Stephen Phelps
My hand on her wound. My hand in her wound.
No, she said.
Yes.
I’m bleeding, baby.
My hand in her wound, bloody, bright – bright as the sun because the yellow of the sun is a lie: if you stand close, the sun is as red as a bloody hand.
Christ, baby, I’m bleeding.
Tears. Mine. Why was I crying?
My hand to my cheek. My bloody cheek. Would I ever look in a mirror again?
I’m bleeding.
The tears in my eyes put her in a bubble, in outer space. My fault.
Not your fault, baby.
But—
The hospital, baby, the hospital.
Then the roundabout in front of the ER, as if I was supposed to drive around and around until she bled through the front seat. The leather in my Audi as red as the day they stripped the skin from the lamb. As red as the sun.
Leave me here, she said.
I’ll carry—
You can’t come in. You know that.
You’ll—
I won’t. Her bloody hand on my thigh. As if I was the one with the wound. I won’t die, she said. Never. Not till I’m ready.
I’m coming—
No. She closed the door behind her. She dragged that leg across the sidewalk like a dying animal.
Me in the car. The smell of blood. The salt-and-metal smell of the burning sun. I’ll take care of it, I said, as if she still sat beside me – because I knew who did it. The idea bloomed like a bursting star. It burned away my nausea, and I felt myself grow hard with unfinished sex. I would take his wife, finish the unfinished.
Felicity was right: not my fault. Johnny Bellefleur’s fault. His wife’s by extension. I could see his tears. I could taste his salt. He would touch her. He would lift her from the floor, the lawn, the bed, wherever I found her and finished her.