I’ve killed more people than I care to admit. I’ve never seen them as people, they have always been a target, a means to an end. But with Kate, I couldn’t pull the trigger. I think I knew that the moment I told her to come outside. The moment she looked around her like it was the last time she’d see the sky or the trees, but when she turned around and faced away from me, her small body had curled in on itself and I knew I couldn’t pull the fucking trigger.
I was abused. When the words about her abuse started to leave her lips, I wanted to kill like I was a man fighting for air. Emptying the gun into the ground did nothing for me. I wanted her to stop, I didn’t want to hear her confession about blaming herself. All I wanted was to find her uncle and chop his fucking head off. A bullet would be too good for him.
She’s still in my arms, I know she’s terrified. I don’t fucking blame her but right now I need to hold her. I want her to find comfort in me. I can sense her battle and I pull her closer as I sit down on the couch. Blood drips from her feet, but those cuts will heal, the damage inside her is so much worse. I want to tell her it wasn’t her fault, but I can’t speak right now without wanting to roar. So I continue to hold her. She’s so small in my arms and I’m aware of where my hands touch. Her back heaves against my arms. I like her warm breath on my chest. My lips press against her head, she stiffens in my arms. I have so many questions I want to ask, but so many I don’t want the answers to. What age was she when he first put his hands on her? Where the fuck was her father or auntie? Why does she blame herself?
“Dean.” My name. She says it again. She had said it outside and I was so sure I had misheard her, how does she know my name? I don’t want her to be involved with the blackmailer but it is looking that way. She must have set me up. Anger laces my hands tighter on her and I feel her panic as she starts to squirm.
Let her go.
I release her quickly and grab her before she tumbles to the ground. She has lines of tiredness under her eyes.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
I nod and she slides off the couch. Small droplets of blood drip from her feet. I need to bandage them up for her. I focus on the wall in front of me as she closes the bathroom door.
I imagine her uncle: I see him walking down a sidewalk, I place a newspaper under his arm. He’s wearing heavy brown boots and a matching belt. He’s sure of himself, comfortable in his own skin. He thinks he’s someone special. I’m ready to take my shot. I’m always so still, but now I make a sound because I want the fucker to see it coming, his blue eyes look up at mine and they widen, color drains from his face and I pull the trigger. The bullet tears through his forehead, ripping skin and smashing bone. It enters his brain, dragging everything with it until it reaches the back of his skull and explodes against the white—wash wall of the coffee shop behind him. He tumbles to the ground with that same expression of shock and I lie still and watch the pool of blood grow wider. It’s satisfying for a second, but he won’t die that way. It has to be so much fucking worse.
I glance towards the hall. I don’t hear any noise and that has me moving. The water is running when I enter the bathroom. She’s in the shower, sitting on the floor fully clothed. I don’t ask her what she’s doing, she’s a fucking mess. Lowering myself to the floor, I sit across from the shower where I can see her. She doesn’t look up at me. The blood from her feet dilutes as it washes down the drain. I’ve seen so much blood, I’ve spilt so much blood and I’ve never blinked before. Watching Kate’s blood swirl down the drain has the oddest effect on me. It makes the substance have value, it’s like her body is crying. She has her head bent, I’m tempted to crawl into the space and lift her chin up. I want to see those ocean eyes, even swimming in pain they are still beautiful. Her shoulders shake as she cries, and I focus on the ceiling and smile as I picture cutting her uncle up. I decide that the auntie is still alive and I make the uncle watch me butcher her first before I kill him. It passes the time blissfully for me.
She’s shivering and I think it's shock. Shock from what she admitted, shock from almost dying. Guilt churns in my stomach and I stand up. She doesn’t move as I step in and turn off the water. Kneeling down, my boots splash in pockets of water.
“Kate,” I say her name and she doesn’t respond. It reminds me it’s not her name.
I touch her arm gently and her head snaps up to me, her eyes are haunted and I wonder what’s playing on the big screen for her. I wish I could watch, I wish I could see what the motherfucker looks like. I help her to her feet. She doesn’t object as I pull the wet jumper over her head. Her large breasts bounce free and I can’t stop the blood that rushes to my cock. I pull down the sweat pants; leaning down, she holds onto my shoulders. She steps out of them. She’s so perfect. Her eyes slowly move up to mine and it takes everything in me not to grab her and take her against the wall. I occupy my mind with getting her a towel for her body. My cock grows harder as I wrap the towel around her.
“I need to look at your feet.”
She nods as she pulls the towel from her shoulders and wraps it under her arms, tucking it in so it stays in place. I grab her another towel for her hair and she wraps it up herself. Getting the first aid kit, she hobbles back out to the couch. Her feet are so small in my hands, and I like kneeling down on the floor so I can look up at her. Right now, I look up to find her watching me. A small amount of color has entered her cheeks.
My cock hardens further when I think about all that bare flesh under the towel. She sucks in her bottom lip, I don't think she’s aware she’s doing it, but I have to look away.
Her feet aren’t too bad. It’s more scrapes than anything else. None of them have gone too deep. I clean them gently with disinfectant wipes. She hisses and I pause, hating that I hurt her. When she settles, I rub a small amount of cream onto both her feet.
“You’ll have to lie here for a while until it dries.”
She nods her head. “Thank you.”
Her gratitude makes me feel like a shitty human being, so I don’t respond. I repack the first aid kit and go get her clean clothes. I’m tempted not to give her clothes; I want to go back to her walking around naked. I find a blue t-shirt that’s close to her eye color and fresh sweatpants. I also grab a pair of socks for her feet. She’s still lying on the couch when I return. I was half expecting her to be gone.
She follows my movements as I place the clothes on the opposite couch. She’s lying with her hands joined on her abdomen. The lines under her eyes are stark. She needs rest. I sit down on the couch beside her clothes. She closes her eyes as she looks away from me. A solitary tear flows down the side of her face. I watch it darken the black leather under her.
“I heard you sing.”
She sniffles and nods but doesn’t open her eyes. “I like singing.”
“Why don’t you sing?” I ask. She doesn’t respond.
I sit back on the couch and just watch her lie there. No more liquid leaks from her eyes but when she opens her mouth and starts to sing, somehow it’s worse.
Her voice shakes, and the haunting melody has my heart picking up pace as she sings about a hanging man having no one to visit his grave. It’s eerie and sad but from her mouth, it’s beautiful.