too. Just before the needle’s pierce, he lets himself lower down next to her, his longer body pressed against her smaller one, and from somewhere far away, he feels her trembling cease.
Then he doesn’t give a shit anymore about being a reminder of how low she could go, who else she could be—he didn’t do this for anyone but himself, this one perfect moment, sliding once more down his own rabbit hole, soaring through his own private sky, riding his own long-lost wave. Never as good as the first time, but he’ll take it, thank you, God, you evil fucker, he’ll take it.
His skin’s gone fuzzy, he can’t say if he’s touching her or anything. Time does not exist. Air buzzes around them, electric.
“My name is Mary. Mary Rebecca Grace.”
Her breath rattles like a baby’s with croup—like his son’s that endless night before Hillary finally reached the doctor on the phone. The boy was fine in a few days, yet déjà vu knocks the wind out of Yank like a punch so that for a moment he doesn’t comprehend her words.
“I have cystic fibrosis. I’m less than a year away from the typical life expectancy for people with my disease.”
And then he does give a shit.
He turns onto his side, lifts her limp hand from the mattress, and shakes it with one soft jerk. “My name is Kenneth Blair,” he says. “I’m wanted for the murder of a dealer named Shane O’Leary. I didn’t kill the bastard, I just dumped his useless body in the Thames. He was my best friend. If I were a better man, I would’ve killed him, but I’m not.”
To his surprise, the fucking girl smiles. “Excellent,” she drawls, pulling her knees farther in against her ribs. “Stick around and maybe you can do that for me, too.” Her finger wags aimlessly, like maybe she’s parodying her mother back in Ohio. “The walking dead should never travel without someone who knows how to hide a body, you know.” She giggles, but it fades fast into something mirthless, airless. “
Poof
.”
Hard not to kiss her then, except that he might suffocate her. Hard not to put every part of him inside her, except that they’ve got work to do.
It’s hard to focus when she’s quiet, too. Yank holds his body immobile as a statue, still straining to hear his boy’s fragile breath, but pretty soon he has to roll his ankle—three, four times compulsively—waiting to hear a crack. At the sound, he’s a little jarred to notice her still there next to him, head lolling, eyes closed, dried blood coating her pale skin. And all of a sudden he can’t
stop
looking. Even when she opens her eyes and watches him, shame doesn’t matter anymore; he can’t remember this high up why it ever did. He shifts her knees off his ribs, sits up, and fumbles for his camera.
“You mind if I take some pictures of you, baby?” But he’s already clicking a test shot, not waiting for her answer, shifting a little so that the thin light from the filmy window won’t overexpose and dilute the color of her blood. She throws her head back trying maybe for a laugh but loses track of it, flops onto her back, nodding like she’s the one who just shot up instead of him.
“Whatever floats your boat, Desperado.” Voice croaky. Already tears are sliding a river into her hairline, leaving weak tracks in the red. Yank knows the tears are not about him, even if he wishes they were. His heart hammers in time with the shots,
fast, fast, fast,
trying to catch her trail of tears, but soon she’s zoning too far in her own narcotic stupor to make them anymore. Even when she’s asleep he keeps clicking; at one point he rearranges her limbs so she’s fetal again and still she doesn’t stir. It’s only once the light shifts—a sign that the others may soon return—that he makes himself chuck the camera back under some clothes. Time will be running out.
“Someone to hide the body, huh?” He laughs louder than when anyone can hear. “Who knew you were such a freaky little bitch?” But
Then he doesn’t give a shit anymore about being a reminder of how low she could go, who else she could be—he didn’t do this for anyone but himself, this one perfect moment, sliding once more down his own rabbit hole, soaring through his own private sky, riding his own long-lost wave. Never as good as the first time, but he’ll take it, thank you, God, you evil fucker, he’ll take it.
His skin’s gone fuzzy, he can’t say if he’s touching her or anything. Time does not exist. Air buzzes around them, electric.
“My name is Mary. Mary Rebecca Grace.”
Her breath rattles like a baby’s with croup—like his son’s that endless night before Hillary finally reached the doctor on the phone. The boy was fine in a few days, yet déjà vu knocks the wind out of Yank like a punch so that for a moment he doesn’t comprehend her words.
“I have cystic fibrosis. I’m less than a year away from the typical life expectancy for people with my disease.”
And then he does give a shit.
He turns onto his side, lifts her limp hand from the mattress, and shakes it with one soft jerk. “My name is Kenneth Blair,” he says. “I’m wanted for the murder of a dealer named Shane O’Leary. I didn’t kill the bastard, I just dumped his useless body in the Thames. He was my best friend. If I were a better man, I would’ve killed him, but I’m not.”
To his surprise, the fucking girl smiles. “Excellent,” she drawls, pulling her knees farther in against her ribs. “Stick around and maybe you can do that for me, too.” Her finger wags aimlessly, like maybe she’s parodying her mother back in Ohio. “The walking dead should never travel without someone who knows how to hide a body, you know.” She giggles, but it fades fast into something mirthless, airless. “
Poof
.”
Hard not to kiss her then, except that he might suffocate her. Hard not to put every part of him inside her, except that they’ve got work to do.
It’s hard to focus when she’s quiet, too. Yank holds his body immobile as a statue, still straining to hear his boy’s fragile breath, but pretty soon he has to roll his ankle—three, four times compulsively—waiting to hear a crack. At the sound, he’s a little jarred to notice her still there next to him, head lolling, eyes closed, dried blood coating her pale skin. And all of a sudden he can’t
stop
looking. Even when she opens her eyes and watches him, shame doesn’t matter anymore; he can’t remember this high up why it ever did. He shifts her knees off his ribs, sits up, and fumbles for his camera.
“You mind if I take some pictures of you, baby?” But he’s already clicking a test shot, not waiting for her answer, shifting a little so that the thin light from the filmy window won’t overexpose and dilute the color of her blood. She throws her head back trying maybe for a laugh but loses track of it, flops onto her back, nodding like she’s the one who just shot up instead of him.
“Whatever floats your boat, Desperado.” Voice croaky. Already tears are sliding a river into her hairline, leaving weak tracks in the red. Yank knows the tears are not about him, even if he wishes they were. His heart hammers in time with the shots,
fast, fast, fast,
trying to catch her trail of tears, but soon she’s zoning too far in her own narcotic stupor to make them anymore. Even when she’s asleep he keeps clicking; at one point he rearranges her limbs so she’s fetal again and still she doesn’t stir. It’s only once the light shifts—a sign that the others may soon return—that he makes himself chuck the camera back under some clothes. Time will be running out.
“Someone to hide the body, huh?” He laughs louder than when anyone can hear. “Who knew you were such a freaky little bitch?” But
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