks out in a big t-shirt and jeans that are a little too long for her. Instead of reaching for the food like I assumed she would, she slumps on the bed and turns away.

    ¡°You gotta eat.¡±

    She doesn¡¯t reply.

    I stay quiet for a minute or two before I utter, ¡°I don¡¯t know what to do with you.¡±

    She turns over her shoulder, her eyes pleading. ¡°Let me go.¡±

    ¡°I¡­¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what your partner said over the phone. You¡¯re dead whether I live or die.¡±

    ¡°I could still get it back,¡± I say. ¡°If I did what I have to.¡±

    ¡°But you can¡¯t. And even if I die do you think you¡¯ll never get a victim like me? For whatever reason you can¡¯t kill me.¡±

    I gape, then divert the topic. ¡°They¡¯ll get you and your brother.¡±

    She shoots upright, her hand clutching her side. ¡°Don¡¯t involve Shia in this.¡±

    ¡°He is involved. He knows as much as you do. I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if he¡¯s dead already¡ª¡± She throws a pillow at me and I realize I shouldn¡¯t have said it.

    ¡°And it¡¯s because of you! Everything is because of you!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± escapes me before I stop myself.

    Her tense shoulders slump and expression grows wide. ¡°You admit it?¡±

    I don¡¯t know what to say or do. What should I do? What would I wanna do?

    I¡¯m just as lost, holding onto this girl like no other girl before, not even sure I¡¯m comforting her or she¡¯s comforting me at this point, just by being here.

    I shake my head lightly and pop another TV dinner into the microwave. I need my head fresh before I plot my course of action and make any important decisions.

    I pass the plastic plate to her. ¡°Please, eat it,¡± I say. ¡°Focus on living and eat it, just for now, Freckles, okay?¡±

    She swallows, her attention locking onto the food like my gangmates would on whores. When her stomach gives a growl even I hear she surrenders and grabs the steaming food, crosses her legs in an Indian sitting and starts stuffing her face.

    An unfamiliar warmness spreads over my chest, momentarily induced by the pleasant sight. Ignoring it, I grab the bag with my clothing and set off into the bathroom to take a shower.

    As I slip from my jacket, a different, foreboding feeling overtakes me. She ate. She¡¯s leaving her suicidal state and becoming like every other person who fits my criteria to kill. It¡¯s not long until she begins wanting more, until she starts having deeper desires, and dreams, and other impossible things.

    It doesn¡¯t make any sense, this conundrum. If she wants to kill herself I can¡¯t kill her, but when she begins living I can. And if I keep her in a suicidal state I¡¯m a torturer.

    The fact hits me so hard I lean on the wall with my back, too sharply aware of two sides warring in me.

    Why? Why do I believe this nonsense I kill for?

    Because it¡¯s true, Mike, I tell myself, you know it.

    Nonsense.

    True nonsense.

    I jerk at the knock on the door. ¡°You okay in there?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± I notice I lost track of time.

    ¡°I tore the stitches on my side.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll be right out.¡±

 Chapter 9 - Hanna

    Hanna

    I¡¯m biting the pillow as he sews my side.

    ¡°Do it faster,¡± I hiss through my teeth.

    He doesn¡¯t reply, frowning at my wound through his glasses. I didn¡¯t know he wore glasses and was surprised they survived the action we¡¯ve been through.

    Once he¡¯s done he runs a disinfecting rag over my wound and I groan, my face buried into the mold stinking pillow. When the surge of burning pain passes I slump on the bed. My body feels like it went through a meat- grinder. Every muscle stings, together with my side, bruised hands, wrists, and cramping belly. At least my stomach is heavenly full.

    ¡°Sit up.¡±

    I prop up and let him wrap a bandage around my waist. As his hands slide around me his face contorts in a slightest motion, as if displeased and shocked at the same time. ¡°What?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Nothing.¡±

    I draw away. ¡°You just frowned at my waist. What is it?¡± By now I know he¡¯s no rapist, but the look still unsettles me.

    ¡°You¡¯re¡­ small under the big clothing,¡± he grunts.

    Lost at what to respond I flatten my lips for a second. ¡°Skinny, you mean?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± His eyes flit to my face and linger, probably taking in my hollow cheekbones, red eyes and bruises for the first time. Then he casts his gaze down, a heavy huff leaving his nose.

    ¡°It¡¯s not your fault,¡± I utter. He glances at me skeptically over the frame of his glasses since I did blame everything on him. ¡°It¡¯s no one¡¯s fault really.¡±

    ¡°How so?¡± He finishes with the bandage and I let my t-shirt fall around my waist.

    ¡°It¡¯s like pains fault, you know. You¡¯re in pain, you do bad shit to try to make yourself feel better.¡±

    Careful with his bloody fingers he slides his glasses into his jacket¡¯s breast pocket. ¡°I¡¯m not in pain.¡±

    ¡°Please,¡± I chuckle, lying down on the bed and turning away. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be here if you weren¡¯t.¡±

    I hear him stand and then a light rustle of a pack being open. ¡°Put your hands behind your back.¡±

    ¡°Ah, god damn it, Mike. I¡¯m not going to kill you, okay?¡± I prop on my elbow. ¡°I was in shock when we were in the car!¡±

    ¡°You still are. Come on, I need to get some rest.¡±

    Too worn to argue I let him zip my wrists behind my back. He flicks the light off and lays on the other side of the bed. ¡°Blanket?¡±

    I flop on my belly, my head growing heavier. ¡°No.¡± It¡¯s been a while since chills have settled under my skin, but the blanket would feel like another layer of ropes to tangle into. Thus I lay, trying to ignore the cold and keeping my body still so not to mess up my side. ¡°Why did you kiss me?¡±

    ¡°To snap you out of it.¡±

    It worked. ¡°I¡¯m underage.¡± A moment of awkward silence passes before I let out a laugh. ¡°I¡¯m just messing with you, relax.¡±

    ¡°Good night, freckles.¡±

    ¡°How old are you?¡± I turn my face to him. From a few wrinkles on his face I¡¯d say he¡¯s in his late twenties, early thirties maybe.

    When he doesn¡¯t reply the silence of the room starts weighing on me, a cloak of eerie and dismal nothingness with only rare engine noises of passing cars to keep me company. ¡°How old?¡± I press, then realize I¡¯d rather talk to the man who murdered my sister instead of falling asleep, especially with my hands tied behind my back.

    Yet he doesn¡¯t engage and I switch sides so I stare at the door, until I drift off right into a blood colored nightmare that wakes me what feels like a few hours later. I tell myself this room is secure, that I can relax¡ª

    I leap up in bed, my shriek vibrating through the walls. The illusions of attackers scatter into the darkness, dissolving in the air, yet I scream until Michael grabs me by the shoulders. ¡°Hey!¡± He gives me a shake until I focus on him. ¡°Calm down! There¡¯s no one here. You¡¯re safe.¡±

    With my chest convulsing I try to back away against his firm hold. ¡°I¡¯m not safe!¡± I grind out, writhing my tied hands behind my back. ¡°God, I¡¯m still kidnapped. I murdered people. I-I¡¯m¡­this is a fucking nightmare!¡±

    He stares at me, as lost as I am, if not more. ¡°Just lie down.¡± He pushes me gently on my side. ¡°Look at me okay?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to.¡±

    ¡°Okay, look somewhere else.¡±

    I don¡¯t look anywhere. I curl into a ball and try to slow my heaving. It doesn¡¯t work and I straighten, then flip onto the other side, then sit up again, then lay down. Michael watches me.

    ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± I let out. ¡°And I feel weird, dizzy.¡±

    ¡°I¡­uh, I¡ª¡±

    ¡°What?¡± I snap.

    ¡°Uh, I can hold you.¡±

    With a dry laugh I turn away from him. ¡°No, thank you.¡±

    I lay, cold and burning up at the same time. Michael falls asleep on his back, silhouetted by soft night glow from the covered window. How can you sleep so calm like this? With all that you¡¯ve done?

    I doze off until the ground hits my whole body like a giant bat, throwing me into an instant alert mode and pumping my body up with adrenaline. ¡°Help! Please!¡± I thrash, kicking away the nightmares, but I can¡¯t do anything against the phantom shadows that reach to strangle me, to hurt me, to tear me apart. ¡°Somebody, please, help! H¡ª¡±

    A hand clamps my mouth and sudden pressure locks my hips to the ground. ¡°Shh, shh.¡± Michael leans into my face, slowing my wiggling with the weight of his body. ¡°No one¡¯s here, freckles. Calm down.¡±

    I blink, perceiving his weight pushing me down. The night terrors dissolve, irrelevant against a real threat that is the man on me. He¡¯s one of them, a solid cover holding me down, in full control of my whole being.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Horrified I strain, struggling and kicking, all but crying into his hand. His weight is like arms of men that held me in the chair, his hand on my mouth like a plastic bag preventing me from breathing¡ª

    ¡°Hey, hey, freckles, calm down. You¡¯re safe.¡± He frowns, confused at what I¡¯m afraid of now. It¡¯s you, you I¡¯m afraid of.

    Puzzled, he shifts his hand from my face.

    ¡°Get off me!¡± I gasp out and he clamps my mouth shut again.

    ¡°Look at me,¡± he leans closer. ¡°Whatever you dreamed of I¡¯m not with them. I won¡¯t hurt you. I¡¯m not hurting you now, right?¡±

    I huff, too scared to even blink, my struggles becoming heavier and slower.

    ¡°Stop or you¡¯ll hyperventilate,¡± he grunts through his teeth. The world glosses over and I can¡¯t breathe.  ¡°Hanna.¡±

    My name rings louder than the rest of the world and I¡¯m pulled back into reality. I¡¯m always a bitch, a cunt, or a whore.

    But now it¡¯s my name. I almost forgot how it sounds.

    I refocus my gaze on him. He sits on me calmly, holding me from struggling and screaming, and indeed doing nothing more than that.

    When worn I close my eyes, giving up, he allows me a word. ¡°You hit me, back in the other motel,¡± I turn my head to the side. ¡°And you wanted them to suffocate me. You are like them.¡±

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t my intention.¡± His voice is quiet, almost¡­ afraid? ¡°I won¡¯t hurt you now.¡± He lifts his open palms. ¡°See, not doing anything,¡± then with a sigh, ¡°I¡¯m not as awful as your dreams painted me to be. Not at this second.¡±

    Not at this second.

    ¡°I jumped on you because you¡¯re drawing attention. That¡¯s it.¡± In the night lit room I distinguish the strain in his jaw and neck, even feel the tension in his legs around my waist. It makes it less horrifying when I understand that I must¡¯ve scared the living crap out of him with my screams.

    ¡°I won¡¯t hurt you,¡± he repeats, but we continue staring at each other. I¡¯m not sure why. Maybe we both know it¡¯s a lie.

    I relax under him first, convinced that for now I¡¯m truly safe. He lets out a puff of air he held and rubs one side of his stubble. ¡°God, freckles¡­ ¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t believe in God. Just leave me here.¡±

    He climbs off of me, picks me up, and lays me on the bed. ¡°Try to sleep.¡± Then he sneaks to the window to check if I woke anybody up before he returns to bed.

    Hours later when I¡¯m all sweaty and feel like a crack addict I start considering his proposition to hug me. I tried positive focus for three hours now, but the nightmares didn¡¯t go away. Maybe having somebody close will help me? Selena would always comfort me after kids at school made fun of me. She would wrap her hands around me in her soft but strong bigger sister way and tell me it would get better, that she would make it better. Then, if I was feeling particularly sad, we would sleep on the floor, build a fort and braid each other¡¯s hair. When there was nothing left to braid we¡¯d invite Shia and braid his and then laugh the next morning when half of his head was puffy with curls.

    Michael¡¯s shuffle pulls me out of my head and his arm covers me as if on command. I emit a first instinctive thought. ¡°Take it off.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll fall off again and tear your stitches.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re forceful.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a kidnapper, aren¡¯t I? That¡¯s what we do,¡± he utters in a sleepy voice, eyes closed.

    I tense, but don¡¯t want to admit I was considering the option first. Yet the fact that he started it still unnerves me. ¡°Take it off.¡±

    He complies. ¡°Try to be quiet.¡±

    I lick the sweat off my lips and try to wipe my clammy hands on the side of the bed. I¡¯m cold and my T-shirt sticks to my damp back.

    Michael drifts off quick, leaving me to stare at him like a creep. In the gloom he looks harmless and even all the bad he did dissolves in the abyss of haziness that is my mind. The motel room morphs into our cozy apartment¡­ I¡¯m lying in my bed, so safe and warm. My homework is scattered over my desk, undone. My uncle¡¯s curses float through the apartment as he watches baseball in the living room. Fucker run! You bitch fucking tit sucker! Selena comes, her beautiful golden hair weaved into a waist-long braid her whole class envies. I envy her and she knows it. Even Shia, a ginger like me, is jealous. Selena knows that too. Yet she always tries to make me feel better, tells me I don¡¯t have to be a beauty to make friends, and all the other inspirational crap older sisters say.  But the inspirational crap always helps.

    The hallucination fades away and I frown at how real it seemed to appear. But the feeling is still there¡ª warmness of home, calmness of our mundane problems.

    Feeling my head burn I slide my eyes over the man in front of me. This second, he reminds me of a boy I liked in school; brown hair, a gorgeous smile¡ª

    Something clicks in me. I don¡¯t know what it is, but I inch closer and kiss him on the cheek. He turns his head and before he speaks I press my lips against his. His hand slides to my face and he kisses me back once before he wakes fully and pulls away.

    I smile. ¡°I¡¯m losing my mind.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± he says.

    ¡°I forced myself on you. People don¡¯t do that.¡± Yet I don¡¯t feel any remorse whatsoever. I just kissed a boy I liked.

    ¡°You got even,¡± he murmurs, laying his arm over me once again. ¡°Let¡¯s sleep.¡± Shuffling, I sidle up to him and burrow my face into his warm chest, smelling motel shower gel mixed with a musky scent.

    ¡­

    Rough shaking wakes me from a deep sleep and I part my clammy eyes. ¡°Look at me.¡± Michael¡¯s voice enters my ringing ears as his face blurs above mine.

    I groan, my body all but sinking into the bed. ¡°I feel feverish.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s because you are.¡± He slides my hair from my face and places his palm on my forehead, then wipes it on the bed. ¡°You¡¯re burning up. I couldn¡¯t wake you right away.¡±

    ¡°You-you might to¡­ want to untie me,¡± I twist my tongue to form the words.

    ¡°I have.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± I shuffle my arms, so weak. ¡°Well,¡± I swallow, ¡°I¡¯ve been through hell. Beaten up, malnourished, on my period¡­¡± my thoughts scatter. ¡°I liked your lips.¡±

    ¡°All right.¡± He stands, turning to the kitchenette.

    ¡°It¡¯s true.¡± I can¡¯t keep my eyelids open. Everything feels like a dream, flowing and changing. Maybe I am dreaming?

    A minute later Michael is next to me again, a wet towel in his hand. ¡°You¡¯re delirious. That¡¯s why you liked them.¡± He places it on my forehead, so delightfully cold.

    I chuckle. ¡°You know I wish I could sit into a car and ride off into the sunset.¡±

    ¡°Please don¡¯t talk.¡± He pulls off my shoes.

    ¡°And the car has to be a convertible so¡­ so I feel the wind in my hair.¡±

    ¡°Freckles. Please, shut up.¡±

    ¡°Oh, God, and the sky so blue and beautiful, and then maybe meet someone with lips as soft as yours.¡± Somehow through my ecstatic deliriousness I register redness drain from his cheeks and his ice cold eyes lock on me like they want to butcher me.

    It doesn¡¯t scare me. Nothing scares me. ¡°You look tense.¡± He turns away, his arms and back tensing. ¡°You know, we could save you too. Somehow. Have you find a job, like start a family and all.¡±

    When he turns he has a gun in his hand. ¡°Or not,¡± I murmur. ¡°Oh shit.¡± He wanted to kill me, right? I try to move but I¡¯m too damn weak. ¡°I guess I¡¯ll focus on death now. Will you ever decide, man? Come on.¡± My heart rate speeds up, banging against my ribs so fast I can¡¯t even count the beats.

    I manage to inch back a little when he squeezes his eye shut, forcing himself to look away, and lowers the weapon. The gun in his hand shakes, itching to hurt me.

    With a sharp twist he strides to the bathroom and I catch a glimpse of his silver switchblade before he slams the door shut.

    I sigh. So, I guess I live. A surge of adrenaline coursing through me recedes and in seconds the world around me fades.

    ¡­

    When I open my eyes I find Michael sitting at the edge of my bed, spinning his switchblade in his hands. ¡°You look sad,¡± I whisper.

    Wordless, he hides the knife in his inner pocket. One of his forearms is bandaged. I reach out to touch it but only reach his thigh so I shuffle my fingers over his jeans. ¡°You cut yourself.¡±

    ¡°How are you feeling?¡± His voice is gruff and quiet. He doesn¡¯t face me.

    ¡°Like I can risk a trip to the bathroom,¡± I utter.

    He helps me to the bathroom where I barely manage on my own before he escorts me back. This time he throws open the sheets and stuffs me under them. ¡°You¡¯re pain in the ass, freckles.¡± He lays down next to me, atop the sheets.

    A dizzy smile spreads over my lips. ¡°So are you. I¡¯m sorry I shot you, and tried to strangle you, and kissed you.¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± I follow his blank gaze to the ceiling. A cobweb flutters in the draft.

    ¡°What do you mean why?¡± He asks.

    I pull my sheet closer to my face and let my eyes slide shut. ¡°Why do you think your opinion doesn¡¯t matter?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a criminal, an outcast.¡±

    ¡°So? I¡¯d say your opinion is even more important than average person¡¯s.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Because your pain and your opinions shape what you do,¡± I sigh. ¡°It is important.¡±

    I hear a rustle as he turns his head and probably blinks at me as if I just crowned him a king.

    ¡°And you hurt people.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡± He trails off.

    I frown, my fever settling deeper into my bones. My brain hurts when I try to put it to work, but I force myself to look at him. ¡°You¡­ don¡¯t think you harm people?¡±

    He runs a finger over his bandaged forearm. ¡°I have my reasons. That¡¯s it.¡±

    I almost make a connection here. Something tells me that if I weren¡¯t this feverish I would¡¯ve figured it out already.

 Chapter 10 - Michael

    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¡ª¡± She leaps from the bed and lists to the side till she rams into the wall, heaving. ¡°Take it easy¡ª¡±

    ¡°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¡ª¡±

    ¡°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¡ª¡±

    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.¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    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¡ª

    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¡ª 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¡ª hope, dismissal, crazy hate, joy even¡ª 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.¡±

 Chapter 11 - Hanna

    Hanna

    By now I hate driving. No matter the beautiful fields or the bright cloudless sky. I absolutely hate it. Michael¡¯s driving, his one hand on the wheel and other on his shot leg. For some reason my stomach coils with the pity for the man. How twisted do you have to be to believe people deserve death because of their desires? Yet the second they don¡¯t desire anything, the second they¡¯re suicidal, as I understand it, the criteria doesn¡¯t apply. But the problem he struggles with seems to be the torment of someone who¡¯s suicidal, or any torment really. Over my feverish days in the motel he went out of his way to care for me, at least more than I ever imagined a murderer would, or could. From bringing me food to actually forcing me to take that damn shower. Even after he untied me last night (thankfully, I didn¡¯t have any panic attacks) I caught him glancing at me like a mother would at a crucified child¡ª filled with anguish, guilt, and remorse. That¡¯s why he can¡¯t kill me. That¡¯s why he acts like he¡¯s about to be torn apart. It drives him crazy, resulting in violence against me or himself. But the question I want an answer to is why and how come?

    ¡°Could I call Shia?¡± I ask.

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Please, I have to know if he¡¯s okay. And say my goodbyes just in case. It¡¯s not gonna change anything. I¡¯m worried for him. If he¡¯s not captured already, I could warn him. And if he is, I¡¯ll end the call.¡± Michael tightens his jaw, undecided. ¡°On the payphone, please.¡±

    ¡°Fine. Next refill.¡±

    I pray my brother is all right, and fear he¡¯s captured like me, tortured somewhere in an abandoned building. Except if he is, I doubt he¡¯s as lucky with his kidnappers as I am with mine¡ª

    I blink with a sudden shift of perspective and pucker my lips to the side. I am indeed lucky. I¡¯ve been dragged across the country, shot at, and beaten. But I¡¯ve also been fed, cared for while I was sick, had all the necessities provided for me and my virginity preserved even after I pushed myself on him.

    I shake my head, banishing this type of reasoning from my mind. This is what they call Stockholm syndrome. And it is wrong.

    I clutch on my seatbelt and focus on the roadside, smearing into a line of dirty brown.

    He, with his stupid beliefs, killed my sister. He kidnapped me and put me through hell. He¡¯s a mass murderer, a psychopath. The moment he steps over that border I¡¯ll make sure every damn Fed in the country is after him.

    ¡­

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    I¡¯m kicking sand while leaned against the payphone. ¡°Pick up, pick up, come on, bro.¡± I clutch the phone with my gloved hands. Michael¡¯s bought me gloves and makes me wear them to avoid leaving fingerprints everywhere.

    ¡°Hello?¡± A voice replies and I cover my mouth so not to burst into tears.

    ¡°S-Shia?¡± I don¡¯t even know how long it¡¯s been. Two mere weeks? Feels like ages.

    He chokes on what I think is his usual midday coffee and a chair scrapes against the floor as he jumps to his feet. ¡°Where are you, Hanna?¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter. Are you safe?¡±

    ¡°Where are you?¡± I hear a rustle of papers as he probably searches for another cellphone to call the police on his overcrowded desk.

    I press the phone to my ear. ¡°Shia, Shia listen to me, please. Please!¡± He stops rustling, his panicky breaths echoing over the line. ¡°Are you okay? Is anyone after you?¡±

    ¡°No, Hanna, I¡¯m safe. Where are you?¡±

    ¡°What about the gang?¡± I utter.

    ¡°The feds busted them, the whole organization Michael worked for. Granted there weren¡¯t many of them, but we¡¯re safe now. It was all over the news. Hanna, are y¡ª¡±

    ¡°What about Michael?¡± My voice overpowers his.

    ¡°He¡¯s clean but for a few thefts over seven years ago. They blamed his murders on one of the men from the ring.¡±

    What? With disbelief I glance at Michael by my side, then compose myself. ¡°Were all of them caught?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. Feds say all of them.¡±

    ¡°Good.¡± At least there¡¯s that.

    ¡°Hanna, are you with him? Are you okay?¡±

    ¡°Yes and yes.¡±

    ¡°Are you¡ª¡±

    Michael pulls the switch hook before I can stop him, cutting the call. I hold my phone to my ear, clutching it as if it were my brother¡¯s hand. His voice still rings in my ear, a connection over hundreds of miles.

    Slowly I hook the phone into place. Michael¡¯s not wanted by the feds. How am I going to get my justice? Even if caught, he won¡¯t be convicted for all the murders but for one petty kidnapping. And that¡¯s only the best case.

    When we¡¯re back on the road I prop my head on my fist, trying to think clearly over all that has happened, examine my feelings and pick a single one I should follow. Justice over pity, I tell myself. It feels so wrong.

    ¡°What did he say?¡± Michael asks.

    ¡°Your gang was busted.¡±

    He gulps as if it¡¯s a bad thing. ¡°All of them?¡±

    ¡°From what was on the news.¡±

    ¡°What of me?¡±

    ¡°Not wanted.¡± I press my lips into a tight line until the wetness in my eyes passes. ¡°So not fair.¡±

    ¡°World¡¯s not fair, freckles.¡±

    ¡°If I don¡¯t die, I¡¯ll spill it all,¡± I murmur. ¡°It¡¯s not if anymore.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    I wait for him to continue, but tense silence settles in between us. He probably doesn¡¯t want any desires to leave my mouth.

    I slide open the window. Warm wind hits the inside of the car.

    ¡°Close it,¡± he says.

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re still feverish.¡±

    ¡°Oh, look who cares,¡± I chuckle, dismissive.

    ¡°I¡¯m not gonna watch¡ª¡± I stick my head out and his voice drowns in the gushing wind. My hair drapes around my face and I squint, a smile splitting my lips. His grip on my shoulder pulls me back inside. ¡°I¡¯m not gonna watch you if you get sick again.¡±

    I let out a laugh. ¡°Yes, you will.¡± I poke my head out again. This time he doesn¡¯t stop me and I thank him for that. I guess we have to get to the border first before I make any decisions. So, for now, I at least can entertain myself.

    The plains stretch as far as the eye can see, dissolving into the horizon, burnt orange by the evening sun. The wind bangs against my ears and body, and it takes effort to push the air out of my lungs. Still, the rush of speed overtakes my senses and for a moment I feel like I¡¯m midflight. So light and free.

    This is my convertible, this is my horizon, carrying me into life, or death.

 Chapter 12 - Michael

    Michael

    I¡¯m flipping the map of the country over my knees, devising the best route to the border and the safest place to cross it. With a contract out on me it¡¯s not going to be as easy as I¡¯d like it to be. My gang got busted and it must be a reason Jared placed a price on me, meaning he and some others probably escaped the Feds and are now in hiding.

    ¡°Are you sure you still need me?¡± She whines, stretching her legs by the open car door. The sun hits her face and a grass field lists in the breeze behind her. ¡°The gang is gone, right?¡±

    ¡°Probably not all of them.¡± I scrutinize the roads, squinting in my glasses. It¡¯s long since I need new ones. I can¡¯t see for shit from up close. ¡°And if they are I still have a bounty on my head, meaning any decent criminal gang will know my face.¡± This creates problems. I won¡¯t be able to get a fake passport as easily, and I do need a good counterfeiter if I want to successfully escape the authorities freckles will send after me.

    She stretches her arms over her head. ¡°Great.¡± She jerks suddenly once, her body convulsing in a wanton motion I don¡¯t fail to notice.

    ¡°Freckles?¡±

    Her attention strays off into the field, her face numb and her body tensing.

    ¡°Hanna?¡±

    Sweat masks her forehead in seconds and she climbs into the car, shutting the door. She bends down and hides her head under her hands as if bracing for impact. ¡°Are they still after me?¡±

    My gaze jumps to the front view mirror. The dusty country road is empty. ¡°No one is after you. No one is here.¡±

    ¡°Are you sure? Because I-I saw a man. Two of them,¡± she whimpers, still hiding.

    To make sure we¡¯re safe I climb out. A lone car drives by, leaving a dust trail in its wake, uninterested in our vehicle whatsoever. ¡°It¡¯s clear, freckles.¡± I blow a huff of relief, my hand warming on the car¡¯s roof. She¡¯s making me paranoid, always on high alert for anyone. Well, as I should be.

    Inside she continues hiding, lost in flashbacks, hallucinations, and intrusive thoughts, which after all she¡¯s been through she has no choice but to believe without hesitation. If she makes it out of this trip alive, she¡¯ll have years of PTSD to deal with. PTSD that I gave her.

    She scrambles into the back and hides in the footwell, pulling her knees to herself. ¡°What am I gonna do?¡± I hear her utter, a clear sign she¡¯s not out of it.

    I start the car and pull into the road. ¡°There¡¯s no one here.¡±

    ¡°What am I gonna do?¡± She bites out. I arch my head back to look at her briefly. Ruffled hair covers her face, forgotten in the midst of psychosis, and her gray eyes stare out in front of her. She¡¯s completely catatonic.

    I set my attention back on the road, ignoring a short needle-like prick in my chest. It literally hurts seeing her in this state. ¡°What do you wanna eat?¡±

    No answer. I check the rearview mirror continuously in case she lashes out at me again. ¡°Hanna?¡±

    ¡°Why do you care?¡±

    I grind my teeth. ¡°Because you¡¯re fucking suffering, that¡¯s why.¡±

    ¡°You started it.¡±

    Here we go. If we keep talking, one of us will lash out again and we¡¯ll end up killing each other, so I keep shut.

    ¡°Something filling,¡± she voices a tad later. ¡°Like a burger or something.¡± Still, her tone drags and I figure the traumatic state will last a while.

    And it does, till the next refill. Once the gas tank in my car is full I drive to a small parking lot nearby and open the door to the back seat. ¡°Come on, freckles. You pick something.¡±

    She moves locks of hair from her face and looks at me, her eyes wide and sorrowful. I snap my head away and, unable to run from myself, focus on the evening sun, heating my face. I¡¯d rather have her try to kill me than look at me with pity or sadness. ¡°Come on, come stretch your legs.¡± I force some levity and softness into my voice. It sounds gruff all the same.

    Or maybe it doesn¡¯t because she shifts. I pass her one of the baseball caps and help her out. Collecting her red hair under the cap she looks around the gas station and takes a deep breath.

    ¡°Do not make a scene, or I¡¯ll be forced to kill everyone in that station,¡± I say quietly as I put my cap on as well, then slide on my glasses, and pull off my gloves. ¡°Keep yours on.¡± Two of us gloved would be too suspicious.

    Once inside the store she tilts her head up at the TV, hoping for news. I keep glancing over the aisles, observing her, the cashier, and the television. Thankfully, it¡¯s a typical program, the cashier is moping the floors, and freckles joins me to choose her food.

    Back on the road we drive, till clusters of stars scatter through the sky. I don¡¯t plan to stop in a motel tonight so I drive through the night hours. Only when my eyes start growing heavy do I pull over.

    Freckles is long since asleep in the back seat and I sit for a good hour, rotating a ziptie in my hands. I should tie her up if I want to get some decent sleep, but I can¡¯t force myself to go through her writhing in her nightmares. God, I can¡¯t.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    I shove my hand into my inner pocket, resting it on my knife, and drift off only for her loud yelp to wake me up. ¡°Freckles?¡± She thrashes in her sleep, reliving the horrors in her nightmares.

    It¡¯s enough. I pull out my gun and my knife and leave them under the seat, then climb out and slide into the back seat. It¡¯s either I tie her up or hold her close enough for me to wake me up if she does anything dangerous.

    With careful movements I lean over her and lay my hand on her shoulder. She jerks awake, a panicky gasp leaving her mouth. Strangely, she doesn¡¯t shy away, and better yet, she props on her elbows to observe me with a soft, lingering gaze.

    I run a hand over the side of my neck, a little uncomfortable but one hundred percent positive this is the only thing I can do. ¡°Let¡¯s try and sleep¡ª¡±

    She kisses me, so suddenly I almost grab her neck again before I realize what¡¯s happening. ¡°Freckles stop,¡± I breathe out as I pull her away.

    ¡°Kiss me.¡± Her hand slides behind my neck.

    I recoil. ¡°You kissed me,¡± I spell it out, trying to bring her senses and morals back, only now grasping the extent of damage I inflicted on her.

    ¡°It helps with the nightmares.¡± Her cold fingers crawl under my shirt, leaving my skin tingling. Her lips brush against mine, generating arousing heat that travels over my body, weaving into my every cell.

    ¡°Freckles¡­¡± I let out over the kisses. She pulls herself closer and arches her little body against me, severing a few more strings of hard control I hold over my instincts.

    Think of what you¡¯re doing, Mike¡­

    I try to distance myself. Try to pay attention to anything but smoothness of her torso, squirming against me with what seems to be deeper desire than any hooker ever had.

    She¡¯s clearly enjoying me. Why shouldn¡¯t I enjoy her?

    No, keep it straight.

    Her hair slides against the side of my face and her hot breath tickles my ear. It breaks me.

    I wrap my arms around her, sinking my lips into hers.

    Stop it, Michael, stop it¡­

    But I can¡¯t. I kiss her and I kiss her hard. I tilt her head to the side and move down to her neck, tasting the smooth and salty skin. My hand slides down between her legs, over the jeans, and a trembling gasp escapes her. It makes my head spin with thirst.

    ¡°Stop,¡± she moans, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure. Yet her arms cling around my torso as she pushes her body against my hand between her legs. ¡°Stop it.¡± She doesn¡¯t mean it at all.

    But it snaps me back.

    I pull away, my manly parts screaming in protest.

    She pants, a flush on her face bright even in the moonlit night. ¡°We¡¯re not gonna fuck, are we?¡± She rakes her gaze over me.

    ¡°No,¡± I straighten and a rivulet of sweat runs down my back. She¡¯s not in her right mind. But neither was I.

    God, I need a hooker.

    She smacks her lips, her breathing slowing. When she takes me in for a second time, kneeling between her legs, her eyes widen. ¡°Oh god, what have I done!¡± Her eyebrows curl and she covers her face with her palms. ¡°I can¡¯t believe it.¡±

    ¡°Welcome back,¡± I utter. Her senses returned, just a little too late.

    I don¡¯t want to fuck her. She doesn¡¯t deserve it.  After all I put her through she deserves a night with someone better than me. With someone she actually likes for real, someone she willingly met.

    With lips as soft as yours, rings in my ears.

    The thought hits me like a hot pan. Do I wish for her to be happy? A tingling feeling tells me I want her to end up okay. I accept the fact she desires things and it¡¯s a recipe for a disaster. But I can¡¯t stop myself, can¡¯t stop my head from painting the perfect picture, seeing things I never had. It¡¯s as if a part of me woke up from a life-long sleep and now is doing everything to create new desires. And it desires her living a worthy, painless life. A life my mother wanted to live.

    ¡°It¡¯s wrong,¡± I tell myself as I vault off her and get out, trying to keep my shattering beliefs in place. She will never be this happy. The perfection I want for her is an illusion that eats away the reality, that makes you blind. And now it¡¯s making me blind.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± She climbs out after me.

    ¡°Everything,¡± I growl, my hands locked in fists. ¡°Get back into the car.¡±

    Not risking my anger she complies. I grab my stuff from the front and walk down the road a little bit, purging those poisonous thoughts from my head.

    Then to make sure I don¡¯t hurt her I tilt my head up at the sky and let the blade of my knife leech out the rage.

    ¡­

    ¡°Freckles, what¡¯s wrong with you?¡± I hold my gaze on the road. ¡°Making moves on a thirty-two-year-old man like that.¡±

    ¡°Aha! I knew it. Thirty-two,¡± she exclaims, chewing on a sandwich, then turns serious. ¡°When I want to die you accept it as normal, but when I desire something as simple as a kiss, you think I¡¯m crazy? What is wrong with you? Have you never had whores?¡±

    I gape, no words of denial forming on my tongue. ¡°Desires kill people. Desires are a root of suffering.¡±

    ¡°How so?¡±

    I sigh. ¡°You fail to see the truth when you live in your dreams. It brings pain to you, and to those around you.¡±

    ¡°Is that¡¯s what happened to you?¡±

    I ignore her prodding.

    She gulps down and sighs. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t mean it. It¡¯s just,¡± she rotates her finger around her temple,¡± craziness gets to me. I¡¯m seeing things. I recalled you kissing me to snap me out of it and last night I went for it instinctively. I go with what I feel, you know. I feel like killing you, I try to do it. Feel like kissing you, try to do that too. But you¡¯re way more accepting with the killing apparently.¡±

    ¡°No, kissing is better,¡± I grunt. ¡°But not from you.¡±

    ¡°And isn¡¯t kissing a desire? Or do you not get horny?¡± Her voice rings playful but cautious at the same time.

    ¡°Sex is different. It¡¯s instinct,¡± I tell her.

    She frowns. ¡°How¡¯s that? So like fucking is okay? But wanting a happy family life is not?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Oh, you are fucked up.¡±

    For some reason I feel insulted. ¡°Says the girl who tries to hit on a man who murdered her sister.¡±

    She glares at me and I level her stare. It¡¯s warranted.

    ¡°She would¡¯ve made it,¡± she bites out. ¡°The only one of us who would¡¯ve saved up for that college. Who could¡¯ve provided for me and Shia. It was her dream. It kept us together while everything around fell apart.¡±

    ¡°And that¡¯s why it fell apart,¡± I say, my tone strict. ¡°Shut up now.¡±

    Tension creeps into her shoulders as she stiffens, her spine straight and her face hard. Just back off, freckles¡ª ¡°No. Shia and I tried to keep our uncle under control, while Selena worked to achieve things. We worked on it!¡±

    Knowing where this is going I pull over the country road and get out.

    ¡°We tried to make the reality better as well!¡± She doesn¡¯t back off, striding around the car to face me. ¡°We weren¡¯t blind to what was going on around us. But you know when everything fell apart,¡± she gets into my face, her eyes rimmed with tears, ¡°is when you killed her, Mikey. It¡¯s not the desires that kill people. It¡¯s you.¡±

    I grab her shoulders and ram her into the car. ¡°I¡¯ll kill you.¡± Maybe, I finally will.

    ¡°That¡¯s fine.¡± She tilts her head up at me.

    The words strike me so hard even my grip on her falters. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°If you kill me that¡¯s fine. Then that¡¯s what I want. If I live, then I¡¯ll make my life is worth it. Especially after all this,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯ll adapt like I always have. And I¡¯ll be thankful for all that you taught me.¡±

    A few breaths escape me. ¡°You don¡¯t make any sense!¡± I hit the car with my palm. She should pick one! What is wrong with her?

    When I ferret out my knife she grabs my arm. ¡°No, stop! Don¡¯t harm yourself!¡±

    I pull my arm from her small hand. ¡°Get away before I hurt you.¡± I lower myself to the ground, shielded by the car¡¯s shadow.

 Chapter 13 - Hanna

    I flit around, hissing through my teeth at the sight of that damned knife. ¡°Don¡¯t, please.¡± I fall on my knees beside him. How can I help him? ¡°Here! I got it!¡± I grab a fat lock of my hair and stuff it into his palms. ¡°Braid my hair.¡± I pull his wrists as roughly as I can, forcing my hair over the knife.

    Though he looks at me with doubt his hands clutch my hair, throbbing with ire, with loss. ¡°Braid it!¡± I reaffirm before his momentary shock has ended.

    ¡°How is it going to¡ª¡±

    ¡°Do it,¡± I snap and use his stupor to snatch his knife from his palm. ¡°Breathe, separate the strands and make a pretty braid.¡± I slide my fingers over his forearm with support. ¡°Come on.¡±

    Jaw clenched, he entwines his fingers into my hair, puts one strand over the other and starts weaving them as fast as he can. ¡°It¡¯s not working.¡± He pulls on my hair by accident. I wince and to my instant surprise his breathing slows, as if he just did something worse than a murder. With a short glance for my reaction he pulls his lips tight and focuses on his fingers.

    Patiently, I kneel as he braids my hair, creating a messy braid. Then, when he¡¯s done, he reaches for another lock and divides it into three. From his posture and face, stiff as if struck by lightning, it¡¯s hard to say if he¡¯s calmed inside. At least he¡¯s not harming himself, so there¡¯s that.

    My muscles relax, warming in a midday heat. Thankfully, this road is empty. I can imagine us from the side ¡ªa man, braiding a girl¡¯s hair in the car¡¯s shadow¡ª a bunch of crazy weirdos. Yet this is not as crazy as what has happened last night. Damn my nightmares to hell! Since I was already spacing out for the whole day when he woke me my brain was as irrational as a brain can be. No, irrational is an understatement. It was off, revealing my deepest instincts and scarred insides that made me cling to him like a cat to a tree when the ground is full of ravenous dogs.

    My third braid falls against my shoulder, bringing me back from my thoughts. He takes his knife and stands. When he opens the front door he leans on it, burying his head into the crook of his elbow as if a wave of sickness overtook him.

    ¡°You okay?¡± I ask. He reclines, his face pale as a sheet of paper. ¡°You don¡¯t feel well, do you?¡± There¡¯s no denial his perception is shifting. He¡¯s starting to see things he never did, see they don¡¯t always adhere to what his life taught him they should. And it might equal in tons of heavy psychological problems. ¡°I can drive. You can keep your gun on me.¡±

    He takes a moment, frowning over the fact that I can drive, then nods. I subside into the driver¡¯s seat.

    He keeps his vigil on me, instructing what roads to take, and we establish a relaxed rhythm, both of us enjoying the switch of positions. I know I certainly do, glad to do something else than stare out the window.

    ¡­

    At this point, I start hating the motels as bad as roads, but at least the motels have showers.

    ¡°I have some things I have to do,¡± he says as he puts his duffel bag onto the bed.

    ¡°God, damn it.¡± It means I¡¯ll have to roll on the bed tied up again. ¡°Can I go with you?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Please, pretty please?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± He pulls out zipties. ¡°I¡¯ll try to be quick.¡±

    ¡°But you won¡¯t.¡± He sure wasn¡¯t last time. ¡°You can lock me in.¡± I let him tie my wrists behind my back.

    ¡°You¡¯ll escape.¡± He moves onto my ankles.

    I spread my legs and lie. ¡°I won¡¯t.¡±

    He tilts his head to the side but doesn¡¯t force me. ¡°Come on, freckles. I¡¯m too tired to play with you.¡±

    ¡°Why can¡¯t I go with you?¡± I whine. He grows tired as he grabs my legs and pins them under his armpit. ¡°I hate you,¡± I grumble as my ankles press together under the zipties.

    ¡°I hate me too.¡±

    ¡°At least no gag, please?¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s the point of this if you can scream?¡± He pulls a rag from the duffel bag and ties a fat knot in the middle.

    This time I consciously appeal to his male desires. ¡°You can still kiss me.¡± I try to joke as I maneuver myself into a sitting position.

    He sits behind me. ¡°Stop it, freckles.¡±

    ¡°We can do lots of things you know,¡± I move my head aside when he tries to tie that dirty cloth around my mouth. ¡°Like make out and¡ª¡± he tilts my head up and kisses me. I almost choke at the surprise of it. He pulls away and before I realize what has happened I have a cloth in my mouth, secured behind my head with a tight knot.

    ¡°You hitting on me makes it way easier to handle you,¡± he whispers. A corner of his lips tilts and I frown when I realize he¡¯s playful.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with you?¡± I grumble a mass of sounds into the gag.

    ¡°What? I can¡¯t understand you.¡± He slides on his jacket. I stare at him, dumbfounded. Did I just wake his sexuality or something? Why is he playing into my dares, and moreover has fun with it?

    He stops by the door and looks at me, all smiles vanishing. ¡°Hitting on me, freckles. Ain¡¯t gonna work.¡±

    But it already did.

    ¡­

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with you, Mike?¡± Is the first thing I ask when he unties me.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    I rotate my jaw and wipe my mouth into my shoulder. ¡°Do you think I¡¯m blind? You clearly enjoy it, the attention you get. You don¡¯t have to do any of these things.¡±

    ¡°What things?¡±

    ¡°Well, you know, being nice to me.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m being nice to you?¡± He lifts his brow.

    ¡°You¡¯re doing it now!¡± I swivel to him. ¡°Are you drunk or something?¡±

    ¡°Nope.¡±

    ¡°Nope? What is wrong with you?¡±

    He leans into my face. ¡°What? Now that I¡¯m responsive to your charms you don¡¯t like me anymore? Do I not conform to your murderer stereotype?¡± He looks me dead in the eye and it sets me straight. He does this consciously, to give me a feel of what it would be like to actually have him responsive, to actually put his hands on me and crack a smile.

    And I don¡¯t want that.

    I bow my head with a sigh of clarity. ¡°Sorry, I just didn¡¯t wanna be tied up.¡±

    ¡°Something different might work better,¡± he says.

    ¡°But you kissed me.¡± I throw my arm out as soon as it¡¯s free. ¡°You, willingly, stuck your hand between my legs!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s good we both know it¡¯s wrong, right?¡± He levels my gaze. ¡°And if I hadn¡¯t restrained myself, like I did now, we would¡¯ve fucked already. But you don¡¯t want that, do you?¡±

    I avert my eyes with embarrassment. ¡°No. Not with you.¡±

    ¡°See what I mean.¡± He walks over to his duffel bag and, with his back turned to me, puts something in there. Looks like some papers.

    I stand and shake off my limbs. ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll try not to hit on you consciously. Can¡¯t promise after nightmares and panic attacks, though.¡±

    ¡°Deal.¡±

    ¡°Plus,¡± he turns, poised to deliver another blow. ¡°Do you know how many whores I¡¯ve been with?¡±

    I draw back. ¡°No. Why would I?¡±

    ¡°Do you know what whores might carry?¡±

    Through my dubious frown I realize what he¡¯s talking about. It sends me straight to the bathroom to wash my mouth. ¡°Oh God.¡±

    ¡°Makes you think twice, doesn¡¯t it?¡± He leans on a doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

    ¡°Fuck you.¡± I spit into the sink.

    ¡°Oh, I¡¯ve been fucked plenty.¡±

    I look at him. ¡°You¡¯re still doing it! You¡¯re fucking with me and you like it!¡±

    His lopsided tilt of the lip vanishes. ¡°Take a shower and get ready. We¡¯re leaving.¡± He clearly caught himself enjoying the fun.

    ¡°We¡¯re not staying?¡±

    ¡°No. This town is too dangerous.¡±

    ¡°Why did we stop here anyway? I¡¯m guessing paperwork?¡± I follow him out into the room. ¡°I assume you need some papers to make it easier.¡±

    He doesn¡¯t reply as he zips up the bag. I return to take a shower. I unbraid my hair and inspect myself in the mirror. My face and body are leaner and I too now have dark bags under my eyes, even if little ones. At least my side and my wrists heal as they should and I take some time rebandaging them. A layer of new skin has stretched over my wrist wounds and I¡¯m glad I cut to the side of the major arteries. I figure if I really wanted to kill myself this is not how I should cut.

    When I walk out I find Michael breathe a sigh over his remaining money.

    ¡°Mike?¡± I sit on the other side of where he lies stretched on the bed.

    ¡°Mm?¡±

    ¡°What happened to you?¡±

    He continues counting.

    ¡°I mean, your past? How come you think the way you do?¡±

    His fingers halt, then continue shuffling over the bills.

    Who am I kidding? He¡¯s not gonna talk about it. ¡°You know, I got locked in a locker once, for the whole night. It was awful.¡± He keeps counting. ¡°And once I jumped from a two-story building and broke my ankle. It was awful too. And other time uncle got drunk so much he broke Shia¡¯s nose. But Selena actually broke his. It was a scuffle. I called the cops from under the bed,¡± I chuckle sadly. ¡°Uncle means well, but he¡¯s a drunk.¡±You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    ¡°They all mean well,¡± he utters, all but shocking me.

    ¡°We would have fun sometimes too, he used to work out. Taught me too.¡±

    ¡°What about your parents?¡± Once again I struggle to believe he¡¯s making conversation. He¡¯s still counting tough, probably recounting, eyes locked on the money.

    ¡°They¡¯re abroad, trying to make ends meet. Working day in and day out. I don¡¯t know. I haven¡¯t seen them in five years. We¡¯re not close.¡±

    ¡°So how exactly do you want to get that convertible?¡± He stands.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I was daydreaming. And I¡¯ll stop right here before you lash out at me again.¡±

    ¡°You should.¡±

    Yet he asked me how. And it¡¯s clear as day that under the right pressure his cold murderer shell is cracking like an egg, well¡­ it¡¯s a bit stronger than that, like a coconut. He finally met the victim he can¡¯t figure out, the victim that pushes him in all the ways he doesn¡¯t want to be pushed. He does everything to hold this shell of his together. And he¡¯s failing. It¡¯s only a matter of time before what¡¯s underneath starts spilling. Who knows what¡¯ll happen then. For all I know once he escapes he might go completely insane and kill dozens of people.

    ¡­

    An endless road blurs, absorbed only by the horizon. At least the change of terrain into snow spotted hills and pasture fields is something different, right? I¡¯ve been driving for four hours and now wish I could trade places and get some sleep. Michael has set himself straight and shuffles his vigilant gaze between me and the sunlit road. A few cars travel in front of us and one trails behind, a good distance apart. From time to time, he turns his head to check on it.

    ¡°Think someone¡¯s following us?¡± I ask. My question is met with boding silence. ¡°Better tell me if you want to avoid me being captured.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. That town was the only place I could get the papers.¡± He checks his map. ¡°We¡¯ll have to change the route. Next intersection turn east.¡±

    ¡°When are we gonna sleep?¡±

    He rubs his face with his palm. ¡°When we¡¯re safe.¡±

    A few paranoid hours later we pull up into another motel in a small town. We had switched on the road and I managed to get two hours of nightmare-packed sleep.

    A small and lush neighborhood shelters our shabby motel and a bunch of kids romp in the playground nearby. I halt in my step, my attention catching on two tykes. They rush around in a furious game of tag, faces split with grins. I observe them, trying to relate to their joy, to birth that bliss inside my body. But my shoulders stay slumped, spine weak under the pressure of all I¡¯m living through. Only one memory alleviates the burden. Home. Back in New York City my brother waits for me, my uncle, and my life with my miniature teenage problems.

    ¡°Hanna?¡± Michael¡¯s baritone voice pulls me back. I wish I could dive into a small gathering of trees nearby, and run, and run.

    Once Michael shuts the door he visits the bathroom and succumbs on the bed, face down. I haven¡¯t seen him this exhausted yet. But it¡¯s no surprise. He¡¯s awake for almost two days.

    ¡°Eat and go to the bathroom,¡± he says.

    ¡°You¡¯ll tie me up again?¡±

    He grunts for an answer and I grunt with annoyance before I visit the bathroom and take as much time as humanly possible. Everything wouldn¡¯t be that bad if he didn¡¯t tie me up every night. I¡¯d ask him to hold me but being a hard-ass that he is, he¡¯s gonna avoid putting his hands on me like a plague.

    I walk out and stop in my tracks, unable to believe what I¡¯m seeing. I must be dreaming.

    He¡¯s tight asleep.

    My heart speeding up in my ribcage I tiptoe closer to inspect. There¡¯s no mistaking it. His eyes are shut, breathing calm and even. I cock my head at the door. It¡¯s locked and he has the key somewhere in his pockets. The window would be too noisy and he would snatch me in seconds. If only I could restrain him.

    I creep to the duffel bag and, glancing back over my shoulder, unzip it. Food, clothing, bullets, zipties, and even rope. I assume he doesn¡¯t want to use it because it¡¯s too messy. I look at his gloved hands, rested at his sides, and just as I need it an idea pops into my mind.

    ¡°Mikey?¡± I say, my voice medium loud to test him. Silence. I tug on my own brown leather gloves and walk over to poke him in the shoulder. Nothing. He¡¯s out like a drunk.

    Like the most cautious scientist I slip one ziptie around his wrist and tighten it, making a bracelet, praying for him not to wake. Then do it for the other before I take the rope and freely link the zipties, make a loose knot on top. Holding the ends of the rope I look at the contraption. I¡¯ll be able to pull his hands behind his back and tighten them in less than a second.

    Sweet God, what did I do to deserve such a blessing? I can almost taste that bliss now, can almost hold it in my hands.

    I breathe out through my pursed lips and swiftly climb on him, pulling on the ropes. It works perfectly.

    He jerks awake, but not fast enough as I already have the knot tied, all but screaming out revenge bitch!

    ¡°The fuck?¡± He calls out, straining. Balancing myself on him I manage to secure the rope tighter before he throws me off to the side and stands. I jump up, putting a bed¡¯s distance between us. We lock our gazes and a pleasant, tingling rush spreads from my stomach to my muscles. So vibrant and itching. For the first time I feel like a predator. And I love it.

    I have to tie his feet or he¡¯ll kick me out through the window. If he struggles, and he will, I won¡¯t manage with the zipties, so I take off my T-shirt.

    He tilts his head, unsure of what I¡¯m about to do.

    I dig my fingers into my shirt and rip it, making it longer. It should be enough.

    ¡°Freckles, think about what you¡¯re doing.¡± He bows his head in a predatory manner.

    ¡°I have,¡± I advance on him.

    He turns me his shoulder and spreads his legs, ready to kick. ¡°You¡¯re gonna get hurt,¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been hurt already.¡±

    I grab the light kitchen table and, arching sideways, throw it at his legs. It doesn¡¯t trip him but it gives me enough time to leap over the bed and dive with my whole body at his feet, grabbing them with my both hands and my t-shirt. He falls on his side with a ground-vibrating thud. I straddle his legs, sitting on his calves, and put my whole strength into wrapping my shirt around his ankles.

    I tie the strongest knot I can just in time. He throws me off and flops on his back with a transparent cloud of dust ascending into the air around his heavy frame. I jump on him, stuffing my hand under his jacket for his gun. I pull it out and ram it into his chin. ¡°Calm down.¡±

    He moves his head away as if knowing I¡¯m not gonna kill him anymore than he¡¯s gonna kill me. ¡°Untie me, freckles,¡± his voice is raw, imbued with coldness.

    ¡°I will. I need to talk to you first. Safely.¡± Before I get out of here. ¡°Why do you kill people who desire things?¡±

    He shuts his lips, breathing through his nose, and focuses on wiggling under me, trying to loosen the ropes with tiny movements.

    I pull his knife from his inner pocket and throw it on the bed. ¡°I¡¯m not going to hurt you. I want to know because it¡¯s a dangerous notion to live in the world with.¡±

    He ignores me and the gun I¡¯m holding to his face as he focuses on his restrains. Well, I guess since I told him I¡¯m not going to hurt him there¡¯s no point in threatening him with it. I throw it on the bed also. ¡°What has happened?¡± I ask, my voice intense. ¡°Tell me please. Because what you¡¯re doing is¡­ I don¡¯t understand it and I want to. I think it would help me move on in the future. Please, talk to me. People desire things, it¡¯s normal. ¡±

    ¡°God damn it! Stop!¡± He can¡¯t ignore me anymore and I know he¡¯s going to kill me if I untie him now. ¡°You know what it is?¡±

    ¡°No! I don¡¯t! Tell me!¡±

    He changes his mind. ¡°You¡¯re fucking dead.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± I call out. ¡°I¡¯m trying to help you. To understand you!¡±

    ¡°Help?¡± He all but cackles. ¡°I don¡¯t need your help! You¡¯re one useless bitch! Why do you care? You¡¯re a nobody!¡± He¡¯s offensively defensive and he probably knows it but can¡¯t help himself. Not in the situation where I¡¯m in control. ¡°You- you¡¯re like a poison. It¡¯s true what my gangmates said about women,¡± he rambles to himself, struggling under me.

    ¡°But it¡¯s not the fact I¡¯m a woman. You don¡¯t even like me,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s everything else, just admit it.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Your twisted psyche!¡± I throw my hand out, then calm. ¡°You¡¯re not alone. Don¡¯t have to be. Was it from your childhood? Your parents? Friends?¡±

    His face stills and his eyes turn frigid, and for the first time his looks level to his portfolio. If someone told me now this man is a mass murderer I wouldn¡¯t have any objections. ¡°Untie me right now if you want to live.¡±

    Now I won¡¯t get anywhere for sure. As much as I cherish being in control I decide not to show my trepidation. I stand and gather another bunch of zipties, to make sure he¡¯s tied up well.

    ¡°God damn it, freckles!¡± He calls out a little too loud. ¡°Untie me!¡°

    ¡°Shut up!¡± I growl over my shoulder.

    ¡°Help!¡±

    A shiver bolts through me. I¡¯m not the only one who can call for help. I grasp the rag from the duffel bag and hurry back to him.

    ¡°Untie me right now!¡± He rolls on his belly and bends his legs, lifting himself onto his knees. No way I¡¯ll manage to gag him without tons of alarming noises.

    In my panic I grab the gun and, twisting it in my hand, swing out. I whip him across the back of his head.

    He succumbs on his side, unconscious.

    I prop my hands against my head. ¡°Jesus Christ.¡± Well, now when he gets free and if I¡¯m still near him I¡¯ll surely be dead.

    While he¡¯s out I gag him and secure his feet with zipties. I dip my hand into his hair. ¡°Ah, fuck.¡± I retract it bloody. So much for not hurting him. I find a band-aid and clumsily stick it on the wound. It¡¯ll help a little before it¡¯ll tangle in his hair. After, I put the table in place, stuff his gun into my pants and his knife into my pocket, take the money, the room key from his pocket, and the fake documents he acquired. When I¡¯m done talking to him I¡¯ll call the cops.

    A weak grunt tells me he woke. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t look at me like that,¡± I say as I stuff his money into my pockets. Yet, I feel bad for saying it, because it¡¯s more dread than malice he looks at me with. When I near him he tries to move away. ¡°It¡¯s okay.¡± I lift my palms up. ¡°I won¡¯t hurt you anymore, promise.¡± I kneel and help him into a sitting position, leaning him against the wall. He jerks when the back of his head touches the wall and looks at me with an accusatory gaze.

    ¡°Sorry about that,¡± I say. ¡°I don¡¯t want revenge. I want to understand you, you know.¡± I proceed with caution. ¡°After all you¡¯ve done to me I need to know why.¡± And whom will I send the authorities after. ¡°Because you see, if I live, I¡¯ll want things. And people will keep wanting. You¡¯ll never be able to stop all of them. That¡¯s the reality!¡± I feel my voice rising. Finally, he¡¯s tied up and I can do whatever I want. I got him. After almost three weeks of this torture I¡¯ll be able to go home.

    It¡¯s hard to believe.

    I grab his hair at the back of his head, forgetting all my non-violent promises. ¡°You create suffering, Michael! Not people who have fucking dreams and goals! What-what about the kids we saw at the playground? Do you know how many things kids want? How many ludicrous dreams they have?¡± I force his head up to face me. ¡°Do all of them deserve to die?¡±

    He looks at me from under his brows, taking deep breaths through the gag.

    ¡°Listen to them.¡± I can hear the voices enter the room through the cracked window. ¡°They want to live, to create, to be! Can you kill one of them?¡±

    A few quivers shake him and he squeezes his eyes shut, but there¡¯s nowhere for him to escape.

    ¡°Without people like them, without dreamers, there wouldn¡¯t be things!¡± I shake his head to make him look at me. ¡°We wouldn¡¯t thrive. Sure not all succeed but without them those kids wouldn¡¯t be playing in this park, you wouldn¡¯t be holding a gun. Look around you! Everything is built by dreamers! What you¡¯re doing is robbing the world of improvement!¡±

    He flinches, his breathing turning into panicky huffs. I blink, letting go of his hair, only now noticing that I tore a few hairs out. He lowers his head to his chest and I worry I might¡¯ve overdone it. I¡¯m shattering his reality after all, forcefully.

    I pull out a gag from his mouth. He doesn¡¯t react. ¡°Michael?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m helping them.¡± He quivers, then stills, as if trying to hold onto the remains of his beliefs. ¡°How can it be wrong? When it happened to me...¡± He doesn¡¯t acknowledge me like he¡¯s having a conversation with himself. ¡°It was real.¡±

    ¡°Your experience is one of thousands, of millions. The pain that you saw doesn¡¯t fit everyone in the world. Not the majority of it.¡±

    He shuffles and slumps on his side.

    ¡°Mike?¡±

    ¡°Just go,¡± he mutters. ¡°You¡¯re free. Go.¡±

    ¡°So you go and continue doing the same thing?¡± I throw my hand out. ¡°So you get an urge to kill people every time someone wants something?¡±

    I grip the gun, resting behind the waistband of my pants. Just how many lives could I save if I kill him now.

    But his is a life also.

    ¡°Listen.¡± I bend down to meet his blanched face. ¡°I want to help you, okay? Whether you end up in prison or wherever the beliefs you kill for are what shaped you, but they don¡¯t reflect what happens to the majority of people.¡±

    He gapes, his jaw moving in effort to find the words, but decides against it. I might¡¯ve pushed a little too far, did more bad than good. For all I know I cracked his shell completely, exposing all the pain and rot underneath.

    I should call the cops.

    I freeze as something I chose to forget and ignore enters my mind. Like death itself, ready to collect all the hope that remains.

    I am too a murderer.

    ¡°No¡­¡± I stabbed a man to death. For all I know I¡¯m wanted now. And I don¡¯t know if I¡¯m going to be able to convince them it was self-defense. I thought about it during long drive hours, but it never overlapped with legal ramifications. I always saw that scene through a haze, and I always tried not to think about it.

    ¡°God damn it.¡± My vision blurs as my dream of home shatters. My life might never be the same.

    I garb his head, my fingers jabbing into his cheeks, and turn him to face me. ¡°Do I deserve to go to fucking prison? For a murder I committed because your people were after me?¡± Tears spill from my eyes as I hold my gaze on his. ¡°Answer me.¡±

    He bites his lip as if restraining from a cry himself. ¡°No. God help me you don¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°And who made it so I might? Who created this pain? Who¡ª¡±

    ¡°I did,¡± a single tear escapes his eye and slides down, disappearing in his stubble.

    He admits it but I feel too numb to focus on it. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for what happened that made you be this way.¡± I let go of his cheeks. He rests his head on the ground, his hair glued to his sweaty forehead.

    I figure I¡¯ve put him in shock so I lay on the bed and give him some space. The door beckons to me, but there¡¯s nothing but pain behind it. Trials, prison, years of legal struggles and pain for my family. My uncle will sure as hell drink himself to death. I¡¯ll have to explain what happened to me, listen to people¡¯s judgements and how I shouldn¡¯t have felt what I felt for the man who kidnapped me. How I should¡¯ve acted differently¡­

    Or I can spend the rest of my life on the run. All thanks to a man who picked the victims who desired things. I swear it would be better if he was a brainless criminal from a gang.

    ¡°I-I¡¯m sorry.¡± I hold my breath at his dejected voice. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Hanna.¡±

    I wipe my tears and part my lips to ask how he¡¯s feeling, but muffled rough voices from outside make me bolt upright.

    ¡°Which door is it?¡± A male voice asks. ¡°Are you sure this is the motel?¡±

    ¡°The car is his. I think.¡±

    Michael sits up and we both look at each other in shared horror.

    ¡°Untie me,¡± he says, his voice clearer with a surge of adrenaline.

    ¡°Yep.¡± I jump to him, cut his bonds and back away. He doesn¡¯t even look at me as he stands and sways to the duffel bag. ¡°Gun?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll keep it.¡± I pull the gun. ¡°You¡¯re dizzy anyway.¡±

    ¡°Because you thwacked me on the head,¡± he hisses. ¡°Open the window at the back.¡±

    I crack the window open and we climb out, our heads low and voices reduced to whispers, then sneak around the motel.

    ¡°They¡¯re gone,¡± I say, observing a line of motel doors. ¡°Somewhere.¡±

    ¡°To the car, hurry.¡±

 Chapter 14 - Michael

    Michael

    The world around me blurs as I push my feet forward, and behind the wheel.

    ¡°Are you okay to drive?¡± She asks.

    Not okay, but I have no other choice. I pull out of the lot, blinking out the pain from my head together with the hardest psychological toll I¡¯ve experienced in my life. ¡°Get down.¡±

    She bends down in her seat as we drive past two thugs I don¡¯t recognize. ¡°Fuck.¡± Some amateurs tracked me after I had visited the passport counterfeiter.

    The men sprint to their car and pull out of the lot after us.

    ¡°What are we gonna do?¡± Freckles asks.

    I take a few deep breaths, searching for solutions. ¡°Gotta lose them. Somehow.¡± The car follows ours at a steady pace and I speed up so I can take a bunch of quick turns through the weaving streets, yet in the night there¡¯s plenty of open roads and I¡¯m not gonna lose them unless we start a full on chase.

    ¡°Check the map for the closest and biggest city,¡± I tell freckles as I shove her the map, then turn on the overhead light. ¡°And stay low.¡± In the rear view mirror the men follow.

    ¡°Think we¡¯ll be able to lose them there?¡± She asks, then instructs me the direction in which to drive. ¡°But it¡¯s across the border.¡±

    I glance at the map and hope we¡¯ll be able to cut it through the fields and approach the city from the other angle. I aimed specifically at this area to cross as it¡¯s heavy with forests and unguarded, or so I heard it to be.

    Once we leave the town I focus on the road and shut all the lights, blending us with the dark road as we keep a fixed speed for another half an hour, heading straight into a growing mass of clouds periodically carved by a silent lightning, highlighting a patch of sky and earth around it. We¡¯re headed into a storm. The men follow, a good distance apart in their old gray sedan, and since they didn¡¯t look like professionals I figure they¡¯re not sure when to attack. Still, this situation is nothing good.

    I make a swift turn into a field. Hanna gasps. ¡°Why the field?¡±

    ¡°Border,¡± is all I say as I drive.

    ¡°Okay.¡±

    I glance the pursuit vehicle turn into the field after us, it¡¯s headlights fixed on our rear. For amateurs they¡¯re persistent.

    ¡°How¡¯s your aim?¡± I try to think fast over the pain at the back of my head.

    ¡°All right? I don¡¯t know. I haven¡¯t spent my life shooting.¡±

    ¡°Your reverse drive?¡±

    ¡°Ugh¡­¡±

    A bang hits the car and we both duck. ¡°Shit.¡± Three more bangs and the back of the car dips, slowing us. They blew our tires before we did theirs or came up with any better idea at what to do. Our speed decreases, naked wheels dragging across the bumpy earth, until we come to a stop. I duck. ¡°Give me the gun!¡± The engine roars as they drive up, halting further away from us, headlights illuminating the field around our vehicle.

    ¡°No!¡± Before I grab her she opens the door and leaps out, ducking behind the car. I scramble out after her and we fall silent, crouched in the shadows and in the rain that starts to drop from the sky.

    I hear doors slam. ¡°We know you¡¯re behind it!¡±  One shot hits our car and we crouch lower.

    I pull my silver knife and tap freckles on the shoulder to get her attention, then lean into her ear. ¡°Go into the field, they won¡¯t see you in the darkness. And just get out of here, okay?¡±

    She blinks at me. ¡°You mean like get out get out? Like go?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    Without wasting time she flops on her belly and quickly dives into the short grass, her small body blending with the ground and the car¡¯s shadow. It¡¯s not until she crawls away and into a small ditch in my fuzzy mind do I recall that she has the gun. Fuck.

    ¡°Well, well.¡± One of the men rounds my car, his gun extended at my head. Other one shines his flashlight at some snow-soaked papers in his hands, then at me. ¡°That¡¯s him. Michael Sherman.¡± He pivots around. ¡°They said he might have a girl with him.¡± He directs his light into the fog of the approaching storm.

    ¡°Well, she¡¯s probably gone.¡± Another one points his gun at my head closer, a cocky smile on his amateur mug. ¡°They pay less for you dead, but it¡¯s still a lot¡ª¡±

    His head jerks from a shot and he hits the car, blood splattering all over the door. The other guy swivels, throwing away the papers with my face. I leap up and grasp him in a head lock. ¡°Don¡¯t shoot, freckles!¡± I call out as I ram him into the car, knife under his neck.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    Hanna¡¯s frame appears from the fog, and she instantly throws up at the sight of a first man, his mutilated head scrunched against the car.

    ¡°Did Jared send you?¡± I growl at the man, holding him in a firm grip, straining my muscles past their limits.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°How did you learn of the bounty?¡±

    ¡°Some thugs are willing to pay for you, say it¡¯s revenge. More if we take you alive, but dead is also okay,¡± he whimpers. ¡°Listen, we¡¯re not professionals okay, we¡¯re trying to make a living.¡±

    ¡°Where was that thug from? Have you heard anything about him?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know, word goes he¡¯s from New York, probably of a gang that got busted by Feds recently.¡± He tries to twist his head to plead into my face. ¡°Please, just don¡¯t kill me, okay? I¡¯ll leave you alone.¡±

    I pull out his gun from the waistband of his pants and shove him to his knees.

    ¡°Are you going to kill him?¡± Hanna¡¯s voice makes my hand halt. The thought that I can let him go didn¡¯t even cross my mind.

    ¡°No, no please! I have a family, a three-month old daughter!¡± The man raises his hands, his head low.

    ¡°You should let him go,¡± freckles whispers at my side.

    ¡°Look away.¡± I lift the barrel to his head.

    ¡°No! Don¡¯t¡ª¡± a shot echoes through the silence and the man succumbs to the wet ground.

    I shuffle through the men¡¯s pockets and take the money, then wipe the fingerprints inside my car before I turn to their gray sedan. Freckles follows me. ¡°I don¡¯t have anywhere else to go now.¡± She hugs herself, her tone bleak and her hair dripping water onto her clothing. I don¡¯t say anything as I start the vehicle. She takes the passenger seat, wiping her face from the vomit. I drive across the field, rounding the town and the border patrol in a decent radius.

    For the first time my mind swims with guilt. I didn¡¯t have to kill him? Why wouldn¡¯t I? He was a threat, a pleading victim just like the rest of them.

    And then I just robbed a girl of her father, in the same way I robbed Freckles of her sister and of all the good she might¡¯ve experienced with her. In the real world too. It¡¯s not like all they ever did together was dream up unrealistic expectations. No matter how hard it was they tried to make the real world better too, and they might¡¯ve succeeded, despite everything in me screeching they¡¯re bound for a failure.

    Why is it so hard for me to believe that some people can succeed? After all, freckles is right, all I see around me was built by achievers.

    But the pain my mom went through, how on earth she could¡¯ve done it? If only she didn¡¯t reject the reality so bad, if only she was there with me and dad¡ª

    ¡°Watch out!¡± I¡¯m snapped into awareness by her shriek and I slam the brakes right in front of a creak that runs along the road. Heavy rain pelts the roof and the windows, it¡¯s drumming soothing me into my thoughts and out of so needed alertness. I let out a breath and lower my forehead onto the wheel. ¡°We got to change cars.¡± I take a minute, waiting for the dizziness to pass, then drive along the groove until I find the ground flat enough to cross.

    ¡°You need to rest,¡± she says, her voice strict. ¡°We can stop for a while.¡±

    I ignore her.

    ¡­

    When we enter the first Canadian city I don¡¯t bother leaving her in a motel as I stop to buy a map at a kiosk five minutes before it closes, then leave the sedan in an inconspicuous place and through the dark, rain-pelted streets, set off to steal another vehicle.

    ¡°Hurry.¡± She stomps around as I¡¯m removing the ignition covers to hotwire the cheapest looking garbage of a car I picked, yet I struggle to distinguish the wires and my hands move so slow they might as well be half-paralyzed. My ears ring in the background and my lungs fail to expand for a proper breath of air.

    ¡°Come on,¡± she urges.

    An alarm breaks out and we stiffen. ¡°Fuck. Run.¡±

    We set off into a sprint down the street, then turn between the taller buildings and run some more. When I decide we¡¯re far enough I slow, propping my hand on the wall in an alley, heaving. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s wrong with me because it¡¯s not just fatigue that¡¯s plaguing my body. I¡¯m going insane. My mind keeps rerunning the memories of a man I killed a few hours ago and a suffocating feeling pads the insides of my chest. ¡°What is this?¡± I whisper to myself.

    But freckles notices. ¡°Probably a panic attack.¡± She nears me. ¡°Breathe.¡±

    ¡°What? I haven¡¯t had those in ages.¡± Fear overtakes me and I growl, ¡°it¡¯s your damn fault.¡± She backs away and I catch myself before I lash out, and with it follows the blooming feeling of guilt, guilt for being who I am, guilt for existing. The load in my chest grows so heavy I all but feel my legs buckle, the wound in my thigh throbbing.

    ¡°How far is the motel?¡± She hefts the duffel bag from my shoulder, finds the map and walks to the closest street light, squinting at it in the rain.

    I lift my head at the light, trying to breathe evenly. My eyes blur from the rain or my own sweat, and all I see in my mind¡¯s eye are people I killed; the fear on their faces as they plead at me.

    Please, please, don¡¯t¡­

    I¡¯m begging you.

    ¡°Here. Come on. Let¡¯s catch a night bus.¡±

    I shuffle over to her. She grabs my hand, pulling me until we board the bus. Clutching my hands into tight fists, I drop into the seat. My entire body vibrates as if it were poked by needles from inside out. ¡°Freckles, you deal with this, what do I do?¡±

    ¡°Nothing, there¡¯s nothing you can do.¡± That¡¯s reassuring. ¡°It¡¯s okay. I know realizing what you did and waking up from those beliefs of yours is painful.¡± Her words thwack me on the head.

    ¡°Shut up.¡± I slacken in the chair, wetness and cold penetrating my muscles.

    She shakes me awake some time later and I jerk my head up from her shoulder. ¡°We¡¯re getting out.¡±

    We stalk to the motel and check in. I list to the bathroom, dragging myself as if I were dragging a bag of boulders and wash my face. Just go sleep it off, I tell myself. It¡¯s going to end, but it doesn¡¯t feel like it will.

    Her sister¡­

    I see her in my mind, laying on concrete, her blond hair slick with her own blood¡ª

    I give my head a violent shake and it only makes my vision darken.

    ¡°You should rest,¡± she says when I walk out.

    ¡°I tried to rest! But you¡­ you couldn¡¯t help yourself,¡± erupts out of me before I stop myself. ¡°You had to tie me up and spout all that nonsense into my head!¡±

    ¡°Nonsense? It¡¯s the truth. You¡¯re rejecting the truth, Michael!¡±

    My insides twist into a double knot. ¡°It-it¡¯s not the truth!¡± My breaths shorten.

    ¡°Yeah, whatever.¡± She pivots to the bathroom. ¡°For now we¡¯re safe, relax. I¡¯m going to take a shower.¡±

    I watch her go, the room around her tilting and swaying. I should lie down, but with a faltering step slow shivers settle into my limbs and my mind turns hazy. ¡°It just¡­ hurts so much.¡± My vision narrows and it feels like my body gains a hundred extra pounds, blood reducing its circulation. ¡°Freckles¡ª¡± the room winks out of existence and the last thing I hear is myself hitting the floor.

 Chapter 15 - Hanna

    Hanna

    A loud thud turns me on my heels and I leap out the door to a heap of a man on the ground. ¡°Fuck!¡± I squat next to him and turn his head to me. ¡°Mike! Wake up! Don¡¯t scare me like that, please!¡± My own anxiety rises. ¡°Come on.¡± I dig my fingers into his jacket and shake him, leather fabric creaking in my clutches. All I receive back is heavy thunder outside accompanied by haggles of our motel neighbors.

    My panic skyrockets. He¡¯s out. I don¡¯t know when he¡¯s gonna wake and what to do to help him. I¡¯m alone. What if more men track us? What if he dies? What if¡ª

    Unable to hold myself against the onslaught of terror I find a key in his pocket and step out into the hard rain, scanning the street. The hum of the downpour fills my ears and I inhale. ¡°I killed a man.¡± The reality finally catches up with the present moment. ¡°I killed another man.¡±

    I slam the door and lock it. ¡°Think calm, think calm, calm.¡± Lost, I stare at Michael on the floor. ¡°I should do something. Hanna, do something¡ª¡± I realize I¡¯m talking to myself and stop. Cursing I grab him by his armpits and one listing step after the other drag his hefty frame to the bed, then limb after limb shove him on it.

    Instead of taking a shower I grab the gun and sidle up to him, covering us with a blanket and laying my arms around him. Only now when he¡¯s wounded do I feel the significance of his presence, the sickening tranquility he evokes in my mind when he can protect me. So I hold onto him, whether he likes it or not. And he¡¯s unconscious anyway.

    ¡°What do I do?¡± I whisper. ¡°How will I survive without you? Now we¡¯re both fucked up mentally. We¡¯ll end up killing each other.¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡± His hand lands on my head, fingers spearing through my hair as he inhales deeper.

    I shoot up to my elbow. ¡°God, you scared me!¡±

    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t be the first.¡±

    ¡°I hate you so much.¡± I rest my head on his sweat-covered chest.

    He wraps his arm loosely around me. ¡°I hate you too.¡±

    I frown. ¡°What? You hate me?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, why wouldn¡¯t I? You fucked me up.¡±

    ¡°Please, you were susceptible to change. I just gave you a little nudge.¡±

    A long pause follows. ¡°You know, I wish I was different.¡± He slurs his words.

    I prop on my elbows to look into his half-lidded eyes. ¡°You wish?¡±

    ¡°Mm, have a normal life, free of pain.¡± It¡¯s clear as day his mind is hazy at least until he comes back to full alertness.

    ¡°And did you wish for it your whole life?¡±

    ¡°Started just now.¡± A corner of his lips twitches up as he imagines. ¡°It feels so good, so peaceful. I see a house and¡­¡±

    ¡°A what?¡±

    ¡°A woman,¡± he lets out a trembling sigh, his fingers squeezing my side. ¡°But I can never have it. I can¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    A tear runs down his cheek. ¡°It never worked that way. My mother, she wanted to be a writer, got lost in her dreams so much me and my father became her second priority. She ref-refused to see us and the life around for what it was. Once my drunk father tied me to a chair because I was hungry and annoyed him,¡± he pauses, his words as heavy as the lines of weariness edged into his face. ¡°Mom untied me. You know what she said to me?¡± He chokes up. ¡°You wait, Mikey, you just wait till I get that writing deal, till father makes enough money for that fucking deal.¡±

    My body stiff I stare at him.

    ¡°I waited and nothing changed. I waited while I was beaten, she waited while she was beaten. And-and she didn¡¯t do shit to stop him, to be there for me. Father saw it too, when he was in his clear mind, but on that night he went on a drunken rampage. He beat her with a broom. I tried to help, but he flung me through the open window of our trailer. When I woke up the neighbors were there, but no one dared to go inside. I went inside. I grabbed a kitchen knife and climbed on a counter and I stabbed that son of a bitch into the back of the neck. I remember mom looking at me in shock. ¡®What have you done, Michael?¡¯ She screamed at me, finally awake. ¡®Murderer,¡¯ she called me.¡±

    I stifle a gasp. ¡°She blamed you for it?¡±

    ¡°She did. I thought she came back to the reality, but she only blamed me for it. Why wasn¡¯t I patient? Why wasn¡¯t I who endured like she did? ¡®I got thrown out the window!¡¯ I shouted at her. She hit me in the face and then I knew it would¡¯ve been better if she were dead. If she were gone, my father wouldn¡¯t have had to worry over her stupid dreams, and- and we would¡¯ve lived normal lives, making money, worrying over food on the table and not some idiotic dream,¡± he struggles to sit up, eyes tearing up, and presses on, unworried or not even aware of the fact that he¡¯s revealing his past. ¡°So a few days later I found her swinging from a kitchen lamp. She left a note. I¡¯m sorry, it said. I threw it away, with all my heart wishing she always was in a suicidal state so her mind would¡¯ve been clear.¡±

    His head falls to his chest, containing all this torment inside his shaking body. I have no words.

    ¡°I can¡¯t have a house and a woman, you see, because if I start chasing it, I¡¯ll hurt people, I¡¯ll hurt myself.¡±

    I tilt his head up by his chin. ¡°You have no people to hurt, Mike. But death, death is what hurts people. Victim¡¯s family, friends, acquaintances. That¡¯s how you hurt people. Already. Not somewhere in a dreamland. Here and now, people suffer because of what you do.¡±

    ¡°But I save them from the greater pain.¡± He wets his lips. ¡°From those goals, and dreams¡­¡±

    Feeling the weight of his head grow heavy I take it into both of my palms. ¡°How can you know that all of them will have the same fate as yours was? How?¡±

    ¡°I-I¡­helped your brother.¡±

    I drop his head and recoil, sensing something I won¡¯t appreciate. ¡°How?¡±

    ¡°When I met him. I was twenty, he was a kid.¡±

    The hair on my nape stands up. ¡°Met him where?¡±

    ¡°In a gang.¡± Shia used to be an adventurous dreamer. Shia wanted things. He wanted to be a designer. But once our parents left and he hit the streets his ambition vanished. Drawings got forgotten, replaced by fighting skills and foul language.

    Michael snarls, his lips twisting. ¡°Kid wanted to be a designer.¡±

    I slap him so hard my palm burns. His grin vanishes as fast as I retract my hand, realizing that all I did was reinforce violence for bad behavior. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I shouldn¡¯t have done it.¡± I bow my head, then will myself into calmness. ¡°He was a child. He wanted things, but you didn¡¯t kill him? Why?¡±

    ¡°He was a child. It¡¯s easier to convince kids otherwise.¡± A speckle of hard belief flashes through his face as if what he did was the greatest thing in the world. ¡°I might¡¯ve saved you from the same fate as mine.¡±

    ¡°Might¡¯ve,¡± I repeat, my tone falling an octave lower. ¡°You did things you had no right to do. Decisions you had no right to decide! Maybe Shia would¡¯ve become a designer who¡¯s clothes you¡¯d now wear!¡± I grab his jacket and pull it up to his face. ¡°Or this bed you sit on! The choice you made wasn¡¯t yours to make!¡± He jolts from my voice, but I can¡¯t contain the animosity that pours from every pore of my body. ¡°You killed a dozen people!¡± He draws back, avoiding me. ¡°Don¡¯t you turn on me, you bitch!¡± I grab his face, nails scraping the flesh through his stubble.

    ¡°Freckles,¡± he bites out. ¡°Please, don¡¯t hurt me.¡±

    Once again, I retract my hand as if it touched fire. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to. God, I didn¡¯t.¡± I back away, but he touches my arm, halting my movement.

    ¡°That you didn¡¯t is enough.¡± He lays his head on my shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for all I ever did to you.¡± Before I know it his hand slides under my jacket and reaches for a gun. He retracts it, turning it to his head. Shock bolts through me like lighting and with a yelp, I push him back on the bed, jumping on him and grabbing his wrist with the gun. A shot thunders through the room before I pin his wrists at his sides, a gash opening in his forehead and pouring blood onto his face and hair. He loses consciousness at once and my body locks, sitting on him like a statue.

    I¡­didn¡¯t see that coming.

    The world around me fades into the distance but for the rain, hammering the windows, and gale, rolling against the motel walls with resounding bangs.

    When my perception returns, what must be a minute later, his right side of the face is covered in red. I press my hand against the gash in his forehead. ¡°Michael! Oh God!¡± I put a pillow to the wound and, tripping over all and everything, jump to the duffel bag. I flip open a med kit and find a bandage, then wrap it around his head, securing it tight.

    A knock on the door makes me yelp and slap my bloody hand onto my mouth. Gasping, I straighten. ¡°Hello?¡±

    ¡°We heard a gunshot?¡± A worried male voice says.

    ¡°Yes, we did too. Are you sure it was a gunshot? Sounded like something falling. I don¡¯t know where it came from,¡± I say aloud, pressing my bloody hands to Michael¡¯s head. ¡°I¡¯m not leaving this room.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, let¡¯s hope no one will call the cops.¡± Whoever came decides to move away just in time, because I yelp again at Michael¡¯s voice. ¡°Freckles?¡± He parts his eyes.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    I run a wet towel over his face, wiping the blood. ¡°It¡¯s okay. You can rest.¡±

    Once he realizes what he¡¯s done, or failed rather, a shiver shakes him and panic settles into his eyes, together with tears. He turns to his side and a cry erupts out of him.

    I observe him for a minute. This man, crying in a bed of bloody sheets, crying like I cried dozens of times. There¡¯s so much blood dyeing the white bed, the stale scent makes me want to puke.

    Careful with my movements I lay next to him, my hand on his bloody head, and he wraps his arms around my waist, probably unaware of his fingers digging into my back. He buries his face into my chest, sobbing, and I try to slide my hand over his head but can¡¯t as he squeezes the air out of me. Instead, I clench my teeth, gripping the bloody sheet. Pain stems from my waist.

    ¡°It¡¯s okay.¡± I doubt he hears me, so all I do is endure the pain this man can no longer confine inside his broken soul.

    ¡­

    I wake with the morning sun and check his head, wondering if I should tie him up in case he wants to hurt himself again. Yet, for now, he seems to be deep in his sleep and I decide to let him rest for another hour or so. Instead, I tiptoe to the window and crack it, allowing fresh air into the room.

    Picking dry blood from my hands I lean on the wall with my shoulder and peer out into the street through the crack in the curtains. Though the edge of the horizon harbors more storm clouds the neighborhood is tinted orange, overnight iced rain thawing in the morning light.

    I glance at Michael over my shoulder. It feels like we¡¯ve switched roles. I have to be strong now, I have to lead him and take care of him, which I don¡¯t want to do... or maybe I do. After all, it is my fault. I forced him into it. And I feel obligated to finish the job. At least until I figure out where to go myself.

    Back on the bed I try to maneuver myself away from the huge blob of blood. So much evidence we¡¯ve scattered on our trail. I hope the rain washed the bodies we left in the field. Michael wiped the fingerprints and we used gloves most of the time, but who knows? The feds are known to be persistent.

    I lay, observing his for once relaxed face. His stubble is a beard now and the bags under his eyes add to a picture of a fatigued man, so easy to read from small creases around his eyes and forehead, visible even through a thin layer of blood that covers his pale skin. Only now do I take in the features of his crude face ¡ª curved nose, a little too big for his face, low-set thick, unfitting eyebrows, and, actually, his beard with a little shade of ginger in it. It makes me chuckle. In something we¡¯re alike.

    Despite myself, I admit that I fully Stocholm-ed to him, for there¡¯s not a single thought in my head that would want to bring him harm. He deserves a life, deserves redemption. And, for me, fixing his twisted psyche would be enough.

    He grunts in his sleep, reminding me of what might happen should he wake and still want to kill himself.

    I find zipties and tie his hands to the bed frame, above his head. As I finish he parts his eyes and squirms with rising panic. I put my palms out in a calming gesture. ¡°I¡¯m not gonna hurt you. It¡¯s for your own safety. I did not go through all this trouble for you to kill yourself,¡± I pause, munching on my lip, then unable to control my disappointment snap. ¡°You scared the fuck out of me! What were you thinking?¡±

    He blinks at me a few times, tense against his bonds, then forces the sound out, ¡°it felt so awful.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s cowardice.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s my choice. You don¡¯t have the right to make it for me.¡±

    I gape, lost for a second. ¡°It¡¯s a good choice! And I do get to make it for you!¡±

    He frowns. ¡°A bit hypocritical, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°No, because after all you did to me you might as well owe me your life!¡± I thrust my palm at him, tears gathering in my eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t want you to die.¡±

    ¡°Why not? Why not revenge, freckles?¡±

    ¡°Because lives are precious. And because I need you.¡±

    The frown deepens. ¡°You need me?¡±

    ¡°Yes. You kidnapped me, should¡¯ve taken into account Stockholm¡¯s.¡±

    A sigh escapes him. ¡°Should¡¯ve taken Lima¡¯s.¡±

    I search my mind, then remember that term used to describe the opposite of Stockholm syndrome. ¡°It¡¯s hardly Lima Syndrome,¡± I give a morbid chuckle.

    ¡°It¡¯s a mess.¡±

    ¡°Yes, yes it is.¡± I lean in closer to him. ¡°Promise me you¡¯re not gonna kill yourself.¡±

    He doesn¡¯t concede. ¡°What about the feds you wanted to send after me?¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t. I killed a man. Two now,¡± I sigh, still working over the fact that I¡¯m a murderer. A part of me still says it was self-defense, even though I had a choice. And I chose to kill the second man. I could¡¯ve just ran, but¡­ in a split second I couldn¡¯t bear a thought of Michael being shot in front of me by those thugs. ¡°And I would¡¯ve sent them after the old you. Not the mess you are now.¡±

    He bites his lip tightly. ¡°You have an awful lot of hope in me, freckles.¡±

    ¡°I do because it¡¯s valid.¡±

    ¡°Valid,¡± he snarls. ¡°I killed fourteen people now. How can it be valid?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s valid because all I¡¯m doing is giving you a little push. The rest happens on its own. If you were a stubborn cold-ass killer I wouldn¡¯t bother. But you aren¡¯t. You couldn¡¯t kill me because of the things you believed and you started cracking as soon as I didn¡¯t conform to your ideas of the world. That makes any hope valid. You¡¯re soft underneath all this.¡± I point at his chest. ¡°You¡¯re alive in there.¡±

    Avoidance rids his face. He doesn¡¯t believe me.

    ¡°You crying only proves it.¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t remember?¡±

    He tilts his head to the side, dubious. I turn and lift my shirt, showing scratch marks on my back. ¡°You hugged me, bawled your eyes out.¡±

    It takes him a few seconds to register, then he turns red with embarrassment. ¡°I-I¡¯m sorry.¡± The last thing he¡¯s used to is being vulnerable in front of other people.

    ¡°It¡¯s okay.¡±

    ¡°But how do I do it?¡± He shifts, his eyebrows curled. ¡°What do I do to prove hope?¡±

    ¡°Baby steps.¡± I shrug what seems to be obvious. ¡°Practical steps that bring results. Have a vision, a desire in mind but act too. Not just daydream and hope for it to happen. Simple as that.¡±

    Confusion mars his eyes and his breathing slows. It¡¯s hard for him to talk about it. ¡°Example?¡±

    ¡°Well,¡± I roll my eyes up. ¡°Do you want something?¡±

    ¡°Water, food.¡±

    ¡°Like besides the basics. Something, uh¡­ deeper.¡±

    He thinks about it. ¡°No.¡±

    He¡¯s so rigid in his thinking he has troubles wanting the most basic things like friendship and human connection. How do I make him feel something? He did feel it. In the car when he kissed me he felt desire, the closest emotion he can get to right now.

    I lift my arms and pull off my shirt, staying in my bra.

    He strains. ¡°Freckles.¡± Zip ties dig into his wrists and he snaps his head to the side. ¡°Put it back on.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not going to force myself on you. Calm down.¡±

    ¡°Why then?¡± He intently stares at the weak rain, sliding down the window covered by the transparent blinds.

    ¡°Look at me, please.¡±

    Reluctantly, he serves me a flat look. I slide my hands behind my back and unhook my bra.

    ¡°Freckles, please, dress,¡± the tone of his voice falls. ¡°And untie me.¡±

    ¡°Do you want me?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± When he peeks at me I slip my bra down.

    ¡°Imagine your hands all over my body,¡± I add sweetness to my words, wishing they reach him.

    He gulps, his throat and every muscle in his arms tense and defined. ¡°Jesus, Hanna, you¡¯re raping my brain.¡±

    ¡°You do want me?¡±

    His gray eyes glint and snap at me. ¡°Yes, I do.¡±

    ¡°But why keep stopping yourself? It¡¯s not like you care I¡¯m seventeen.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t deserve it. Don¡¯t deserve to be fucked like a whore.¡± It rings true. That¡¯s what he believes.

    ¡°What do I deserve?¡± He chokes up and I know I hit the right spot. ¡°What do I deserve, Michael?¡±

    A muscle in his neck pulses. ¡°Something better.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Someone you actually love, okay!¡± He cracks. ¡°Someone who makes you happy. You deserve to be happy, to have everything work out for you at the end! I want that for you.¡± His enraged voice dies down as he finally admits it to himself.

    ¡°It¡¯s possible. For me and for you,¡± I whisper. ¡°Want anything else?¡±

    He heaves a sigh, observing me while he forms his thoughts. ¡°God, I don¡¯t deserve a hostage like you. A fucking hostage who tries to make me better. Who¡¯s as kind and understanding as you.¡± My smile reaches my eyes, and he scoffs. ¡°And then smiles at me like I did a good thing.¡±

    ¡°Can you still imagine that house?¡± I ask. ¡°And a woman?¡±

    He looks at me as if he¡¯s committing a sin. Of course, he can. ¡°Can you imagine that woman being me? Imagine me happy, with my happy ending.¡± He gapes in protest, but then, as if pushing against gravity itself, tips his chin. ¡°How would you treat me?¡±

    ¡°No. You won¡¯t end up with me,¡± he states.

    ¡°But if I did you¡¯d treat me nicely, with care and love¡ª¡±

    ¡°Shut up. Don¡¯t you see what we¡¯re doing?¡± He strains. ¡°We¡¯re running away into these damn fantasies!¡±

    ¡°No, we¡¯re still here. I¡¯m still naked. You¡¯re tied up with a bleeding head. We¡¯re on the run in a shitty motel. That¡¯s the reality. Look around you. We¡¯re not in a dream land.¡± With a scan over the surroundings he seems to ease. ¡°And it¡¯s okay to want things, to want more than a fuck as you put it. A connection, trying to make each other happier. It¡¯s mutual, you know, with all the people. You help each other, support each other. And your baby step right now is realizing that.¡± I cover my breasts with my arms. ¡°That¡¯s how I lived. And who are you to decide it¡¯s not how it works just because it didn¡¯t for you.¡±

    He slackens against the bed, expression vacant of emotion as if lost somewhere in the void. I think my point registered. I take a knife and reach out with one hand to free him.

    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± he says.

    ¡°Why not?¡±

    ¡°Why do you think?¡± He grumbles with a hungry gaze down at my body.

    ¡°Well, you can control yourself, can¡¯t you?¡± I cut the zipties.

    He jams his hands into his armpits and turns away. ¡°Please, dress.¡±

    ¡°I liked when you kissed me you know. I liked when you were playful and responsive.¡± And if I forget who we are and everything else between us I truly did like it. ¡°It resembled normal. Not just a senseless fuck.¡±

    ¡°Will I have to dress you?¡±

    ¡°Please,¡± I chuckle. He runs a hand over the bandage on his head before he sits and grabs my bra. ¡°Wow, you do want me to dress.¡±

    He rotates my bra in his hands, his movements jerky. ¡°It¡¯s tangled.¡± He extends it to me. ¡°Untangle it.¡±

    As I take it I feel his hand touch my back and his thumb runs over the scratches. A breath escapes me, rendering me afraid to lose my own control. I pivot my shoulder to him and look at his face, so close to mine.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± he says under his breath. ¡°For sticking with me.¡±

    I peck him on the lips.

    ¡°It¡¯s wrong,¡± he breathes.

    ¡°Fuck wrong. You want a connection. Connect.¡±

    I see it in his eyes, the moment he surrenders to the entirety of the sensual desire. His lips press against mine in a demanding kiss and his arms occupy my body. He pushes me on my back and on a mass of bloody sheets, pinning me down with his weight. A sharp metallic scent worms into my nose, briefly daunting, but is overtaken by the heat of his naked chest. I kiss him back as hungrily, tongue entering his mouth, and squirm against every inch of his unfaltering body. I grab his waist, hungry for something I¡¯ve never felt and all but grind against the bulge in his pants. At that moment, what he is and did loses all relevance, replaced by blissful ignorance and sweltering moans escaping me as I dig my fingers into his back. He descends down to my chest, leaving kisses all over my breasts, my midriff. I sink in the abyss of carnal euphoria, an experience I wanted to receive for so long¡ª

    He halts, taking a full lung of air.

    Panting, I lift my head. ¡°You okay?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± He props on his arms, on his fours above me. A soft groan escapes him. ¡°I¡¯ll never heal if we keep making out.¡±

    I put my hands on his biceps and he rolls off of me, slumping nearby. I peck him on the cheek. ¡°Well, good, you didn¡¯t want to fuck me anyway.¡± I wouldn¡¯t be against it though. He¡¯s the first man I¡¯m making out with and to be honest I don¡¯t regret a second of it. Call me crazy. You¡¯re crazy, Hanna, my inner voice utters, but I don¡¯t care anymore.

    ¡°I need rest.¡± He runs a hand over his bandaged forehead and it comes off glistening with sweat. I rest my arm over his waist, relaxing. ¡°You¡¯re quite wild for a church going innocent girl of seventeen,¡± he murmurs.

    I chuckle. ¡°Wildly curious.¡±

    We share a long look, a calm and quiet way of connection. ¡°Have you ever looked at each other like that with a hooker?¡± He pulls his lips tight and I figure I shouldn¡¯t make the same mistake again and push him too much. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter.¡±

    He swallows and runs a hand over his forearm, processing all I¡¯ve put into his head. ¡°What are we going to do, freckles?¡±

    I burrow my face into a clean corner of the bloody pillow, ¡°I¡¯ll come with you. I have nowhere else to go. I¡¯m a criminal too and I don¡¯t want to go to prison.¡± I wait for his response, hoping for approval perhaps, but he gives me nothing. A distant part of me pulls me back home, but shamefully I admit that I¡¯m terrified of leaving Michael. Not only because of how twisted he is, but because I¡¯m absolutely attached. I shove these feelings away and switch the topic. ¡°Last I checked we¡¯re running out of food. I should visit the store.¡±

    ¡°We need some warmer clothes too,¡± he says.

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid we¡¯re not rich enough for warmer clothes. And we need another med kit.¡±

    He nods in acknowledgment. ¡°Be quick, though.¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    I lay with him until he falls asleep, then leave the motel.

 Chapter 16 - Michael

    Michael

    I wake to the smell of blood, blending with potatoes and meat. Only now do I notice the room¡¯s appearance¡ªgreen walls, flowered curtains on the windows, wood floors ¡ªall tinted bleak white by the dusty lamp above my head. From the darkness outside I judge that I¡¯ve slept all day.

    My head stings as if someone took their time banging it with a bat, but I ignore it as I turn to the side, supporting myself with one elbow. ¡°Hanna?¡± She¡¯s not here. ¡°Freckles?¡±

    The door to the bathroom opens and when I see a black-haired girl walk out I gasp with a tiny heart attack before I register her familiar face. I pull my head back, confused by her dark hair that coils around her face in short waves. A few black dots spot her freckled cheeks and the tips of her fingers are dyed in black.

    ¡°Why did you do that?¡± I know why, but gathering remorse makes me ask.

    ¡°It¡¯s obvious, isn¡¯t it?¡± Her one shoulder jerks to her ear as she sits on the bed and reaches for my bandaged head. I tighten my lips as she undoes it.

    ¡°Is it bad?¡±

    She hisses through her teeth. ¡°It¡¯s quite nasty. It¡¯s not deep¡­ and it¡¯s starting to bleed again.¡± She presses the old bandage to the wound and runs off to wash her hands once again, or scrub them rather. When done, she grabs a new med kit and starts rebandaging my head. ¡°I think it needs sewing.¡±

    ¡°Do you know how to do it?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    Once she¡¯s done, I swing my legs over the bed and stand, or rather sway on my feet before I collapse back down into a sit, my stomach churning.

    She presses herself to my side, a not so firm pillar of support. ¡°You okay?¡±

    ¡°Do I look okay?¡± I grumble. ¡°I probably have a concussion.¡±

    ¡°From a bullet?¡±

    ¡°No. From you whipping me on the head.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± Her short hair, still damp, covers her guilt-ridden face. ¡°Sorry about that.¡±

    I wait for a few minutes till the dizzy spell passes, then stand again and manage to the bathroom, unable to ignore the cheap and dirty surroundings. Despite my fragile physical state everything looks sharper, the way it¡¯s never been, like I finally woke from a dream I didn¡¯t know I was dreaming. It scares me.

    ¡°I think I¡¯ll be fine.¡±

    ¡°You sure?¡±

    ¡°Mhm.¡± I should have enough strength to tidy myself up. ¡°It¡¯s not like you¡¯re going to help me through my shower.¡± I grin at her and wince when my temples give a sting.

    She opens her palms. ¡°Why not? You helped me.¡±

    I snort even though my chest buzzes with unfamiliar sensation, something warm and forgotten for a very, very long time. A part of me pushes it away and another part wishes it to take roots deep in me, craves for it to be felt and experienced.

    Yet, maybe, I¡¯m mistaken. So, hesitantly, I decide to clarify. ¡°Are you caring for me?¡±

    Leaning on the doorframe she nods as if it¡¯s evident and the warmth reaches up to my throat and to my eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll manage, thanks.¡±

    She observes me for a few seconds, doubt in her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re not gonna kill yourself if I leave, right?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± I say firmly. ¡°I promised to live more or less.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m just wondering if at this moment it¡¯s more, or less,¡± her eyes don¡¯t let go of mine.

    Just stop caring, I want to scream, but I just swallow a ball of tears, sending that damn thing back into my stomach. Then composedly say, ¡°it¡¯s less right now.¡±

    She lingers for a minute. ¡°Okay.¡±

    As soon as she closes the door I hold onto the sink and lower myself to my knees, my thoughts too heavy to bear. I swear I don¡¯t deserve a hostage like her, a hostage who saved my life and wants me to live. What an insane person she is!

    And yet, now I feel obliged to live and to better myself without any idea how, and do it while another, annoying part of my brain resists the change, fighting for its survival. But for now, it¡¯s a lesser part.

    I take my time showering and rebinding my wounds, anticipating her voice ring through the door at any second, inquiring if I¡¯m okay, but no voices soothe me and I¡¯m not sure if I should feel disappointed or relieved.

    Feeling fresher I shoulder open the door and stop dead in my tracks when I see Jared, sitting at the foot of the bed. Freckles lies at his feet, unconscious.

    ¡°Sit down, Mikey.¡± Jared points a gun in his hand at the chair near the kitchen counter, in his other he has my silver switchblade. I straighten my spine on instinct, putting on a healthy facade, and walk as steady as I can to the chair, every step accelerating my heart into the overdrive. ¡°You don¡¯t look too good.¡±

    Two thugs stand in the corners of the room, guarding the door, their weapons ready. I don¡¯t recognize them.

    I glare at Jared, reminding myself not to glance down at Freckles. I didn¡¯t see any blood around her. God, I hope she¡¯s not hurt.

    ¡°You taught me a lesson,¡± Jared says with a tilt of his head. When I keep quiet he proceeds. ¡°Use real assassins to do my bidding. Not warm pussies like you.¡± He kicks Hanna into the stomach and I jump before I stop myself. The men lift their weapons at me and Jared cackles. ¡°For a bitch, really? I thought you had it all! Fuck, Mikey, if you wanted a kid you should¡¯ve said so. But to fail to kill a bitch and risk all of our income¡­¡± he trails off, shaking his head so the fat around his body jiggles. ¡°We had the damn plan, remember? Back when I ordered you to kill the people. And I let you choose, didn¡¯t I?¡± He trains his eyes on me, all sad. ¡°And you did, only her you stalled. What is it about her?¡± He rams his boot into her shoulder and pushes her on her back, looks at her, then shrugs. Just then Freckles moans, waking. ¡°Oh, wakey, wakey.¡±

    Her eyes slide over the room and settle on Jared, her lip wobbles and tears spill from her eyes.

    ¡°Oh shut up,¡± Jared groans.

    She scrambles into a sit, her arms extending at Jared. ¡°Oh my god, thank you!¡± She wraps her arms around his legs. ¡°Save me from him, please!¡±

    Jared pulls his head back, half of his face scrunched and his double chin reminding me of a glob of dough. But my chin must be quite the same as I too stare at her as she whimpers into his legs, confused to say the least. No way she¡¯s for real. No way everything before was an act. This has to be an act.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!

    ¡°Take me with you!¡± She begs him, her arms draped over my gangmate¡¯s knees. ¡°Please, you have no idea what this fucker did to me!¡±

    Jared cocks his brow at me, his expression lost between pride and anger, but Freckles brings his attention back by sliding up onto his knees. My skin starts crawling without my consent, and even more so when she wraps her arms around his neck, weeping, thanking him over and over until Jared pushes her away. She staggers to one of the thugs and tries to hide behind him. He stomps in place, lost for a few moments, but then allows her into a corner, behind his back.

    A hearty laugh escapes Jared¡¯s fat throat and a smile cuts his face. ¡°Good Lord, Mike. What have you done to this kid?¡± He twists his neck to scrutinize the bloody bed.

    ¡°What has he done?¡± Hanna screams, peeking out from behind the thug. She pushes him to the side and launches forward. ¡°I¡¯ll show you what he¡¯s done!¡± Her face twists into rage I haven¡¯t yet seen.

    Jared catches her by her waist and throws her back. ¡°Hold her, God damn it!¡± The thug envelops his free arm around her, grunting with effort to steady her wriggling¡ª

    Her small hand grabs his pistol, fingers snaking around the trigger, and she weighs it down. Two shots follow and the man cries out, jumping to his one foot.

    I leap at Jared, striking him in the neck. I snatch his gun, my reflexes faster, and wrap my arm around his fat neck, pulling him up and pressing the barrel to his temple. ¡°Don¡¯t move!¡±

    We all freeze. Me, holding Jared in a chokehold, one of the thugs with a shot foot, his fingers tangled in Hanna¡¯s hair, and a third thug, his gun trained on me.

    ¡°Exchange,¡± I state.

    Jared laughs. ¡°Oh, you.¡±

    ¡°Exchange!¡± I raise my voice, glaring at the thug who holds Freckles. Her nose pours blood onto her t-shirt.

    Jared nods and the thug lets her go. I let Jared go, my gun trailing his head. Both, Jared and Hanna glower at each other as they switch sides.

    ¡°I¡¯ll do worse things to you, darling,¡± Jared says in a sultry voice and runs his tongue over his teeth.

    Hanna puts her two fingers to her mouth and wiggles her tongue between them, then glances at me and flicks her eyes to the duffel bag. I tip my chin. She carefully steps to the counter and pulls out another gun. Jared¡¯s not going to risk it. I know him too well. If there¡¯s one thing Jared loves, it¡¯s his life.

    ¡°So, Mexican standoff it is,¡± Jared says when he¡¯s between his thugs, trying to sound authoritative.

    ¡°Seems that way,¡± I say, my sights on his head.

    Jared raises his hands. ¡°Fellas, back off. We¡¯ll drag it.¡± He reverts to the door. ¡°After all, I love a good hunt.¡±

    They hide their guns before anyone sees them and exit, but knowing Jared it¡¯s far from over.

    Freckles and I stand stupefied for a minute or two until she breaks down in tears, real tears this time.

    ¡°Pack up?¡± She whimpers as she tries to keep her sobs quiet.

    ¡°No¡ª¡± pain shoots through my body, to sharp to stand, and I fall to my knee, bowing my head to look at my abdomen. My knife pokes from my side, jabbed into my flesh to half of its length.

    ¡°Fuck.¡± We both say in unison. Freckles helps me to the bed.

    ¡°Stuff what you can into the pockets, so you can run,¡± I prop on my elbows.

    She complies, and then throws me a bandage. ¡°Is it bad?¡±

    With a deep inhale I pull out the knife and pass it to her. ¡°Wipe the blood and heat it on the stove.¡±

    She slides the blade over her shirt before she ignites the stove and holds it over the fire.

    Fucking A. I just got fucking stabbed by Jared. I remind myself to breathe. I¡¯ve had major wounds before; a few bullet wounds and broken bones. What I didn¡¯t have however was wound after wound after wound in less than a week with no time to heal.

    Refocus. Hopefully the knife didn¡¯t penetrate my muscle. I need to survive and get Freckles out of danger.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ll be able to stay awake during this,¡± I utter with a glance to the door. ¡°You should probably leave me. Just run.¡±

    ¡°Run where?¡± Her voice is solemn as she watches the burning stove.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I grit my teeth, my hand turning red over my wound. ¡°We¡¯ve left fingerprints everywhere. The Feds will track us.¡±

    She sighs. ¡°We can always burn it, right?¡±

    I gape, but find no words and clamp my jaw shut. I have a bad influence on her. ¡°Grab the rag and a shirt from the bag too,¡± I finally say.

    She passes me the red hot knife, together with the clothes. I bite down on the rag and wipe my bloody hands on the shirt, then I grab the knife. She sits behind me, supporting my back. ¡°Have you ever done this?¡± Her whimper doesn¡¯t comfort me at all. No. I haven¡¯t done this, but I have to at least close the wound so I don¡¯t bleed out.

    Before the knife cools I place the red blade over the wound and slide, dragging the melting skin to one side. I do it faster than the scream reaches my throat, and by the time it does, I drop the knife and fall to the side, face first into the sheets. A muffled yell explodes out of my throat as pain snakes through my abdomen. Freckles places a hand on my shoulder and rubs it until my muffled scream dies out, at least I think she does because I lie in anguish-ridden minutes that seem to last hours, panting, trying to force the pain out of my body quicker.

    ¡°Michael?¡± A whisper swirls through my head. I grunt, shifting. The pain has dulled a little and I squint my eyes open to her bloody face. ¡°Can you stand?¡±

    ¡°Have to.¡± I strain and with her help sit, recalling that infection is another thing to worry about. ¡°Can you give me some antibiotics or something? And something for the pain.¡±

    ¡°Sure.¡± She rustles through the med kit until she finds some pills. I gulp them down, together with some water she brings me.

    Then she grabs the bloody bedsheet and throws its end at the still burning stove. It catches ablaze. She takes the red pillow and holding it away from herself lifts it over the fire until the flame takes its corner, then she throws it into the bathroom, next to some towels, and quickly carries a wooden stool and places it there.

    ¡°Let¡¯s hope it works,¡± she coughs as she cracks the window.

    With a tiny gush of black smoke, we exit through the front door and I spot Jared and his thugs in one of the vehicles further down the parking lot. He watches me with his sharp eyes, enjoying the game. He would always like to watch boys in the gang fight. At first, I thought it was to gauge who¡¯s stronger, but appears he savors the play, the pain, the rush.

    I turn and, urging Hanna to move faster, set off into the alley behind the motel, crossing into a live street.

    An engine roars behind us and I know we¡¯re being followed.

    ¡°Should we like, call the cops?¡± Hanna says. ¡°I mean maybe we¡¯ll manage to escape.¡±

    ¡°No. They¡¯re going to come soon either way.¡± I limp forward, disappointed that the live street is not live at all. It¡¯s just brighter lit, but still lifeless, and I think the sunrise is a good hour away.

    ¡°We need a car.¡± Freckles peeks back over her shoulder at Jared¡¯s vehicle, rolling down the street. Just then, after it, another sedan makes a corner and slows down, closer to us. ¡°Two cars? Fuck.¡±

    ¡°Hurry.¡± We start to jog and the pursuit accelerates as well. As we dash through the intersection, crossing the street, car tires screech and a pickup truck jolts to a stop right in front of us. A woman behind the wheel peels her eyes wide.

    I hurry to the driver¡¯s door and fling it open.

    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m so sorry!¡± She gasps.

    ¡°Get out!¡± I brandish my gun and she yelps, throwing her hands up. I pull her out and want to sit behind the wheel, but Freckles pushes me to the side. ¡°I¡¯ll drive.¡±

    We cross our eyes, both ready to argue, but there¡¯s no time, so I rush to the passenger¡¯s seat. The woman sprints away, her arms flailing for help. Just then Jared¡¯s sedan rounds the turn and smashes his front into ours. Vehicles still and one of the thugs pokes a gun through the window, aiming at the screeching woman. A shot echoes into the night and Freckles and I jolt as the woman drops dead.

    Freckles shifts the gear into reverse and revs the truck backward. One of thugs fires twice at us before she speeds up and takes a sharp left into a narrow street, then shifts into drive and floors it, jolting the car forward.

    Through the suburbs we speed out of town, two cars in tow, and into the wilderness of Canadian territory.

    ¡°Well, it was a pleasure being kidnapped by you,¡± Freckles says when the first sun rays hit the horizon, reflecting off the snow covered fields.

    ¡°Stop it,¡± I grunt, fighting to keep my attention on the road and not on the pain in my side, or my head.

    ¡°What?¡± She shrugs. ¡°There¡¯s no way we¡¯re going to outrun them. They¡¯re playing with us.¡± Two cars are still following us, a good distance apart.

    A remote monotonic rattling catches my attention. I glance to the left and she looks too. ¡°A freight train. I¡¯ve never seen one of these.¡± She squeezes the wheel. ¡°It¡¯s so long.¡±

    I turn my eyes back on the road but can¡¯t help but glance at her black-haired head. She¡¯s right. We¡¯re screwed, but only if we¡¯re together. She slows me down. I have to worry about her instead of just about myself. She¡¯s my Achilles¡¯ heel.

    I look at the train again. It¡¯s headed into the mountains, into the depth of nature. ¡°We could try and hop it.¡±

    She whips her head at me.

    ¡°Could you?¡± I ask, some hope fluttering in my chest. ¡°Freight trains are quite slow.¡±

    With a nervous shudder she wipes her bloody nose with the back of her hand. ¡°Yea, I think, if I¡¯m close enough. I¡¯m a good jumper. If I die it¡¯s still better than being raped by Jared. Can you make it?¡±

    ¡°Yes. But you go first.¡±

    ¡°Okay, how are you going to jam the pedal, though, so you can jump?¡±

    ¡°I know a few tricks,¡± I take the wheel. ¡°Come on, let¡¯s switch.¡± She climbs over, her foot still on the pedal, and I shift under her. The truck cab is big enough for us to do it without slowing down.

    When I¡¯m in charge I twist the wheel, leaping over a small bump and heading through the snowy field toward the train. There¡¯s no way I¡¯m making that jump. But it doesn¡¯t matter.

 Chapter 17 - Hanna

    Hanna

    My teeth clatter despite all the efforts to stop them. ¡°Oh, my God.¡± The train grows in size as we approach it and I can¡¯t help but imagine it cutting my limbs apart and pulling me through a meat grinder. ¡°Maybe rape is better.¡±

    Michael brings the car closer to the end of this monster. The front of the train has already disappeared into the forest. I glance back for Jared. He¡¯s in the field too, further away, as if waiting to observe us kill ourselves. ¡°I don¡¯t know if I can do this.¡± I rub my palms together.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know either,¡± Michael says.

    ¡°That¡¯s reassuring.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re going 55 miles per hour. It¡¯s not impossible. Not gonna tear your arm off.¡±

    ¡°Shut up!¡± I snap at him.

    ¡°Climb while the road¡¯s straight,¡± he urges. I comply and open the door. The rattle hits me, hammering against my eardrums as I climb out into the back of the truck. I latch my stare onto the metal ladder of one freight car and, holding onto the roof, set my foot onto the fender. It¡¯s a good 6-foot jump.

    ¡°I¡¯ll try to get you closer!¡± Michael calls out. At least that¡¯s what I think he yells. The truck jostles nearer and my side tilts up, wheels running over the track hill. For a brief moment the distance shrinks to 3 feet.

    I push away, trusting my instincts to do the job. A millisecond of weightlessness and then metal hits my palms. My fingers curl and I cling to it with a death grip until my feet find the solid ground underneath.

    A few stifled breaths escape me, and my stomach drops with relief when I realize I¡¯m still alive. I push myself around the ladder onto the landing, then pivot to the truck. ¡°Your turn!¡±

    Michael glances at me like I¡¯m the world¡¯s biggest idiot and I open my mouth to scream but a bullet hits the metal next to my head. I duck down, extending my neck to see the pickup truck head back to the road. ¡°No! What are you doing?¡± Furious rattle consumes my scream. ¡°Get back here! Michael! Don¡¯t leave me!¡±

    The vehicle speeds off and bullets from one of the pursuit cars pelt the train. I call out and hide behind a little metal nook, watching the truck speed away. ¡°Fucker!¡± I tear my throat despite it shriveling from frigid wind.

    He left me. Why?

    What do I do now?

    My short hair whipping around my face I huddle down by the same nook, placing my hands over my ears.

    One of Jared¡¯s vehicles follows me for half a mile but gives up when the ground gets bumpy and forest consumes my freight car.

    I squint into the wind. The train rattles through the morning fog and across a train-only bridge, arching over the mountain river. So cold. I suck in a breath when my arm stings. Shot, of course.

    Wounded and possibly stuck on this train for hours. What could be better? Well, I¡¯m alive. That¡¯s better, I guess. Shuddering I press my hands against my ears tighter and hold my breath at the sight of the mountains, blanketed with fog, dissipating in the dawn.

    ¡­

    ¡°Hey, Barry!¡± A raspy male voice thunders through my head. ¡°I found a kid!¡± I blink and realize there¡¯s a man in a bright orange vest, climbing up onto the freight car landing. ¡°She¡¯s wounded!¡±

    I gasp, jolting up. The rail worker in front of me extends his hands, calming me. ¡°Hey! It¡¯s okay.¡±

    I jump from the other side, on the way catching glimpses of blood stain my clothing, and rush right past another worker, probably Barry. Halting, I spin a panicky one-eighty ¡ª freight cars in front of me, frozen earth under my feet, heavy snow and forests, peppered with run-down buildings. It¡¯s a logging town lost somewhere deep within the country.

    How long was I out?

    ¡°Hey!¡± Before the men reach me I kick my feet up and dash through the train yard in panic.

    Where¡¯s Michael? How far away from him has the train taken me?

    I duck under one car and leap over the tracks, running until I hit a wired fence. It¡¯s twice as tall as me, with a coiling barbwire on top. I glance back over my shoulder for the approaching men.

    ¡°Don¡¯t climb it!¡± One of them shouts.

    Despite my better judgement, I take it as a sign. My frozen fingers clumsily grasp the metal and, rattling the barrier, I struggle to the top. I heft my leg over the coils, then the other. My muscles shiver and my arm stings under the pressure¡ª

    My leg slips and the next thing I know the ground hits my body, snow not nearly as soft as it looked from above. I let out a hiss, feeling stings all over my hands and my neck.

    ¡°Stay there, kid!¡± A voice reaches me through my ringing ears. ¡°Barry, go round!¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    I push myself up from the blood-soaked snow and dash down through a line of trees and to the street beyond. Voices of men drown in the distance as I run, pumping blood through my limbs.

    Eventually, I slow and wander the town, trying to avoid suspicious looks. Yet people turn their heads at my thin and bloody clothing. The cuts from the barb wire leech blood in steady and slow rivulets and I pull on my brown gloves I had in my pockets, then visit a coffee shop to warm up and visit a bathroom. I leave when a staff member asks if everything¡¯s all right. At least I manage to take some toilet paper and press it to the cuts on my neck, then cover them with a hood.

    What do I do? Call the cops? But what about Michael? What if he needs help?

    Wandering, I stumble into a small two-story hospital and pause in an alleyway, twisting my brain for a solution. But it¡¯s scrambled. I can¡¯t think straight. Can¡¯t figure out what to do. Rubbing my gloved hands, I take a look at myself, at my own tattered condition. My ribs hurt. The stitches on my side are ripped open. My arm seems to have a bullet in it and a blob of pain circles in my head. That fat pig Jared knocked me out. I now might have a concussion and I assume God, or faith, or whatever, punished me for hitting Michael. I need help. I need to take care of myself. Discretely. Somehow.

    Hidden in a thin alleyway, I stare at the hospital. It¡¯s absurd. If I go there, they will figure everything out about me.

    What would Michael do? I remember him leaving when I shot him into the leg, and then coming back patched up. Where did he go?

    Who else fixes up people¡ª

    ¡°Not people,¡± I inhale as it clicks. ¡°Animals.¡±

    With the upcoming evening the town dots in lights and I find a veterinary clinic. But what do I say? I need a story. I rub my freezing shoulders, exhaling a puff of cold air. ¡°Stay calm, Hanna, calm. What would Mike do?¡±

    As I sneak around the building, looking for a back door into the veterinary, I hunch at two voices that come from around the corner.

    ¡°Lyn, you¡¯re becoming a problem. This was an important surgery,¡± a male voice says, irritated. ¡°I don¡¯t wanna say this, but you can¡¯t show up to work in this condition. I can¡¯t cover for you forever. And it¡¯s just not safe, not for us, nor animals,¡± a pause, as if he¡¯s considering his next words, ¡°also you know you need prescription.¡±

    A scoff answers him, then silence.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be bitter,¡± the man says, softer.

    ¡°Just leave me alone, for fucks sake,¡± finally the woman¡ªLyn, snaps.

    The man sighs before he speaks, ¡°come sober tomorrow,¡± he says and I hear a door shut. He must¡¯ve left.

    A crack of a lighter follows and a moment later I frown as I smell a whiff of weed. Oh, so that¡¯s her problem. And it¡¯s not even medicinal.

    Something in me realizes I¡¯ve hit a jackpot. I can ask her for help in exchange for keeping her secret safe.

    A crunch of feet on the snow and I duck lower behind the corner as I see her walk past. Her shift ended. Right.

    My heart galloping in my chest from exhaustion and adrenaline I follow her.

    Please, don¡¯t have a car. Please, please¡­

    What must be an hour later I hate this woman to my bones. Not only did she not have a car, she walked through the entire town and up a frosty road that lead up along the base of a mountain. I stalked a good distance apart, slowly loosing sensation in my toes. No one noticed us as at this hour, and I make a conclusion that this town might as well be a ghost town.

    As I walk up the steep road, sometimes I catch a glimpse of small houses peeking through the trees, their windows bright with light.

    It reminds me of home, of Shia, and of Selena, and¡ª

    Lyn turns off the main road and walks along a small curling dirt road. I push my feet forward, darkness keeping me hidden. Cold spasms my muscles and I realize I won¡¯t be able to intimidate her if it comes to it. All I have left is her little secret and hope that this woman will help me.

    Lyn takes another turn and saunters a small driveway to her wooden two-story house. There¡¯s a car here, parked under the carport. She disappears inside her lonely house, sheltered by dark trees. I climb up to the porch and rap on the door, noticing the paleness of my skin against the warm light from the window. The door opens and she stands back, her sweater in her hand. ¡°Uh¡­?¡±

    ¡°I-I need help,¡± I utter. ¡°I followed you.¡± I step a light step forward. The warmth of the house envelops me, shriveling against my chest and my body, thawing my muscles into a mush. I wobble and fall to my knees. She jumps back. ¡°I don¡¯t mean any harm.¡± I lift my sweatshirt and my shirt to show my side, then pull off my gloves, revealing blood smudged all over my palms.

    The woman looks at me, alarmed. ¡°You followed me?¡±

    ¡°Yes. I¡¯m wounded and shot. And I know you¡¯re having troubles at work and consume drugs.¡± I look into her dark, hooded eyes, though I doubt I intimidate her. ¡°I just need help. Please, I can¡¯t go to the police, and I know you can¡¯t either.¡±

    A number of emotions flash through her face, though she hides them fast. While she hesitates I take in her appearance. She¡¯s petite like me, though a bit older, of Asian descent with long black hair and¡­ my eyes halt on her exposed forearms.

    Her skin is scarred.

    It¡¯s as if someone put a pause on my exhaustion. For a moment I feel a deep sense of connection to her no matter what she endured. ¡°You¡¯re a cutter,¡± I emit breathlessly.

    ¡°What¡¯s it to you?¡± She barks.

    ¡°I¡­ugh, my brother. He cuts,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯re in trouble. Please.¡±

    She considers it for a long moment before she speaks, ¡°Okay. I¡¯ll help. Come inside.¡± She helps me stand and as soon as I¡¯m on my feet, walking inside, her hand brushes against my back where I keep my gun. She yelps and leaps back, shoving me away from her. I hit the wall and drop to the ground.

    ¡°Get out!¡± Out of nowhere she produces a baseball bat.

    ¡°Please!¡± I extend my trembling palm. ¡°I won¡¯t hurt you.¡± I lower my hand to my back. Lyn strains. ¡°I-I¡¯m an American. Illegal. It¡¯s a long story¡­¡± I trail off, pulling the gun from behind my pants. I push it to her feet.

    ¡°What story?¡± She clutches the bat tighter, but doesn¡¯t seem to have enough bravery to swing it. I don¡¯t want to take chances though.

    I gape, but my breath sticks to my throat and my vision shrinks into a tunnel. ¡°A lon-long story.¡± I press my hand to my chest. ¡°I¡¯m having a panic attack.¡±

    She wavers, but finally sets down the bat and takes the gun, carries it off somewhere. While she¡¯s gone I manage to slip from my sweatshirt, to further show her I¡¯m unarmed. She comes back with a bunch of blankets.

    ¡°Please don¡¯t call the cops,¡± I rasp. What if she does? What if she¡ª

    I can¡¯t breathe.

    ¡°Fuck, I won¡¯t, I won¡¯t, calm down.¡± Lyn places a bunch of blankets on the ground, then closes the entry door. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±

    ¡°M-my name? I-I don¡¯t¡ª¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to tell me,¡± her hand steadies my shoulder. ¡°How old are you?¡±

    ¡°Sev-seven¡­¡± I gasp, tears piling up in my eyes.

    ¡°Seventeen?¡±

    I nod as she leans me back so I lay on the ground. ¡°You¡¯re going to be all right. You¡¯re safe now. I won¡¯t call the cops and we¡¯ll talk when you¡¯re sober. When we¡¯re both sober, okay?¡±

    My jaw moves but no words leave my mouth.

    She shows me a pair of scissors in her hand. ¡°I¡¯ll cut your shirt, okay? Sorry, I¡¯m a bit slow. It¡¯s been a hard day.¡± All I manage is a few rapid nods for an answer before I bite on my wobbling lip, feeling my eyelids flutter.

    ¡°Keep looking at me,¡± her voice keeps me awake as she cuts my shirt. ¡°Keep looking at me, all right?¡±

    I do as she tells me.

 Chapter 18 - Michael

    Michael

    I pull back on the road, two cars in tow after my truck. The train rattles away into the forest and a surge of dread I wasn¡¯t aware of dissipates from my chest, knowing Freckles will see another day.

    I have to deal with Jared and his thugs and there¡¯re only so many ways I can do this. And maybe only one of them will leave me alive.

    Yet, if I die they¡¯ll find Hanna.

    I clutch the wheel, watching two cars in the rear view mirror. One of the thugs sticks his head out the window, a whiskey bottle clutched in his tattooed hand. He screams in excitement as if he¡¯s already won.

    If I race them they¡¯ll pelt me with bullets. Maybe I should¡¯ve risked the jump onto the train. But I didn¡¯t and it¡¯s too late now.

    The only solution I can think up is to pick them off one by one. I could do it with a cover of some form of structures and in the night time. But it¡¯s morning.

    Jared¡¯s playing with me the way a predator would play with his prey, and it¡¯ll be his own doom because it gives me time and an opportunity to use his cruelty to my advantage. I can stop by the police station in the nearest town and come up with a detailed plan.

    And that I do when I reach a small town and park by the walkway near the police station. Jared and his thugs park further away. They must be having a blast, wondering what I¡¯m planning, and I admit I¡¯m glad Jared¡¯s cruel. Because for what he¡¯s cruel, he¡¯s also dumb.

    I need the cover of darkness and for that I have to wait out the day.

    The town area is alive with people and I zip up my jacket to hide the bloody shirt before I exit and head into a little Internet caf¨¦ across the street. As I cross the road I glance over my shoulder. Jared doesn¡¯t dare to exit his vehicle.

    A bell above the door rings when I enter and I take in a dense smell of coffee swimming through the air. Homely chatter flows across the place, absorbed by cream-colored walls and soft cushions. It reminds me of a strip club backstage, of coffee the girls liked to drink near their dressing tables. It also brings to mind my glasses and I slide them on. One of the strippers once said I look like a mid-school teacher when I wear them, which means non-threatening. She said they make my eyes look softer.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Glimpsing back through the windows I find a few coins in my pocket, then pay for fifteen minutes to get on the web and get surprised when I see the date¡ª 11.16.2008 ¡ªit¡¯s almost the middle of November. Freckles and I spent almost a month together.

    I study the map, figuring out my plan. Jared¡¯s cars will have six to nine guys and I have to kill them all, for Freckle¡¯s sake.

    A sigh escapes me, an uncontrollable resistance to the murders I have to commit, but I push it down and then deeper. I¡¯ll cry and lament about my life when all of them are dead.

    I search for a pharmacy nearby, but it¡¯s two blocks south from here. Too far. I¡¯ll have to rely on a med kit in the truck.

    I visit the bathroom and buy myself the cheapest cup of coffee so not to look so suspicious. I¡¯m barely half my full strength and I need to try to get a few hours of sleep before sundown. I take my coffee and pick a newspaper, then settle on a couch in the corner of the shop with a small coffee table and a stack of magazines. In front of me, sitting at another coffee table, an old man types on a laptop, a fat and heavy looking thing. Resting my head against the cushion I observe the machine for a while, imagining how uncomfortable it must be to carry this piece of metal around¡­

    Freckles walks in into the shop and after her, Jared¡ª

    ¡°Hey, sir!¡± My shoulder rocks and I bolt upright, blinking rapidly. I snap my gaze over the place and reality blots out the haze and horror of my dream. Neither Freckles, nor Jared are here.

    A staff member picks up a coffee mug from the table nearby. ¡°Please, get up, sir.¡± I look at the clock on the wall. Twenty to four. ¡°Yep, we thought you¡¯d wake sooner,¡± the staff boy says.

    ¡°Leave the man alone, Doyle.¡± I rotate my eyes to a cop, sitting at the table nearby. Doyle slides a rag over the table, shaking his head with a soft smile. The cop chuckles and his eyes jump to my bandaged head. ¡°Rough day, eh?¡± Thankfully, I had changed the bandage, so it¡¯s clean and mostly hidden by my hair.

    I gulp and adjust my glasses, which¡¯ve slumped on my nose. I hate cops. When I was little, I was scared of them as much as I was of my father. ¡°Rough day, sir.¡± Under the newspaper I slide my arm to my wound, to make sure I didn¡¯t bleed on the couch under me. So far it¡¯s dry.

    ¡°What happened to your head?¡±

    ¡°I fell. It¡¯s ugly.¡±

    The cop bobs his head, as if knowing what I mean then lifts his chin at Doyle. ¡°Let the man rest, boy. He¡¯s not harming anyone here.¡±

    Doyle rolls his eyes. ¡°Remember that old bum you had to get rid of?¡± He wipes the table.

    ¡°This man is not a bum, Doyle,¡± the cop says nonchalantly, reading a newspaper.

    I slacken on the couch and look out the window. Jared and his thugs are still there, though Jared¡¯s loitering outside, blowing cigarette smoke. He looks pissed and interested at the same time, yet doesn¡¯t dare to near my car as it¡¯s too close to the police station.

    I watch him for a while, for the first time glad the old cop is nearby.

 Chapter 19 - Hanna

    Hanna

    Heavy ticking wakes me from my slumber, slow at first, but then as the recent memories flood back in I jump up into a sit. A grandfather clock stands in a room corner, showing 8 am. Then a crackle of a fireplace draws my attention and I inhale an unsteady breath, recalling how I passed out on this sofa in Lyn¡¯s living room while she was bandaging me. Right, she had also guided me here once my panic calmed a little.

    I swaddle into my blanket tighter, my shot arm supported with a scarf, and get up on my aching feet. My toes sink into a fluffy carpet and my attention travels to the rest of this spacious house. Everything is wooden and warm-toned, with little accents of gold here and there. It¡¯s as if from dust and concrete I teleported into this deep, quiet, and earthy safe haven. I forgot such places existed.

    An unfamiliar sensation floods my body, a tug of war between a strong desire to just run or melt into a puddle of tears on this cloud of a carpet.

    I stuff that sensation away as I smell frying eggs.

    Oh, she¡¯s here.

    ¡°So dirty of you,¡± Lyn grumbles when I find the kitchen and stop by the doorway. She doesn¡¯t turn to face me.

    ¡°Sorry,¡± is all I can think of.

    She continues frying eggs, flips them angrily, then turns. ¡°What is that story? Of you and your brother?¡±

    I open my mouth, staring at her, but nothing comes out.

    She turns away. ¡°Fine, don¡¯t tell me.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    ¡°I do need help,¡± I whisper.

    She places a plate with some eggs and bacon on a dining table. ¡°Well, I assume if I don¡¯t help you, you¡¯re gonna take away the only method of relief I have,¡± her voice cuts off, ¡°and if they see my arms, shit,¡± she hits herself on the head lightly. ¡°You¡¯re so stupid, Lyn, why did you take off your sweater?¡± She turns away, cursing at herself. ¡°Sit, those are for you.¡± She cracks a second pair of eggs into the pan.

    Unsurely, I sit. The food steams under my nose, so warm, and fresh, and nice¡­ and that sensation reawakens again.

    I ate nothing but TV-dinners and protein bars for an entire month.

    I feel my lip wobble.

    No, don¡¯t cry. You gotta find Michael. You can¡¯t relax, Hanna.

    I poke my eggs with a fork. ¡°My brother cuts too, we¡¯re on a run from some bad people. He left to deal with them, but I hope he¡¯ll come and find me.¡±

    Lyn laughs over the noise of sizzling eggs. ¡°In this forgotten town? I doubt it.¡±

    ¡°I hopped a freight train, I think those are the only tracks that lead here.¡±

    She glances at me over her shoulder. ¡°How long ago?¡±

    ¡°A day almost. I think he will show up if we just hang around the main road into this town.¡± What other option do I have? I have no clue where Michael has gone.

    ¡°And then what?¡±

    ¡°He will likely need some medical help and then we¡¯ll be on our way. I will leave you alone and no word to the police.¡±

    Lyn turns to me and leans against the counter, spatula in her hand. I scrunch under her harsh gaze, but then tell myself to stand my ground and meet her glare again.

    ¡°Fine,¡± she says. ¡°But as soon as you two are capable you go.¡±

    I nod. ¡°Promise. Look, I¡¯m sorry. I really felt forced into this.¡±

    She just sighs as she places her food into her plate.

    Clutching my fork with both of my hands I look at my food again.

    Breathe, breathe¡­

    It¡¯s just normal, fresh food. That she made. For me.

    My body erupts in tears. It¡¯s as if it got fed up with what I kept telling myself and just decided to act independently.

    Lyn sits next to me as I bawl. She moves the plate from under my face to protect the food from all the tears.

    I can¡¯t stop so I just curl into myself, placing my forehead on the table, shaking lightly in my chair. This cry is different. It scares me. These tears don¡¯t feel like the tears of being in distress or terror for my own life, but more like tears of not having to be.

 Chapter 20 - Michael

    Michael

    Doyle wakes me. ¡°Now you really have to go, sir.¡± The cop is gone and I figure Doyle can¡¯t help himself. It¡¯s fifteen minutes past six.

    ¡°Yes.¡± I rustle the newspaper in half and put it on the coffee table, then limp out into the chill air. The nightfall approaches.

    I sit back into my car. Jared¡¯s still in his place and even from afar I distinguish his fat face, pissed to the point his cheeks burn red. He has a tendency to blush whenever something goes awry. Other gangers and I would always discretely make fun of it.

    I pull the medkit from under the seat and bandage my leg and waist. The leg wound hurts, but it has healed a good deal so it shouldn¡¯t cause too many problems. The stab wound is worse, it feels like it¡¯ll tear open if I get into another session of action, which I will.

    Instinctively, I flit my eyes to the rearview mirror. Not to Jared, but to the passenger¡¯s seat. Yet it¡¯s empty. I tell myself it¡¯s good it is.

    I check my gun and find six bullets in the magazine. I¡¯m not gonna get far with six bullets, but I might not need them.

    I start the truck and pull out on the road. Jared revs his engine, tires screeching eagerly as the vehicle launches after me.

    As I drive the road I picked on the map the town behind me fades. Forests overtake the hills and I can¡¯t help but to observe the sunset, last glimpses of warmth disappearing behind the mountainy hills, leaving strips of pink clouds line the horizon. I¡¯ve looked at plenty of sunsets, yet I never saw them, and the fact that this might be my last one makes it all the more special.

    Night falls within half an hour and everything descends into darkness. The road is lonely, but I watch the signs and catch the one I need¡ª a sign with a national park and a lake I researched and picked. I take the turn.

    A few camping grounds slide by, but I head deeper into the forest, leaving a dust trail in my wake.

    I¡¯m not sure my idea is the best one, but it should allow me to break away from my pursuit and limit their search area to the shores of the lake, since there¡¯s no way I¡¯ll lose them if I ditch the car and try to run.

    The road curls around the lake, it¡¯s shores separated by a thick strip of forest. When my headlights hit a small clearing, giving way down into the water, I turn the vehicle sharply.

    ¡°Well, God,¡± I sigh, unrolling my window. ¡°If you¡¯re up there. I ugh¡­ ¡¯d like to live and not to drown or get knocked out, or freeze or¡­ uh, get captured, actually no, protect Freckles and her family, and whatever else needs to be protected. Amen.¡±

    Engines roar behind me, the air pierced by gunshots and yells as the vehicles race after me. ¡°There¡¯s a lake, dumbass!¡± A victorious call echoes, a haul of action deprived thugs.

    I floor the pedal. The truck revs forward and off a steep ridge.

    A second of weightlessness and then a hit knocks the air out of me when the truck crashes through the thin ice. The airbag deploys, saving my head, and freezing water hits my feet. ¡°Fuck!¡± I yelp and concentrate on breathing as the car submerges. I pull out my knife and jab the airbag, letting out the air.

    ¡°You fucking fuck!¡± I hear Jared before the truck gets pulled underwater. A few bullets hit the rear and I take a deep breath as water fills up the cab. Blackness envelops me but for the headlights, shining down to the bottom of the lake. Far, far down.

    It¡¯s so cold a gasp escapes me together with some precious air. I clamp my hand on my mouth, my body shackled by the paralyzing temperature. When the truck angles, sinking head down, I cut my belt and fumble around the window until I swim out. I force myself to move further away from the shore, swimming underwater. My body protests, each push stiffer and slower, but I last for what must be close to thirty seconds before I hit a layer of thin ice, break it, and poke my head for a short and shivering breath. I submerge again, swimming further away from the clearing and the shore. When I come up headlights of the pursuit cars are lost behind a layer of trees and Jared¡¯s yells echo all over the lake.

    ¡°Find him! You fuckers!¡± His voice cuts the calm of the night. ¡°Get the flashlights!¡± A pause. ¡°What do you mean we only have one! Do you know what¡¯s gonna happen if he and that bitch live? Check the shores! Now!¡±

    With the hilt of my knife I shatter the ice, creating a pathway to the shore until the ice is too thick to break, then I roll on it and into a gathering of dry scrubs. My heart hammers against my ribs and I heave, puffs of chilled air leaving my mouth. I lower my head into the frozen ground. Just a minute of rest¡­

    The crunch of feet appears out of nowhere and I realize I blacked out. I clutch my frozen fingers around the handle of the knife. My eyes adjust to the darkness, trees taking form in the cloud-hidden moonlight. A silhouette steps along the shore, nearing me. I pull my legs to myself and tuck my head low, shifting to the nearest tree. As the man passes he probably mistakes me for a boulder.

    I stand swiftly. With a few steps toward him I wrap my arm around his head from behind and stab his neck twice. He shoots, bullet flying off somewhere into the night, and before I know it the second thug grabs me around the waist. He pushes me back and we fall onto the ice. Pain sears through my abdomen as my stab wound opens, but before I can do anything the thug grabs my neck with one hand, squeezing, and a crunch of ice reverberates through my back.

    It cracks.

    Water consumes us both. He manages to surface, but pushes me deeper, his fingers locked around my neck. I clamp my jaw shut and wrap my legs around his waist, jabbing him into the side with my knife, again, and again. As we struggle he tries to maneuver his gun to shoot me but fails to hold me with one hand. The weapon slips, diving down right past my head. I grasp his jacket and pull him underwater. He straightens, spitting water and letting go of my neck. I surface. Cold air hits my hand with the knife, light and free of water resistance.

    I swing out and stab him into the ear.

    The man slackens, his limbs floating akimbo in the water.

    I cough, my legs bending, and haul myself out into the shore.

    Keep going. I have to keep going.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    I stumble into the forest, away from the incoming shouts and the only flashlight that filters through the shoreline. Spruce branches brush against my face as I wade through the vegetation until I find a little groove behind a tree. I fall into a crouch, my knife in hand.

    ¡°I know you¡¯re here, Mike!¡± A call carries over.

    ¡°Shit, man,¡± says another thug, his voice recognizable and I think it¡¯s our medic, Carl. ¡°Maybe we shouldn¡¯t listen to Jared. I mean, Mike¡¯s always been a murderer. The best of us. Look at these two fuckers. What¡¯s left of them? I don¡¯t want to die.¡±

    Damn right, Carl. I may not be trained but I can kill. And I do it well.

    I scoff. Yeah, lots to be proud of.

    ¡°And have him expose us,¡± the first thug spits. ¡°You¡¯d rather risk it or spend your life in prison, raping dudes instead of chicks.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d rather run,¡± Carl says.

    ¡°Keep searching.¡±

    I won¡¯t be able to fight both of them, so I sneak further away, and start tiptoeing back to the cars in a huge circle. As I trek I leave the forest and almost reach the road, but circle back until I sneak up behind some evergreens, right behind the cars.

    Only one man patrols them. He seems to panic as he twists and turns around, his gun in his hands.

    Hunched, I leave my cover and slip closer behind one of the vehicles. When the man twists away I leap out and ram him into the car before he shoots. I jab him in the neck.

    A shot rattles in my ears, as loud as an explosion in the clearing. I gasp, with a corner of my eye registering blood burst from my shoulder. Dropping the suffocating thug I dive behind the car. A strangled yell erupts out of me, even though the pain is distant.

    Jared¡¯s delighted cackle makes my wet hair on my arms spike up. I pull out my gun and bend down to see under the car. I shoot twice at his feet. I miss.

    By the crunch of his feet, I notice another man rush toward me, appearing from the depth of the trees. Fuck. I shoot but he springs behind a tree. I follow his body, my gun extended, and shoot when he dives for the tree closer. My third bullet hits his face. I pivot to Jared¡ª

    His boot dives into my side. Crouching, I kick him in the knee. As Jared falls he pulls the trigger. I have only a second to realize that the bullet missed me before Jared lands on me with his full weight. I jab his side, trying to get through all his fat, but all Jared emits is an uninterested hiss as his hands snatch my wrists and pin them to the ground. I strain, trying to kick him off me.

    ¡°Shh, shh.¡± A twisted smile spreads across his face, sharpened by the headlights of the cars.

    Every jerk of my struggles sends searing pain over my wounds. Jared rams his knee into my side and I call out, blackness dotting my vision. ¡°You knew what you were in for, right, Mikey?¡± He says, keeping pressure on my stab wound.

    Cold bleeds through me when I realize there¡¯s no way I can get this fat pig off me. Not wounded like this. Now I know how Freckles must¡¯ve felt whenever I manhandled her.

    Fighting the pain I glance down at Jared¡¯s side. He¡¯s bleeding, but there¡¯s no way he¡¯ll bleed out before I do.

    ¡°Did you agree to meet your bitch somewhere?¡± Jared¡¯s words turn heavier with pain as he holds his face close to mine. I can¡¯t struggle, but I can¡¯t speak either because I have to clamp my teeth shut so not to scream. I think Jared will remove his knee, but he doesn¡¯t.

    Instead he inspects the agony on my face. ¡°Ah, Carl said my revenge isn¡¯t gonna be sweet, but I disagree. It¡¯s very sweet.¡±

    He holds his knee on my wound for a while, torturing me. I itch to scream into his face, but stay placid, my face a paragon of emptiness but for a few winces and labored breathing. The proven tactic of blankness works as Jared grows bored and removes his leg from my wound. I keep glaring at him, infuriating him until he explodes. ¡°I fed you! I took you in, you sucker! And this is how you repay me!¡±

    ¡°Oh, calm down, you¡¯re red,¡± I murmur, almost retching from the smell of his breath, and our blood, and sweat.

    The look on his face is priceless, like a child¡¯s with a stolen candy.

    He grabs my neck, freeing my shot hand. I plant my palm into his face and poke my thumb into his eye, pressing as hard as I can.

    With a groan he recoils enough to take the pressure off my wrist with a knife. Sitting up, I stab him into the shoulder. Jared calls out, cursing, grasping around with his fat arms, but I¡¯m faster as I snatch his gun and get up first. I kick him on his back and kneel, ramming my knee into his chest. That¡¯s all it took to take him down, a little bit of rage inducing behavior. Pathetic. ¡°Pull the contract.¡±

    ¡°You sure?¡± Jared laughs in a shrill voice. ¡°Sure you need it?¡± His eyes slide over my bleeding body.

    I jab him into the gut, then both of his legs. He shrieks. I find his phone in his pocket and shove it into his bloody hands. Jared just fumbles with it. Apparently, his fat is the only strength he has. ¡°Pull the contract.¡±

    ¡°Well, let¡¯s see who bleeds out first.¡±

    Anger boils through my veins and I grab his collar. ¡°I¡¯m gonna live,¡± I hiss into his face as I drive my knife into his belly, cutting down. A howl erupts out of Jared¡¯s throat and I feel sick. ¡°Pull the contract!¡±

    Panting, Jared observes me and, for the first time, I see fear in his eyes. ¡°If I do. Do I live?¡±

    ¡°If you manage,¡± I hiss, shoving the phone into his hand.

    Jared heaves. ¡°Jesus, Mike, what have we come to? We all but grew up together.¡±

    It¡¯s true. ¡°You duped me.¡±

    He dials. ¡°Jared here,¡± he lists some authentication codes. ¡°Pull the contract on Michael Sherman.¡±

    He turns the phone screen to me and I hear the speaker say. ¡°Done. Contract pulled.¡±

    Jared ends the call and pants out. ¡°Yeah, start over? I won¡¯t touch your girl. Come on, man.¡±

    I aim at his head.

    A cloud of pink mist explodes as the bullet flies out the back of his head.

    I stand, trip to my fours but stand again. The ground in front of me tilts, blackness fusing with light. My shoulder is totaled. My stab wound is bleeding down to my pants, maybe even into my gut.

    ¡°Mike?¡±

    I pivot sharply, firing the remaining bullets I have, then look around, not sure where the noise came from. I can¡¯t die. I don¡¯t want to die. I made Freckles a promise.

    The only option I have is running. So I turn and I run. Jared¡¯s dead, whoever remains is alone. But it¡¯s a risk. A risk Freckles or I might have to pay for in the future.

    I stop, turning my shoulder to whoever I was running away from. I have to finish the job. I have to do it now because there won¡¯t be more chances. A figure takes form in the car lights, approaching me. It¡¯s Carl, flashlight in his hands.

    He holds a gun and I shuffle from foot to foot. ¡°Life for a life,¡± he says. ¡°I don¡¯t wanna kill you, man.¡±

    ¡°Have you ever killed?¡± I ask.

    ¡°No,¡± he shakes his head. ¡°I¡¯m a medic.¡± Carl¡¯s always been domestic, always sitting quiet, smoking marijuana, not even whoring much, but after Jared betrayed me, I¡¯m not sure I can leave him alive.

    ¡°I let you go, you let me go.¡±

    I nod, trying to think of how to fool him. ¡°You go back to the U.S.¡±

    ¡°Nah, man, fuck the U.S. I¡¯m going to Mexico.¡± He¡¯s a Mexican himself.

    ¡°Good. I¡ª¡± I falter, a furious cough overtaking my words. Heaviness swoops over me and the next thing I know I¡¯m lying on the ground. Carl¡¯s kneeling next to me. I shuffle, propping on my elbows, and inch backward.

    Carl shines a flashlight into my face, blinding me. ¡°Calm down. You¡¯re gonna owe me now.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Is all I manage before my head spins again.

    ¡°Come on, stand up.¡± Carl grabs my good arm and helps me to my feet. On the way I grab my knife I dropped. He guides me to one of the cars and pushes me into the back seat. I clench my only weapon in front of me, lying on my back. He is helping me but there might be other motives involved. Before I think of what to do Carl comes back, a med kit in his arms. ¡°So what is it about that girl?¡± He turns on the overhead light.

    It scares me and I rotate the blade so it¡¯s facing him. He grabs it. ¡°I don¡¯t mean it like that, man.¡± He lifts my shirt. ¡°I have a wife, you know, and a kid too.¡±

    ¡°You gonna go back to them?¡± I whisper.

    ¡°Visit them.¡± He unwraps a red bandage from my waist. ¡°What is that? A stab wound?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    He murmurs a few bewildered words in Spanish and I watch him, my muscles shivering from inside out. ¡°You owe me my life, Mike. And I gladly accept your debt for my help here, okay?¡±

    Maybe, I should let him go¡­

    When I open my eyes Carl¡¯s gone and I¡¯m lying in the same spot. Grunting, I sit. Bandages constrict my waist and it looks like Carl ran out of them and tore up his shirt to finish up with my shoulder. The next thing I notice is snaking red and smoke in two parts of the forest, then the smell of burning flesh.

    Carl decided to dispose of the evidence for me.

    I lean over to look at the front seat. It has car keys and my knife on it.

    Carl gave me just a little more time, but I don¡¯t waste it as I pull back on the road. Not after Carl.

    I end up finding the road where Freckles jumped the train. And then I follow the tracks.

 Chapter 21 - Hanna

    Hanna

    ¡°How sure are you that he¡¯ll come?¡± Lyn asks and sips on her coffee. The white road stretches in front of us, lined with tall pines.

    I stand by the open car door, observing it. It¡¯s right next to the tracks the freight train arrived from, the only road Michael would take if he were to follow me. Somehow¡­

    I munch on my lip. It cools in the winter air and I munch on it again. We¡¯ve been parked here by the freight train yard for at least three hours now. Mostly we just sat in silence.

    I sit back into the car.

    Lyn sighs over her steaming coffee. ¡°Ah, what am I doing? How could I get myself into this?¡±

    She has these moments where she just breaks out into a self-hating talk. It¡¯s sad to see it, mostly because I feel like I¡¯m looking at myself, but it works to my favor.

    She groans. ¡°This is not how I imagined spending my free time.¡±

    ¡°How did you imagine it?¡± I stare out the windshield.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know, a book or something. Not finding a wounded fugitive in my house.¡± She blows on her coffee and takes another, hectic sip.

    I¡¯m surprised this amount of psychological problems has manifest in such a passive and open character. She could be a cutter, and a stoner, and still could¡¯ve beat me up with a bat and tied me up in a basement. Or maybe this is just what I came to expect after the adventures I had. She seems like a kind soul. And there¡¯s got to be more to her past too. She¡¯s young, mid-twenties something, and lives alone in a big-ass house she didn¡¯t yet loose in a crisis. Assuming that¡¯s how it works. I haven¡¯t looked into it much. I imagine she could move out into a city if she wanted. Yet she¡¯s here. In a tiny, secluded town. She must have some shit of her own. A family tragedy or something. Either way, she agreed to help me out, so I keep my mouth shut and take what I get.

    ¡°How does he look like? Your brother?¡± She says.

    ¡°Thirty-two, around 6 feet, brown wavy hair, gray eyes, probably lots of blood.¡±

    She nods, looking out the window, then whispers. ¡°Well, at least I feel something.¡±

    That sentence catches my attention. ¡°What?¡±The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Hesitant, she sighs, ¡°I often feel like I¡¯m stuck in a rut, like¡­um, I barely exist.¡±

    She gives me a brief look before she turns her head straight. She just got vulnerable with me. It¡¯s a good sign and it makes me feel safer about her not taking any actions against me.

    We sit for another twenty minutes or so, until I grow restless.

    ¡°I¡¯ll walk forward, okay?¡± I say. ¡°Stretch my legs.¡±

    ¡°Sure. I don¡¯t wanna be stuck here all day though.¡±

    I nod, climbing out, my heart giving a stronger beat. I hope she isn¡¯t gonna drive off, but as I walk down the road her white SUV doesn¡¯t move an inch.

    Deep down I know this is stupid. I could wait forever for Michael to come. He might be dead for all I know, but I refuse to listen to reason. Somehow, something tells me to wait. Be patient and wait.

    My feet halt. Behind my back Lyn waits, her straight black hair enveloping her face and gloved hands squeezing her coffee.

    I set my eyes back on the road and squint when the morning sun hits my face.

    A freight train thunders past me, shaking the ground. I shuffle on my feet and start a resolute walk, leaving Lyn alone. A car drives past, pushing dirty snow from its way. A woman sits behind the wheel, all quick and eager to get somewhere.

    When pines block out the sun I stop again and muffle my face into the coat Lyn provided for me. ¡°It¡¯s stupid.¡± Son of a bitch is dead. I have to move on. ¡°Move on.¡± Despite my words I begin walking again, all but stomping with anger, anger at him for not being here, at myself for inability to let go.

    I walk rigidly for at least fifteen minutes and fumble to a stop when I notice yet another car; a little gray dot rolling sluggishly along the side of the white road.

    My breath hitches in my throat. No way!

    When the car¡¯s emergency lights flash I break into a run, forgetting Lyn¡¯s hard work on my cuts and my shoulder. The car rolls to a stop and the distance shrinks as I dash forward, my black hair bouncing against my forehead. Yet it¡¯s further than I thought. ¡°Hey!¡± I throw my arm into the air, waving. ¡°Hey!¡±

    I almost hit the car hood as I brake and throw myself to the driver door, flinging it open. ¡°Mikey, oh my God!¡± I grab his face into my hands. He lets out a breath, a corner of his lips tilting and smile appearing behind his eyes. I never saw it before. ¡°I thought you had left me!¡± I kiss him on the lips and grab his healthy arm. I pull him out of the car and hug him, rattling his whole body. ¡°You scared me so much! Jesus!¡±

    ¡°Sorry.¡± His weight in my embrace gets heavier until I can¡¯t support it. ¡°Michael?¡± We slump to our knees and with a cold breath next to my ear he slackens in my arms. ¡°Hold on, okay?¡± I strengthen my hold around him, scared to let go. Only now do I notice he¡¯s soaked, wet and bloody clothing sticking to his body. Cold radiates through my coat, chilling my chest. In a gray reflection of a car I catch my face, smeared with blood, and I realize that he still might die. And I¡¯ll be alone all over again. ¡°Fuck!¡± Holding his arm I lower him to the ground and leap up, twisting my head around. ¡°Help!¡± I raise my arms and wave. It¡¯s too far for anyone to notice. ¡°Help! Lyn!¡± Or hear.

    A distant engine noise hums from the other side of the road and I run out in front of some car. A man jumps out. ¡°Kid, what¡¯s happening?¡±

    ¡°I need help!¡± I pant, waving him to follow me to Mike¡¯s car.

    As we hurry another vehicle appears in the distance, headed from town. And this time, it¡¯s Lyn¡¯s.

 Chapter 22 - Michael

    Michael

    Hospital is the last place I imagined I¡¯d wake up in. But I¡¯m not mistaken. The beeping of the machines, the disgusting smell, the voices¡­

    Voices?

    Two of them I first thought were in my head, grow louder, and angrier.

    ¡°There was no way I could¡¯ve patched him up. I¡¯m a veterinarian, not a surgeon. He needed surgery.¡± What? Who needed surgery?

    ¡°Shit, what am I supposed to tell them?¡± Another hushed voice.

    ¡°Exactly what we talked about. We found him just like that. You got his papers?¡±

    A panicky exhale. ¡°Yeah, I got them.¡± A breath escapes me as I realize the voice belongs to Freckles.

    ¡°Calm down, I¡¯ve dealt with this before,¡± the other, feminine, voice quiets into an indiscernible whisper, or maybe I just grow sleepy for a few minutes.

    I blink, wishing for the figures to sharpen so I can see Hanna¡¯s face. But the first face is a black-haired, Asian woman. She tips her chin at me. ¡°He woke.¡±

    Freckles pivots to me, stepping closer. ¡°Hey,¡± her hand rakes through my hair and a part of me melts, even though I know it shouldn¡¯t, but given that I was under anesthesia, it¡¯s probably normal¡­what was I thinking about? I refocus and take note of Hanna¡¯s own black and short curls, recalling she cut it. ¡°Lyn and I are not gonna stay here,¡± she says.

    Damn it. I don¡¯t wanna be alone.

    The woman¡ª Lyn probably, leans closer to me.

    ¡°Listen. The cops are gonna come,¡± she says. ¡°Just moan and groan for a few days. Draw their time. When you have no choice, tell them you got attacked, mugged, and that we just found you in a car like that. Your sister is leaving your papers with you¡±¡ªmy sister? ¡ª ¡°The car didn¡¯t have anything suspicious in it. You can tell them that as you ran you managed to take your attacker¡¯s car.¡± It¡¯s not far from the truth. ¡°But overall just try not to give them anything, okay?¡±

    I nod weakly and do my best to recall what she¡¯s just said. ¡°Come again?¡±

    Lyn patiently repeats everything she said. Moan and groan is the important one, as it¡¯s something that will allow me to sober up enough to bullshit my wait out of this. ¡°Take the papers, I know them,¡± I utter. It¡¯s best if I tell them who I am instead of presenting counterfeit documents.

    ¡°Okay,¡± Lyn says.

    I look at Freckles intently, trying to gather my strength to speak, but my tongue feels numb. She realizes that I wanna tell her something and brings herself closer. Lyn steps back.

    ¡°They¡¯re not after us,¡± I think I should lower my voice but it¡¯s already barely audible. I don¡¯t know why but I feel like crying.

    Hanna exhales with relief, tears gathering in her eyes too. ¡°It¡¯s over?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡± I want to ask her something, but the question slips from my mind, and I feel like I¡¯m falling asleep.

    ¡­

    For the next couple of days, I do as Lyn tells me, moan and groan. Though I still can¡¯t avoid telling them my name, which happens to be John, but other than that I pretend to be so weak I can¡¯t form coherent sentences, or recall what has happened. They buy it, given the fact it¡¯s not hard to sell because I do feel at my weakest point yet.

    Lyn visits me only once. I understand why she and not Freckles. It would be too suspicious for her to come more often. I imagine Lyn handled most of this since Hanna doesn¡¯t have any identity to present to anyone.

    On the fourth day, after I¡¯ve been moved out of the intensive care unit, Lyn comes late. She wears a backpack that she slides down her shoulders.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    I watch her suspiciously.

    ¡°I¡¯m leaving you clothing,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m parked outback. Red coupe. Give it half an hour or so before you move or it¡¯s gonna be too obvious.¡±

    ¡°Is she with you?¡± I ask, avoiding Freckle¡¯s real name.

    ¡°Your sister¡¯s fine. We need to get you out of here before they question you more,¡± then quietly adds, ¡°or me.¡±

    She slips out through a curtain before I inquire anything else. Hm¡­ Freckles has presented herself as my sister. So would I if I was in her situation. I wonder what kind of a person this Lyn is and if Freckles has taken her family hostage to make her help us.

    I lay for a while, waiting, before I force myself to sit. My body hurts and my head spins lightly, but I trust myself to sneak out. With effort I change. The pants are a bit too tight for me, but a T-shirt and a hoodie do the job.

    It¡¯s past dinner time and the entire floor starts to quiet. I hear some family members on their way out, kids stomping around and parents shushing them. Peeking out through the curtain I make sure there are no nurses, then, straightening my back, walk out of the unit as if I¡¯m just another visitor.

    Half hidden behind other visitors I pass the reception and reach the elevators. Corridors confuse me a bit, but I find the one to the back of the hospital. A few people give me wary looks, but no one seems to suspect a thing.

    Cold air chills my nostrils as I walk out into the back parking lot. Among many cars I find a red coupe with its lights on.

    Lyn¡¯s tapping the wheel nervously when I climb inside.

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m doing this,¡± she grumbles.

    I don¡¯t say anything as I survey her in the rearview mirror, feeling distrust well up inside me. Despite seeming like a total noob she could be plotting something, but, alas, in my current state I feel like I have no choice but to trust her and whatever Freckles has arranged with her.

    My head starts hurting. I don¡¯t allow myself to lay down.

    ¡°You can lay down,¡± she says as if she¡¯s read my thought.

    ¡°I¡¯m good,¡± I whisper.

    Lyn keeps glancing at me through the mirror as she drives. Her eyebrows curl and I figure it¡¯s pretty obvious that I¡¯m in pain. She clears her throat. ¡°If you want, I¡­um got some pot.¡±

    That makes me grin as I connect the dots. So that¡¯s why she¡¯s helping us. Freckles learned how to think smart and pick vulnerable people despite me not teaching her anything. ¡°Is that what she caught you with?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± she sighs, ¡°so stupid, I know.¡±

    I decide to be honest. ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s pretty stupid.¡± I might as well appear extra friendly to deter her from whatever she might be thinking that could harm me or Freckles. She did just bust me out of the hospital and she and Freckles were parked on that road, waiting for me, for God knows how long. So far she seems committed to her own secrets staying secret. This reassures me.

    ¡°I want you two to go as soon as you¡¯re healed,¡± she says, her voice a bit firmer. ¡°I don¡¯t want any fugitives in my house.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± I confirm, my head getting woozy. I¡¯m still quite drugged and on the good side they¡¯ve been helping me a lot to just rest and forget about my existence, but now it¡¯s a struggle.

    I do my best not to pass out, but I do, as the next thing I hear is a car door opening.

    Freckles smiles as she takes my arm. ¡°Hey.¡±

    I tilt a corner of my lips as I slowly get out. We''re parked next to a big house. Lyn comes to help and both of them lead me up the stairs onto the porch. As I enter a distinct smell of old wood floats into my nose, so unlike the steel and dirt scents of the city. Freckles flicks the light switch and an overhead chandelier bathes the place in yellow, casting gold overtones over the den and the hallway. Lyn walks off to the kitchen to do something, leaving Freckles to lead me to the living area; a leather sofa in front of a fireplace.

    I lay down, my mind and body fatigued after the short journey.

    ¡°Not bad, huh?¡± Freckles murmurs as she sits on the corner of the sofa, at my side.

    Not bad at all. Lyn is a rich girl. But before I respond Freckles snaps.

    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you jump the train? You left me.¡± A streak of hurt mars her words.

    I snort. ¡°Of course, I left you. You were slowing me down. But I came back, right?¡±

    She groans under her nose, but understands me as she doesn¡¯t pressure the matter and instead barks a short, ¡°I hate you.¡±

    ¡°I hate you more.¡±

    Freckles double checks that Lyn is out of the room before she asks, ¡°did you kill them all?¡±

    ¡°But one. He actually helped me so I let him live.¡± Though more like it was Carl who let me live.

    With this thought the anxiety rises, forgotten in the midst of survival and as sudden as a gunshot.

    Absentminded, Freckles stares at my abdomen, bruises, and bandages covered by my shirt. ¡°How did you kill Jared?¡±

    I gulp. ¡°I¡¯m not gonna talk about it.¡± I don¡¯t want to expose her already ruined mind to all the details, no matter how bad I ache to share it with someone, to get this weight off my chest. But not Hanna. Not the girl whose life was ruined, by my existence.

    She recognizes the reluctance in my eyes and her eyebrows curl. I think she feels betrayed.

    ¡°You want to get rid of me, don¡¯t you?¡± She says. ¡°Of the load I remind you off?¡±

    Weakly, I nod and her face shifts, filling with distress.

    ¡°But where do I go?¡± She bites out as she stares at the fireplace. ¡°I¡¯m a murderer. I-I¡¯ll end up in prison,¡± she huffs, her shoulders and the veins in her neck straining.

    I recall that as smart and educated as she was when she broke my killing doctrine, she¡¯s a seventeen-year-old kid, without any idea of how to live a life on the run, where to go and how to survive.

    ¡°Freckles.¡± I touch her arm, calming her before she has a panic attack. ¡°We¡¯ll figure it out, okay? I won¡¯t ditch you again. Not until you want to leave first. I promise.¡±

    Gold light reflects in her damp, gray eyes. ¡°Promise, promise?¡±

    ¡°Promise, promise.¡± I don¡¯t want to make any promises as bad as I want to breathe, but I do because I can have the decency to try and fix the damage I inflicted. Or at least be there for as long as she needs me to.

    A woeful smile curves her lips and she wipes her runny nose with her sleeve. ¡°Okay.¡±

 Chapter 23 - Hanna

    Hanna

    I wake early. Michael¡¯s still asleep on the sofa. I sit for a while, taking in the dead silence that surrounds the house. After deciding that Lyn must be still asleep I get up and wander into the back of the house, looking for a bathroom. Once I find it and use it, I sneak around some more, getting to know the place. There¡¯s a small study, a storage room, a door leading a few steps down into the garage and another door to the back yard.

    The screen door squeaks lightly as I step outside. The back yard faces a forest and the pines sway in a gentle wind, dropping clumps of snow to the ground. A few steps down from the porch stands a table and a rusty grill. I flit my eyes further to a little snow-covered path, leading into the forest. My breath slows when, behind one of the trees I notice a stone, shaped like a grave.

    ¡°Well, this is morbid,¡± I whisper, curious and concerned at the same time, also surprised that my theory about a family tragedy was correct. In my socks I step down the stairs and start towards the graves.

    They appear to be two, hidden a bit further away from the path. One grave has Tom Corben written on it. No date. The other, smaller one, just says Sophie. This can explain Lyn¡¯s cutting and addictions. A tightness I can only identify as guilt settles in my throat. Guilt for exploiting Lyn¡¯s pain and burdening her life with Michael and me.

    A door slams in the house and I turn, my hands wrapped around my shoulders. Even from afar I can tell Lyn¡¯s expression is nothing but annoyance mixed with anger. I lower my head and walk back.

    ¡°Great, now you¡¯ve seen that,¡± she murmurs, a joint in her mouth, and cracks a lighter.

    I say nothing as I shift from one wet foot to the other. Say something, Hanna. Might as well learn about how consistent her habits are. ¡°You smoke¡­ugh, often?¡±

    ¡°Obviously,¡± she says with a sigh. ¡°Many things.¡±

    She exhales and I inhale some of the smoke. But it smells¡­ mixed. Must be weed and tobacco. I¡¯ve never gotten stoned before.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t mean to see the¡ª¡± I extend my hand toward the graves.

    She swats her palm, dismissive, and turns away. ¡°It was a long time ago.¡±

    Her reluctance to share rekindles some of the distrust and I recall that she¡¯s still a stranger who can call cops any moment despite me threatening to expose her. God knows what else she could be hiding. Or maybe I¡¯m just paranoid. ¡°Why are you not at work?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s Saturday,¡± she says, not looking at me, then exhales nervously, ¡°Are you sure no one is after you two anymore?¡±

    A yawn escapes me, followed by a shiver rising up from my feet. ¡°Pretty sure.¡±

    ¡°Okay, so you take a few days off and then leave.¡±

    I avert my eyes. Maybe we should go, maybe she¡¯s not safe, but Michael¡¯s in a pretty bad condition. I have trouble imagining him taking care of me, or me of him, if we get back on the road so soon again. I decide to stall. ¡°We will, but my brother, he¡¯s quite injured.¡±

    Lyn doesn¡¯t say anything.

    ¡°Please. At least a week.¡±

    ¡°Fine,¡± she exhales another round of think smoke. ¡°Now get inside before you get sick with your socks wet.¡±

    I snap to attention, glad but scared to stay at the same time and go back inside.

    Michael¡¯s still deep asleep on the sofa and I have to shake him awake. When Lyn returns she and I help him to the second-floor guest room. He doesn¡¯t protest and I can tell he¡¯s focusing on shuffling his legs along so not to trip us both. I have no idea how long it¡¯ll take him to fully heal.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    One of the four bedrooms upstairs is all wooden and cozy. Soft purple carpet covers the parquet floors, a TV stands on a dresser next to a bookshelf, heavy brown curtains adorn the windows. It feels¡­safe.

    ¡°You can stay with him in that room if you want, or you can take the one next to it,¡± Lyn exhales after we tuck Mike into the double bed. He turns away, humiliated by his weakness in front of two women who have to take care of him. Leaving him rest, Lyn and I exit. ¡°I probably should get you two some new clothing as well,¡± she says on the way down.

    ¡°That¡¯d be great,¡± I say once we¡¯re downstairs. ¡°Lyn,¡± she looks at me, her black eyes hitching my words for a second. ¡°Thank you again. You¡¯re being very kind.¡±

    She smiles faintly, dimples forming on her cheeks. ¡°No shit. You¡¯re blackmailing me. What do I call you two?¡±

    I gape, recalling that Lyn still doesn¡¯t know our names.

    She rolls her eyes. ¡°Just make something up, I know neither of you are gonna give me your real names.¡±

    ¡°Ugh,¡± caught off guard I search my mind for a hooker name. ¡°I¡¯m Crystal, and I¡¯m sure he¡¯s gonna think of something too.¡±

    ¡­

    Five days float by as we rest in her house, not talking much. And as I relax in this forest sheltered abode, every step, every move I make pulls me deeper into my own head, into what has happened, into the murders, and violence. Michael¡¯s the same. Every so often his gaze strays off into the void and a breath escapes him, a laborious puff of air as if he¡¯s breathing a sticky goo. He doesn¡¯t talk to me much and it¡¯s as if the glue that held us together all this time has started to dissolve under the tranquility of this place.

    A yell wakes me up at night, throwing me into an instant alert. I vault from the bed, my eyes set on the nearest book to use as a weapon. I grab it and still when I see Michael sit, his legs covered in sheets. We sleep in the same bed, though not once did we touch each other.

    He heaves, sweat running down his forehead, fingers of his case-free arm curled into the sheets. This is not the first time he wakes in the middle of the night. I wake often too, but somehow it¡¯s never this intense. Today he looks like an animal about to lash out at anything and anyone. It sends my heart to the pit of my stomach and I fight to control my own anxiety. If he¡¯s mentally weak what¡¯s to become of me? But I can¡¯t stop him either, especially after I pushed him into questioning his beliefs and rethinking his deepest motives to kill.

    ¡°Mike, look at me,¡± I turn on a lampshade and sit on the edge of the bed. ¡°We¡¯re okay, uh, I mean¡­ you¡¯re okay.¡± I run my hand over his face. Only when the life calms do the horrors and consequences of all we¡¯ve been through begin to show. In both of us.

    Defeat and anger twist his features and his trembling hand slides up to my hair. It¡¯s too short for him to braid. ¡°Get out,¡± he whispers under his nose, digging his fingers into the forearm of his bandaged arm. ¡°Before I hurt you.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to do it, Michael¡ª¡±

    ¡°Get out!¡± I rebound, almost falling from the bed, deep-rooted panic shrinking around me. I hurry out of the room. ¡°It¡¯s your fucking fault!¡± He screams as I shut the door and clamp my hands on my ears, sobs escaping me. ¡°Hear me, Freckles!¡±

    ¡°You made me a promise!¡± I call back. But it¡¯s as hard for him to control himself as it is for me, if not harder.

    Lightweight steps thud up the stairs. ¡°The fuck?¡± Lyn hisses, a gun in her hands.

    ¡°He¡¯s having a fit,¡± I sob out, gasping. ¡°And I¡¯m having a panic attack too.¡±

    Lyn¡¯s eyes flit from me to the door and for the first time, her face betrays pity. ¡°What do you need me to do?¡±

    I take a few long gasps. Maybe if Lyn speaks to him it¡¯ll make it better? ¡°Tell him he made me a promise to live. That he deserves to live.¡±

    Lyn leans into the door, her gun pointed upwards at the ceiling. ¡°John¡ª¡±

    ¡°Michael.¡±

    She looks down at me. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s his name.¡±

    She cocks her brow but then addresses the door. ¡°Michael, listen you made a promise to your sister, right? To live, remember?¡±

    ¡°Tell him it¡¯s not his fault.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not your fault and you can get through this, right?¡± Lyn pulls her lips to one side questionably as she looks at me, asking with her expression if what she said was okay.

    ¡°She¡¯s not my fucking sister!¡± Michael calls out from the room.

    A gasp of terror escapes me, rendering me incapable of rational thought. I tell myself what Michael revealed isn¡¯t a big deal. But it is!

    Everything is! Everything can kill me!

    I¡¯m helpless to control my mind, but I finally register Lyn¡¯s hand, rubbing my shoulder. I realize I¡¯m curled in a ball in a corner, sweat piling under my shirt like spring rain. ¡°You¡¯re okay. I¡¯m not gonna call the cops.¡± Her mellow voice soothes my nerves.

    She keeps repeating the same thing as she pulls me up by my upper arms and leads me to another guest room. I stand there aimlessly in what must look like shock and the next thing I know Lyn¡¯s offering me a joint. With a trembling hand I take it. Inhale. A cough leaves me and I succumb on the bed, my body starting to tremble. Lyn covers me with a blanket. My fingers curling into the fabric I pull the sheets up to my face and try to rid my head of all and everything.

 Chapter 24 - Michael

    Michael

    Freckles cries and heaves outside the room and suffocating dread coils up to my throat. I bury my fingers into my forearm, rocking back and forth as I sit.

    I can¡¯t do this.

    These days at Lyn¡¯s have been unbearable. They were calm. I mulled over and over in my head the vents of the past. They became like poison, like a snake that coiled around me. And I know that I deserve it, but-but it¡¯s unbearable. I couldn¡¯t look at Hanna, much less talk with her about anything that happened. I forced myself to sleep in the same bed with her mostly because she wanted to, but every night I dreamt of hurting her, or myself, or someone else. And each morning, feeling her presence next to me, I felt so choked by guilt and my bloody past I wished someone would¡¯ve murdered me in my sleep.

    I know I want to fix the damage I did, but I¡­ I can¡¯t. Not when my morals finally caught up with all that I¡¯ve been doing.

    My teeth bite on my lip so hard I taste blood, but it¡¯s all I can do to not wail.

    It is not enough.

    I need to get out of here. I can¡¯t stay.

    I jump up from the bed, hoping to leave behind the guilt, the pain, everything that I¡¯ve done, but as I stand and reach the door my baggage doesn¡¯t stay on the bed. It comes with me full-force. I stumble into Lyn in the corridor. She has a gun tucked into the waistband of her green pajamas.

    With a step toward her I grab the gun. By the time she calls out in alarm I¡¯m already galloping downstairs and out the back door.

    Freckle¡¯s face hovers in front of my eyes like a phantom. I can¡¯t get rid of her, no matter how many times I blink.

    I can¡¯t take this anymore.

    I stumble outside and down the porch into the snowy backyard. I¡¯m shivering, but not from the cold.

    ¡°Wait!¡± Lyn¡¯s voice gets lost behind me as I run into the forest, but I hear her plod through the snow behind me.

    I pivot, extending the gun at her. She stops dead in her tracks, staring at me.

    Snapping back into my original intention, I put the gun to my temple.

    ¡°Please!¡± Lyn puts her hands out. ¡°Please, don¡¯t! You don¡¯t deserve to die!¡±

    ¡°You have no clue what I deserve or not!¡± I scream, cold metal so comforting against my hair and skin.

    I can end it. Right here, right now.

    I have the gun in my hand and no one can stop me. Lyn¡¯s eyes, lit by a warm light coming from the house bear into mine; frozen, unblinking.

    She doesn¡¯t seem hateful or like she wishes for me to die. In fact, she seems¡­compassionate.

    I want to kill myself anyway, right? Does it matter then If I tell her things or not?

    Something in me breaks. ¡°I-I kidnapped her! She¡¯s my hostage. I murdered her sister.¡± I feel dizzy as the words leave my mouth, this uncontrollable itch to talk becoming a tsunami I''m powerless to stop.

    But for whatever reason, incomprehensible relief floods me and Lyn¡¯s face turns paper white. Her feet flinch. She wants to run.

    ¡°Don¡¯t run,¡± I whisper, clenching my teeth so not to cry. ¡°I¡¯ll save you the trouble.¡± I pull the trigger and squeeze my eyes. Lyn gasps, extending her hand¡ª

    I freeze. Nothing¡¯s happened. My finger didn¡¯t bend. She¡¯s stupefied too, tears gathering around her eyelashes. We stare at each other, gazes glued as if looking away would cause all hell to break loose, as if it¡¯s not loose already.

    The safety is on. Of course, I forgot.

    She watches as my thumb slides it to the deadly side, but I¡¯m shaking ever more now. In despair.

    A distant thought bubbles up to the forefront of my mind. What about Freckles? ¡°I made her a promise to live,¡± I gasp out a string of suffocated words. I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m saying this out loud. I don¡¯t know anything anymore. ¡°But I can¡¯t¡­I can¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°I know,¡± Lyn nods. ¡°I know it feels like you can¡¯t.¡± She lifts her palm slowly and brings her fingers to her sleeve. Pulls it back. I squint and in the faint light discern many scars on the skin of her forearm. ¡°Trust me, I know,¡± she then points a finger to my left. Unsure, I turn my gaze to the side.

    Two graves.

    I falter, my knees weak under me. She¡¯s a cutter and she¡¯s lost people¡­

    ¡°These are just reminders. One is for my dog,¡± she says, ¡°The other for my son.¡±

    I just stand there in stupor, pistol still at my temple, then come back. ¡°But you haven¡¯t hurt anyone,¡± I utter, my attention flitting from the graves to her cut arms to her black eyes.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    She shrugs slowly. ¡°I got to the point where I brought a knife down my arm. Do you think the pain is that much different?¡±

    I can¡¯t help but let out a sob. ¡°Why do you stay then? Alive?¡±

    ¡°Well,¡± she shuffles her foot in the snow, ¡°I thought I might as well relax, escape from the world. That¡¯s how I ended up here, in this house,¡± she adds quietly, ¡°I guess I punish myself by secluding,¡± she gapes as if she¡¯s just realized something, ¡°oh, that¡¯s why I felt alive when Crytal arrived. I¡¯ve been so lonely and only now do I see how lonely. Anyway.¡± She refocuses on me.

    The barrel of the gun clatters against my skull. I couldn¡¯t comprehend Freckles and I sure can¡¯t comprehend Lyn. She doesn¡¯t want me to die either? What the fuck? How do two people who have been through a shit ton in their own lives don¡¯t want me to die? Maybe because they know what this pain is like.

    My hand with the pistol falls to my side and I succumb to my knees, sobbing.

    ¡°But how do I live? I gotta go to prison. It¡¯s so not fair. I need to pay for this.¡± I look up at her. Though seeming lost she still comes closer and takes the gun from me, then places one unsteady hand on my shoulder.

    ¡°Come into the house. Let¡¯s talk, okay?¡± She says.

    I regard her with a wary gaze, but get up and shuffle alongside her back into the house.

    In the kitchen she pours me a cup of tea and mixes some honey into it. I swallow my tears, even though I don¡¯t know if I should or want to, given that she¡¯s seen me at my worst and knows what I¡¯ve done.

    She moves rigidly and her eyes lack her usual softness that I noticed they had before. She¡¯s probably in a mild shock from having a murderer in her house, but she doesn¡¯t freeze or panic. She still seems to be coherent.

    ¡°So,¡± she stretches the word as she places the cup in front of me. ¡°What happened?¡±

    I swallow, glancing at her from under my brows. I feel so defeated, so tired of life that I can¡¯t find a single fuck to give. I tell her. And I tell her everything. From me killing my father to my life in the gangs, to the people I killed because the gang wanted me to. I tell her about how I picked my victims, how FBI and Hanna¡¯s brother were tracking my gang, and that Hanna went snooping around where she shouldn¡¯t have and that I got orders to get rid of her.

    Lyn listens. Her eyes stray sideways sometimes in deep thought. Sometimes I catch a look of disgust on her face and I promptly look down. I feel like I¡¯m confessing and I¡¯m sinning more just by looking up at her; this heavenly creature who still somehow didn¡¯t pull out that gun and shoot me in the head, but I don¡¯t¡­ can¡¯t stop talking.

    I describe how after I took Hanna I failed to kill her because she wasn¡¯t someone who met my killing criteria and that instead, we had to get on the run that led to us beginning to interact and develop this fucked up relationship. I chuckle as I talk. It¡¯s funny how my psyche started falling apart. By interaction.

    When I finish I¡¯m trembling again. I can¡¯t help it. My wounds throb and my whole body is alive with sensations of grief, and loss, and guilt. For what it¡¯s worth I¡¯ve never felt this alive before.

    Lyn gapes, lost for words, then exhales as she closes her eyes and leans back in her chair. ¡°Well, that sucks.¡±

    Is that all she¡¯s gonna say?

    And with that I still, as if my body remembered who I am. God, what have I done? I just spilled everything to her, endangering, myself, Freckles, and her. Should I kill her now? Would it be better?

    She notices me taking deep breaths, looking at her in my unblinking gaze. The terror that spreads through her face snaps me out of it. She shuffles back in her chair a little.

    ¡°I¡¯m not calling the cops,¡± she whispers as if she¡¯s just read my mind. ¡°I¡¯m intent on holding my promise of letting you two rest until you can move on. I don¡¯t want any part in this,¡± she pauses, thinking. ¡°But I¡¯m glad you didn¡¯t shoot yourself.¡±

    I snicker and wanna tell her that if she calls anyone, I¡¯m gonna hurt her, but then stop myself. This would evolve into another hostage situation. I can¡¯t repeat my mistakes.

    But what do I do? I don¡¯t know how to not be threatening. Maybe I should be honest?

    ¡°I don¡¯t trust you,¡± I say. ¡°And I have no clue how to protect Hanna with you in this house.¡±

    ¡°Understandable,¡± she says, wringing her hands as she tries to keep her composure. ¡°The only thing I can say is I need to think about all this. And are you kidding? I¡¯m basically your hostage too now,¡± she throws her hand to the side, ¡°who in their right mind would do anything stupid with a murderer in their house, especially when we can just agree for you two to leave peacefully.¡±

    Oh, great. She feels like she¡¯s a hostage.

    ¡°By the way,¡± Lyn exhales with exhaustion, ¡°Hanna¡¯s okay for now. She had a panic attack and I led her to the other room. Gave her my blunt to pull on.¡±

    It¡¯s a bit funny how it wasn¡¯t anti-anxiety meds or anything proper. ¡°I could use a blunt.¡±

    ¡°Sure,¡± she says, a crooked smile appearing on her face as if someone¡¯s just asked her about her hobby. My desire to shut down her happiness kicks in but I swallow it. She ferrets out a little bag with her supplies and just rolls a joint on the table, her scarred forearms showing. The whole picture looks familiar to me. This is how gangers look with their hunched backs and scarred arms, and eyes obsessed with the drug.

    ¡°Have you ever been involved in crime?¡± I ask tentatively.

    ¡°Daddy¡¯s been,¡± she says, not looking up, her black long hair slipping around her shoulders.

    Relief floods me. Relief my body was trained to feel around the presence of my own. I remind myself that gangers can betray you just as easy as they help you. But she¡¯s not a full-on ganger, is she? Probably just an amalgamation of her father, her lost son, and money.

    But somehow I still feel more at ease.

    She lights the joint and gives it to me. ¡°This is the best,¡± she says knowingly.

    I pull on it.

    For the first time I wanna kiss someone not because I¡¯m horny, but because I¡¯m grateful. I feel like I¡¯ve dropped the load of a lifetime I didn¡¯t know I was carrying. Just by sharing things with her.

    ¡°It¡¯s good right?¡± Lyn raises her brows at me.

    The weed is the last thing on my mind. ¡°Don¡¯t tell Hanna this happened, okay? It''s hard for her as it is.¡±

    ¡°If she hasn¡¯t figured it out already from all the noise we made, but she seemed pretty out of it.¡±

    Lyn stands, walking to the kitchen window. It¡¯s dark outside but I know she¡¯d be facing the garage. Her face appears sunken as she peers out into the night. The glazed look in her eyes reminds me of Hanna.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I let out.

    ¡°Life,¡± she shrugs, not turning. She trusts me enough to turn her back to me. This is a good sign.

    A minute of silence passes.

    ¡°Springs coming,¡± she says casually, then chuckles. ¡°I still haven¡¯t fixed my lawnmower. Keep putting it back. So stupid. The back yard will look like a shaggy beard.¡±

    I raise my brow. She¡¯s just random like that, or maybe it¡¯s me starting to feel stoned.

    Smoke rises from the joint in my fingers. Lyn seems pretty abundant in this stuff. Back in the gangs we¡¯d always be reminded to save weed. Not that I smoked much.

    ¡°I could fix it,¡± the words leave my mouth before I think about it.

    Lyn turns, propping her hand on her hip. ¡°You know how?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll figure it out.¡± I had my fair share of fixing things. ¡°I can look it at least.¡±

    She thinks for a moment. ¡°This is really weird but okay.¡±

    I take another hit, my body slackening in the chair, either from this completely new idea of being useful for something other than illegal things, or getting higher.

    Maybe both.

 Chapter 25 - Hanna

    Hanna

    I wake with a feeling of dying. I don¡¯t know where or how, but it¡¯s as if a train cut me into tiny pieces, each part of my being so far apart I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ll gather all of them to even get out of bed.

    I visit Michael¡¯s room. It¡¯s empty. I get my clothing and dress, then come down, and after not being able to find Michael or Lyn in the house I stalk outside. By the time I reach the garage with its door open my stomach is already in knots. Just as I think something¡¯s wrong I hear voices coming from the garage, together with some metallic clattering. I step closer.

    ¡°¡­I just get the urge, you know?¡± Lyn¡¯s voice, soft. ¡°My therapist said I punish myself, just like I isolate. So it¡¯s kind of a cycle, but I could never feel like they get it.¡±

    I hear Michael sneer. ¡°I get it,¡± a pause. ¡°Doesn¡¯t it bother you? This situation?¡±

    ¡°Of course it does! Are you kidding? I have a murderer and his hostage¡ª¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s not my¡ª¡±

    ¡°Right, sorry, but yeah, I have you in my house and I still haven¡¯t called the cops! God damn it. Yes, it bothers me.¡±

    It takes a moment for me to process, but it feels like a lifetime. Pure horror overtaking me, I slam my hand on the door into the garage and burst inside. ¡°What?¡±

    Both of them look up at me, their faces shocked and confused; Lyn, sitting on a wooden workbench by the wall, and Michel digging in the engine of a lawnmower.

    ¡°You told her?¡± I point at Lyn, my eyebrows knitted. Why did he tell her? I don¡¯t understand.

    Michael tightens his jaw.

    ¡°He did,¡± Lyn says. ¡°And we¡¯re all good so far. You¡¯re scheduled to leave as soon as he¡¯s healed.¡±

    Rage boils in me and I erupt. ¡°Don¡¯t you think he ain¡¯t gonna heal if he keeps fixing your shit!¡±

    A whole soup of emotions spills over my head. Confusion, rage, fear. Given that Michel¡¯s so closed off I never accounted for him beginning to talk with Lyn. I imagined myself being the bridge between them both. What does this mean? Is it good that he¡¯s opening up? Should I be glad instead and stop overreacting? I don¡¯t think I am overreacting.

    My one hand propped against the door, I take a few deep inhales.

    The most important thing is that Lyn¡¯s keeping us secret, and maybe knowing who Michael is will deter her from considering that option at all.

    ¡°And how do we know that once we leave you¡¯re not gonna send anyone after us?¡± I ask. I don¡¯t think I ever stared at anyone with this amount of cold malice before. I feel like I could hurt her if I needed to. I shoot Michael a disappointed look that questions his intelligence, letting him see the mixture of all of my feelings.

    Lyn gapes, lost.

    From his crouched position by the lawnmower Michael stands. His throat bobs as he swallows, then he levels my glare with his equally cold eyes. Yet his gaze is not defensive, it¡¯s defeated. ¡°I wanted to kill myself last night.¡±

    I choke up. Fuck.

    ¡°She stopped me,¡± he says, then shifts his feet as if debating whether to continue. ¡°I¡¯m just as lost as you are, Freckles,¡± he shakes his head lightly. ¡°Everything hurts, inside and out, and I¡­¡± he trails off and I see him fight with himself in his internal world. ¡°¡­I just place one foot in front of the other. One step at the time. Just like you told me.¡± Small wrinkles appear around his eyebrows as he fails to conceal this raw pain. I understand how big a step he¡¯s making right now. He¡¯s being vulnerable, he¡¯s not hiding his truth.

    I nod, still confused, but at least knowing he¡¯s not planning to leave me.

    Why did I even think that?

    He hasn¡¯t talked to me much, but he¡¯s still keeping his promise, right? It¡¯s good for him to open up and as long as Lyn¡¯s not ratting us out we should be fine.

    Should¡­

    ¡­

    Four days later I really wish for us to get on the run again and back into the survival mode where our mental health is a second priority. Yet we stay. I attempt to sleep with Michael in one bed once more, but he wakes again, freaking me out. He apologizes later on, all but crying into my shoulder. Being a mentally attached victim that I am I forgive him, calm him, and try to better him. But at the same time I begin feeling old hate toward him, a hard to control urge to hurt him, to make him suffer.

    But I can¡¯t run off.

    On the fifth day Lyn goes back to work. She had called in sick once we showed up at her house. She kindly asks us not to fuck up her house and tells us we¡¯re free to go any time. Weirdly, she doesn¡¯t mention anything about stealing and I figure she has plenty of money to go around.

    ¡°Should we go?¡± I ask Michael once we meet in the living room. ¡°We can take something, find her stash, perhaps?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± he says simply, reading a book.

    ¡°Why not?¡± I sit on the edge of the sofa where he¡¯s laying, ¡°I understand it¡¯s bad but the longer we stay here the more at risk we are. I feel shitty about exploiting Lyn, but we can¡¯t trust her. She knows everything about us. Our real names for God¡¯s sake!¡± I feel guilty for saying this because Lyn has done nothing to make us distrust her, but this can¡¯t go on forever.

    ¡°I need more time and then we¡¯ll go. But we¡¯re not stealing anything.¡± Michael places his hand on my upper arm and my body melts into his touch, my panic abating.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    ¡°I just¡­ I feel lonely,¡± I whisper.

    He looks up from the book, takes off his glasses. It¡¯s like I forced him to finally take me in.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he exhales. ¡°I know you think we¡¯re still gonna run, and we might, but I don¡¯t know if I can handle it. Going anywhere with you.¡±

    I sink my head into my hands. ¡°Great. So I¡¯m trapped. I can¡¯t leave you but you don¡¯t want to move.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± he says. ¡°If you go. I will not stop you. I will go with you and we¡¯ll figure it out.¡±

    ¡°But it would be hard for you.¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    I sit for a bit, savoring Michael¡¯s hand, but my feelings don¡¯t go away.

    ¡°Do you trust her?¡± I ask.

    ¡°No, but I have no choice now. I¡­¡± he hesitates. ¡°I couldn¡¯t help myself. I didn¡¯t intend on telling her. It¡¯s just, in the forest, I had a gun to my head and I was¡­¡± he trails off, embarrassed.

    ¡°You were a mess?¡±

    He tips his chin once. I remind myself this situation is good for us, but deep down it starts feeling like a knot I have no idea how to untangle. I can¡¯t leave Michael, but I feel obligated to be there for him and want him to be with me, but I despise him. I hate Lyn for her over the top hospitality and I hate myself for picking her and not someone else who¡¯s not that fucked up, but I¡¯m also grateful because we can heal in peace. But I don¡¯t want to heal because I feel like everything¡¯s falling apart.

    My head pounds with overwhelm. I don¡¯t want to look at this knot altogether. Even my temples start to sting.

    ¡°I¡¯m gonna go take a walk,¡± I stand. ¡°I need to think.¡±

    I throw on my shoes and Lyn¡¯s coat, then walk out the back into the woods. The fresh air helps, but it¡¯s like a band-aid on a broken bone.

    I halt by the graves, in thought. No one ever talks about consequences in movies. The hero kills the bad guys and gets the girl. The girl is not at all affected by all the massacre and eagerly falls into the hero¡¯s hands who¡¯s strong and manly, and surely can always protect his woman.

    What a load of bullshit.

    Life of action might keep you focused on the task, but once you stop it gets real messy.

    To avoid overwhelming myself again I just walk on.

    I spend four hours outside, walking through uncharted woods, climbing over ridges, and jumping over brooks. I stumble into three other houses but give them a wide berth.

    When I return in the evening I find Lyn leaned on Michael¡¯s room¡¯s door. It¡¯s cracked, but they can¡¯t see each other face to face.

    ¡°What¡ª¡±

    Lyn puts her finger to her lips and waves me away with a soft bat of her palm. ¡°He¡¯s opening up,¡± she whispers and gives me thumbs up. ¡°That¡¯s good, right?¡±

    I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans, my hands getting clammy. ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°I guess.¡± Lyn turns her head to the door. ¡°Yeah, keep going. I¡¯m listening.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s gray, I think,¡± Michael answers.

    What?

    ¡°Mine¡¯s pink,¡± Lyn says.

    A pause. ¡°That¡¯s an ugly color,¡± Michael says.

    Are they talking about their favorite colors? With all that¡¯s going on? What the actual fuck?

    Another thought rings in my mind like a church bell. He¡¯s talking to her. He¡¯s getting closer to her.

    Her and not me.

    The snap inside my chest is unmistakable, a shift so sudden I throw myself forward. ¡°Get away from him!¡± I push Lyn from the door, shoving her with all my strength. I know he said he¡¯s not gonna leave me. But he is. He¡¯s leaving me emotionally. He¡¯s leaving me for her.

    Lyn yelps as she stumbles but regains her balance. Yet I regain nothing, not the inner balance I imagined I had after taking that walk. I¡¯m helpless to control the red that spreads over my vision. She¡¯s threatening my survival. And Michael is my survival. If he¡¯s not with me I¡¯m dead.

    I attack her, fingers in tight fists. ¡°He¡¯s mine!¡± She screams and I just pound and scratch against her body, until I¡¯m torn away. Michael pulls me back into his room and slams the door with his foot. I kick and screech like I¡¯m being butchered because it feels like I am.

    He has to stay with me. He has to... Or I¡¯ll die¡­

    He pushes me on the bed and pins me down. ¡°Hanna! Look at me. Look at me!¡±

    I kiss him. Without any warning. I need to feel him, smell him, need to know he¡¯s here with me. He kisses me back, his body tight and heavy against mine, pulling me from an onslaught of uncontrollable emotions. ¡°You¡¯re here,¡± I whimper once I pull my lips away from his.

    ¡°I am, and I¡¯m not going anywhere.¡± He gathers me into his arms, a blanket of safety around my body.

    I curl my fingers into his shirt, clinging to him like he¡¯s the only island in an endless ocean. Deep calmness sets into my head and muscles. And, of course, after every fit where I can¡¯t control myself, a heavy-duty realization follows.

    ¡°Oh fuck,¡± I utter. ¡°What have I done?¡±

    The door to the room opens and Lyn peeks in. She holds her hand to her neck where I scratched her.

    We all flit our glances around each other.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I whisper, though I¡¯m not sure if she hears it. I feel a deep flush setting into my cheeks and I hide in Michael''s chest. His heart pounds fast against my ear.

    When I raise my head at Michael he¡¯s looking at Lyn, almost as lost as I am. I hate to see him weak. It freaks me out just like it did when he was unconscious on the bed at the motel. I know I can¡¯t blame him for it because he¡¯s going through a lot as well, but this is what I feel.

    The next day, Lyn comes back from work with a man. A mid-aged friendly-looking fella in a warm green parka.

    Michael and I instantly get up from a sofa in the den, both shifting our feet into a defensive stance. ¡°Well,¡± Lyn opens up her palms as Michael and I glare at the man. Michael¡¯s hand slides to the back of his pants instinctively, but there¡¯s nothing there. He puffs instead, inhaling deeply and hair on his arms spiking up.

    Lyn hurries to defuse the stern atmosphere. ¡°This is Jonathan. I trust him and he has helped me in my hard times.¡±

    We observe the man dubiously, both cautious.

    Lyn¡¯s voice gains a deeper streak of sweetness. ¡°He¡¯s a, uh, a shrink. We agreed to keep it confidential,¡± before we freak out more she extends her hands in calming gestures. ¡°I just told him I have people that need help. And he¡¯s agreed to do me a favor.¡±

    As to why did she invite this man instead of just offering to meet him somewhere is beyond me. But then I know I would¡¯ve refused that offer.

    Michael and I exchange glances and Michael deflates, relaxing. He turns us his back and trots up the stairs.

    ¡°I guess that¡¯s a no,¡± Jonathan says, his tone pleasant.

    I stay in the den, scrutinizing this Johnathan. ¡°You work with people who have problems?¡±

    ¡°You could say,¡± a gentle closed smile curves on his stubble-covered face.

    After a glance back at the staircase I tilt my head. Despite Mikey outright refusing the help I do want to fix myself. Even if I¡¯m scared. ¡°I¡¯ll talk to you.¡±

    On the first day Jonathan and I discuss my life, my family, his work. It reminds me of school, of guidance counselors, but a little deeper. John appears to be a local shrink and has a small cozy office room in his one-story house on the outskirts of the town. He tells me I can have as many panic attacks as I want. I can cry and scream, and no one¡¯s going to fault or hurt me for it. At first, it surprises me and takes a while to stomach that fact. I do stomach it and, on the second, day Jonathan ends up holding me in his arms for two hours while I cry. And on the third one. On the fourth one I tell him the truth. I reveal it all and then literally beg him not to address authorities. He swears to keep everything a secret. I¡¯m not sure if I should trust him, but with no other choice, I do. I also understand how Michael must¡¯ve felt when he ratted everything out to Lyn.

    Lyn takes over my duties, watching over Michael. I tell her what to say as I tend to avoid him myself, but want to stay close all the same. It¡¯s not as easy as I thought it would be, to detach myself from him. Every time the nightmares plague me I sneak into his bed and sidle up to his warmth.

    More than often he asks me to leave, but sometimes, if he¡¯s feeling more or less peaceful, he lets me stay.

    ¡°You¡¯re persistent, Freckles.¡±

    ¡°Stockholm, remember?¡± I hug him from behind. Though he¡¯s hardly a little spoon.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he says.

    ¡°It¡¯s okay. You¡¯re keeping your promise, you¡¯re still here.¡±

    He puts his hand on mine and we lay in silence, listening to the winds outside. We don¡¯t sleep.

 Chapter 26 - Michael

    Michael

    Lyn and I are sitting on the bed in my room, reading. It¡¯s indeed a bit unsettling how this situation is turning out, but Lyn is not afraid of me, nor does she seem to hate on Hanna. And if she¡¯s does, she¡¯s good at hiding it. I don¡¯t question her much.

    ¡°Did you read it?¡± She asks.

    ¡°No,¡± I say.

    She waits, then asks again.

    ¡°No,¡± I answer softly, my eyes following the lines. We¡¯re reading some historic fiction. It¡¯s a bit boring but having to focus on one thing and one thing only relaxes me. ¡°Now, yes.¡±

    She flips the page, her face bent at an angle and her silky black hair slipping from her shoulder. A scratch is healing on her cheek. A scratch Hanna planted on her face.

    I look at her. ¡°She didn¡¯t mean to hurt you.¡±

    Lyn¡¯s eyes soften. ¡°She hurt me so I¡¯m sure she did mean it. But she had her reasons. She¡¯s had it hard, I understand.¡±

    I feel tension leech from my face. I observe Lyn as she reads for a moment. I don¡¯t quite understand why she¡¯s being like that¡ª

    The door to our room swings open. Freckles steps in, determined scowl of her brows indicating that serious talk is coming.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to intrude, but Lyn, I need to know something,¡± she says. ¡°And John says I shouldn¡¯t hide how I feel from you. He says I gotta learn to speak up.¡±

    Lyn shifts next to me. ¡°Um, sure.¡±

    ¡°You want us here, don¡¯t you?¡±

    She gapes as if caught stealing. I look at her.

    ¡°I mean you casually mention that we should leave, but you don¡¯t enforce it. Even better you bring a shrink. So either you have shitty boundaries, John taught me about them, or you actually want us here because we cure your loneliness and you can relate to Michael a lot?¡± Hanna throws her hand to the side and I see clarity overtake her face as she probably starts making sense to herself. ¡°And we know all your secrets already. So if deep down you wanted for someone to know your pain we know it and you don¡¯t want to lose that.¡± She points at me. ¡°Same goes for you.¡± Her shoulders slump. ¡°I get it,¡± she whispers to herself. ¡°There¡¯s relief in being in pain together. And both of you have found it. That¡¯s why we¡¯re still here.¡±

    Lyn swallows, her cheeks turning pink, her hands trembling a little as she holds her book. Hanna did just uncover her deepest reasons for allowing us to stay. I know how disorienting and exposing that feels. Hanna did that to me too. She just can¡¯t help herself but make people aware of what they¡¯re doing.

    Lyn stills as if she¡¯s heard something. She straightens, then jumps from the bed. ¡°There¡¯s a car coming,¡± she hurries out of the room. I leap from the bed, instantly alert, and follow.

    ¡°It¡¯s Casandra,¡± Lyn gasps as she looks out the window to the front yard.

    ¡°Cassandra?¡± Both Hanna and I repeat.

    ¡°An officer,¡± Lyn smooths her hair, ¡°stay here. Stay hidden.¡±The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    I reach for her, not quite sure why, but she thuds down the stairs before my fingers catch her. I hesitate. Do I trust Lyn to handle this or is this the moment where everything collapses into how it was before?

    Hanna next to me looks just as shook. It¡¯s like we¡¯re on the fence between fully trusting or fully taking control of the situation and taking Lyn hostage. The officer maybe too. And I know if I acted Hanna would be with me on this.

    The front door opens with a short squeak.

    ¡°Evening, Lyn. How are you?¡± Footsteps are accompanied by a husky voice.

    ¡°Good, Cas,¡± Lyn answers. ¡°What¡¯s this about?¡±

    ¡°Manhunt. A bunch of Americans. Some gruesome murders took place nearby a few months ago. We got the orders to check with the locals. Just following protocol, Lyn.¡± I shiver when I hear a rustle of papers. ¡°Have you seen any of these people?¡±

    The following minute feels like an hour and Hanna grabs my hand. Lyn¡¯s voice breaks the tension. ¡°No, no idea who they are.¡±

    ¡°Right. These men are said to be accomplices of a recently busted crime ring in the U.S. Though only his fingerprints were found.¡± These men? There must be more than two photos.

    ¡°Okay. I¡¯ll keep it in mind,¡± Lyn¡¯s shy voice.

    When the door shuts Hanna and I let out a breath we held. Lyn climbs up the stairs and stops a few stairs down, her hand on the railing.

    We stare at each other for what must be a minute.

    ¡°Our photos?¡± I speak first.

    Lyn wets her lips. ¡°Only yours. But like ten years younger in your photo. I barely recognized you. Another man was Mexican.¡±

    ¡°Fingerprints?¡±

    ¡°Mexican¡¯s.¡±

    Another minute of silence as all of us seem to be contemplating our own motives.

    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± Lyn tells Hanna, finality in her voice. ¡°I am at a point where nor death, nor crime,¡± she glances at me, ¡°don¡¯t scare me. I just take all the good that comes out of this situation and ignore the rest. And I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s the best strategy, but I know that for once I feel¡ª¡± she inhales, her chest rising ¡°¡ªsomething more than daily despair.¡±

    Hanna motions her palm between us. ¡°And it doesn¡¯t bother you that he, um, we¡­¡±

    ¡°Of course it does. But you learn to live with your past mistakes. And maybe I gave up too soon on myself. And if I can reconcile with what I¡¯ve done then why shouldn¡¯t you two. Why should I push you away when you made similar mistakes? Why shouldn¡¯t I give you a chance?¡±

    I raise my brow, trying to unpack her reasoning. It¡¯s a bit hard to swallow. ¡°You didn¡¯t kill people, Lyn.¡±

    She shies away a little bit, reminded of harsh truth. ¡°I know, but we¡¯re more alike than you think. I mean, you saw our forearms.¡±

    Hanna nods with a short shrug. ¡°She¡¯s right.¡±

    We settle with that.

    ¡­

    Freckles an I sit on the porch, basking in the spring sun. Freckles has been working with John for a few weeks now. She brings back all this knowledge she learns and I can¡¯t lie that I benefit from it too. Figuring out herself has sort of become her obsession and a way of coping as she puts it. I¡¯ve settled too, deciding to land on one side of the fence, following the path of honesty, no matter how hard it is sometimes.

    Lyn appears from behind the tree line, walking home from work. She gives us a little wave as she turns into the driveway and for the first time, she smiles, showing her teeth. Seeing us makes her happy. I can¡¯t wrap my head around it, my instinct to snuff out any joy kicking in, but my body seems to be more accepting. A warm sensation spreads from my chest, making my body relax, and I feel my lips curl into a soft smile. It feels relieving to let my guard down, and I decide that, somehow, I want to learn to be okay with others'' happiness.

    Hanna next to me chuckles. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen this look on your face before.¡±

    ¡°What look?¡±

    ¡°That type of look.¡±

    I chuckle, my reading glasses sliding down my nose a little.

    Hanna studies me and I study her sun-lit, freckled face. She¡¯s different. I don¡¯t know how I can tell but she is. Her black hair has grown ginger roots and she¡¯s got a rash on the side of her face. Probably from the stress. Her eyes are distant, but at the same time, I see hope. And I want to see it because that hope kept me alive.

    ¡°You look old,¡± she says.

    ¡°You finally noticed.¡±

    She flushes. ¡°It¡¯s a bit weird I was attracted to you. But Johnathan says trauma can make you behave in mysterious ways.¡±

    ¡°Indeed.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re all so fucked up,¡± she mumbles incredulously.

    ¡°It¡¯s a mess,¡± I say, then add a note of seriousness to my voice. ¡°I¡¯m keeping that promise, Hanna.¡±

    Her face is a mix of emotion as if she hates to love me and love to hate me. ¡°Good,¡± she faces the sun just as Lyn approaches the house.

 Chapter 27 - Hanna - Final chapter

    Hanna

    Two years later

    ¡°You¡¯re pouting.¡± Michael sets a bowl of stew in front of me. ¡°What¡¯s up?¡±

    ¡°Nothing,¡± I grunt, poking my spoon into the dish.

    ¡°It¡¯s a good game you brought.¡± He tries to cheer me up. It doesn¡¯t work.

    I glance at the rifle in the hallway, leaned against the wall. Hunting. Who would¡¯ve thought? I don¡¯t like it much, but it seems useful. It gives me something to do. John says it¡¯s not very helpful for my PTSD. I know it¡¯s not and I did have a panic attack when I shot my first bird. I do mostly shoot birds. I guess holding a massive rifle in my hands also makes me feel strong, so often I just walk through the woods, holding it the entire time and not killing a damn thing.

    To pluck and skin my birds, however, I leave to Lyn, since both Michael and I became squeamish with blood and guts. Well, he more than I, since I can take the mutilated bodies of the birds I hunt. Hunting makes me feel useful and helps to distract myself from the truth, the truth that I¡¯m third-wheeling in this house.

    ¡°I¡¯m nineteen. It¡¯s been over two years,¡± I mumble.

    ¡°Sure been a while,¡± he says, giving me a suspicious look as if he knows I¡¯m gonna get into a tangent.

    Michael¡¯s treating me like his little sister¡ª caring, helpful¡ª a man I never knew was in him. But it makes sense because with Lyn¡¯s help, he integrated into this life. After spending half a year in the house, waiting for things to blow over, Michael¡¯s found a job in the nearby logging facility and now mostly keeps all his psyche problems to himself and Lyn. I¡¯m glad because Lyn heals him in ways I never could. He¡¯s calm, and his rage fits have reduced to one or two per month, and he only tried to kill himself only twice last year, which in my book, is a good score. I mention my dreams and goals to him sometimes, just to test it ¡ªthe convertible, the trip I want to take, the happiness I want to experience. I get pleasantly surprised when each time he¡¯s more accepting, treating it like a normal thing, which it is. More than that, Lyn¡¯s been getting better too. She stopped getting urges to cut, and while she still smokes, it¡¯s way less. Most of the time she¡¯s preoccupied with her job and animals, or books, or Michael.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    Maybe, finally¡­ finally, I¡¯ll gather myself together and leave. The thought still terrifies me, but I think I could take on whatever awaits me out in the world. I still have panic attacks from time to time but they¡¯re manageable. Perhaps, I could really do it. I could see my brother. God, it¡¯s been forever.

    ¡°You think I should leave?¡± I ask him.

    Michael leans on the counter. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Freckles. You tell me.¡±

    I sigh, irked, and push my bowl aside. I plant my palms on the table. ¡°I¡¯m third-wheeling.¡±

    He lifts a brow. ¡°Third-wheeling?¡±

    ¡°You and Lyn are all lovey-dovey, all I do is hunt and clean! You don¡¯t need me to help with your shit anymore. I don¡¯t need you to help me. I¡¯m a piece of an already full puzzle here.¡± I stand, glad I finally voiced my concerns out loud.

    ¡°Oh, so that¡¯s how you feel.¡± He rubs the back of his neck. ¡°You¡¯re not¡ª¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me I¡¯m not third-wheeling.¡±

    ¡°But-¡ª¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t.¡±

    He drops his shoulders. ¡°Come with me.¡±

    I sniff and follow him through the back doors into the garage. He shoulders the door open and flicks on the light. I stop in my tracks. ¡°Are you kidding?¡±

    He exhales as he looks at the car parked next to Lyn¡¯s sedan. A convertible. ¡°Took me a while to rebuild it.¡±

    Tears pile up in the rims of my eyes.

    ¡°Why do you think I braided Lyn¡¯s hair so much?¡± He chuckles. ¡°But, eh, it was good exercise. Had a dream, took a step after step, and now it¡¯s here,¡± he shakes his head as if he¡¯s in disbelief that he actually did it. ¡°Granted, it¡¯s no Mustang, but you can still feel the wind in your hair.¡±

    ¡°Jesus.¡± I run my hand over a smooth dark blue surface of a hood, then pivot to fully take in the man in front of me. ¡°Look at you. A-a¡­¡±

    ¡°Go on, say it. A murderer.¡± He bows his head slightly, a shadow of shame and regret crossing his eyes. Then he looks at me. ¡°Third-wheeling my ass, Freckles.¡± He juts his chin to the side, indicating the house. ¡°All this is thanks to you. I owe you my life, Freckles, remember? And we may not talk much, but I owe everything, and I mean everything to you. Lyn knows my promise; she knows I won¡¯t leave you until you decide to leave first.¡±

    Tears running down my cheeks I observe him, feeling last strands of our Stockholm attachment breaking. This is what I needed to hear him say all along. I needed him to say it, to tie the remaining loose ends.

    At last, everything feels complete.

    I wipe my nose. ¡°Do you have the keys?¡±

    He picks them from the nearby shelve and tosses them to me. I snatch them into my palm, eager to taste, smell, feel my freedom in every cell of my body.

    My job here is done.