table.
“Isaac. Are we gonna talk about any of it?”
For a while, Isaac ignored him. He didn’t want to hear Show’s measured, thoughtful wisdom about any of it. He didn’t want a cool head. He wanted to tear the world into shreds.
“I should burn that fucking kutte. It’s an offense.”
“No. It’s right. When you can ride, you’ll take your place at the head. Where you belong.”
“No. You’re President now. That patch should be yours. I’m out, Show. I’m not gettin’ out of this chair. And it’s like a goddamn knife in my chest to have that kutte laying there, reminding me what I lost.”
“You can’t find it again if you quit. You’re right that you won’t get out of there if you’re gonna pussy out and give up.”
Rage boiled up through Isaac’s veins. There was an empty glass on the table next to him. He grabbed it and slammed it on the edge of the table, breaking the top away in shards and leaving angry spikes of heavy, bubbled amber glass. Without even a pause, he drove the glass, spikes first, into his dead right thigh.
Show had leapt up, and Lilli and Shannon had run to the doorway, at the sound of the glass breaking. Now he looked up at all three of them. “I am never getting out of this fucking chair. My legs are dead. This means nothing to me.” He pulled the glass out and slammed it back into his thigh.
“Christ, Isaac!” Show leapt forward and yanked the glass away.
Isaac was unmoved. “Take that fucking thing out of my house. And get rid of my goddamn bike. Sell it, burn it, use it for parts. I could not give less of a fuck.”
“Do what he says, Show.” Lilli’s voice was flat, and Isaac looked at her. She met his eyes and then turned around and walked away.
He turned back to the fire.
Ride or die.
He couldn’t ride.
~oOo~
Saying she had his first aid under control, Lilli sent Show and Shannon home right after that. Show rode Isaac’s bike away. Lilli came back in from the porch and stood at the entrance of the living room, her arms crossed.
“You want me to clean that up, or would you rather sit there and maybe bleed out? Your call.”
He took a deep breath—his lung power was a lot better these days—and found calm. The wounds in his leg were bleeding, but not gushing.
“What I really want is for you to stop shutting me out. I have enough shit, Sport. My head is packed full with it. I need us to figure ours out.”
She walked through the living room, past him and into the kitchen without at word. He heard her rummaging around in there, and then she came back with scissors and the first aid kit. She knelt in front of him and began cutting the right leg of his sweatpants away.
“Throwing a tantrum because you’re stuck in that chair, when you’re the one who fucked up your chance to get out of it , strikes me as epically childish, Isaac. I’m so pissed at you I can barely look at you.”
Rage spiking again, h e pushed her away from him and tried to roll away. But there was no room to move around her. She had him trapped. He slammed his fists down onto the wheels of his chair. “Fuck you, Lilli. Fuck you for hiding that shit from me. And fuck you for making that decision without me. I have fucked things up enough. I won’t put us on the fucking street!”
She went back to work, cutting the ruined part of his pants out in a large, uneven square. He looked down at the bare, bloody thigh. Skinny. Piece of fucking rotten meat. He’d done a decent number on it, leaving two overlapping rings of bloody gashes. A Venn diagram of impotent rage.
Seeing the evidence, his worthless fury deflated. As he watched her check for pieces of glass, then wash the wounds with alcohol, and then coat them in antibiotic ointment, he said, “If you can’t deal with me like this, then go. I get it. But I won’t let you ruin us chasing a fucking fantasy of what I used to be.”
She jerked her face up, and he saw that she was crying. “You are such an arrogant
“Isaac. Are we gonna talk about any of it?”
For a while, Isaac ignored him. He didn’t want to hear Show’s measured, thoughtful wisdom about any of it. He didn’t want a cool head. He wanted to tear the world into shreds.
“I should burn that fucking kutte. It’s an offense.”
“No. It’s right. When you can ride, you’ll take your place at the head. Where you belong.”
“No. You’re President now. That patch should be yours. I’m out, Show. I’m not gettin’ out of this chair. And it’s like a goddamn knife in my chest to have that kutte laying there, reminding me what I lost.”
“You can’t find it again if you quit. You’re right that you won’t get out of there if you’re gonna pussy out and give up.”
Rage boiled up through Isaac’s veins. There was an empty glass on the table next to him. He grabbed it and slammed it on the edge of the table, breaking the top away in shards and leaving angry spikes of heavy, bubbled amber glass. Without even a pause, he drove the glass, spikes first, into his dead right thigh.
Show had leapt up, and Lilli and Shannon had run to the doorway, at the sound of the glass breaking. Now he looked up at all three of them. “I am never getting out of this fucking chair. My legs are dead. This means nothing to me.” He pulled the glass out and slammed it back into his thigh.
“Christ, Isaac!” Show leapt forward and yanked the glass away.
Isaac was unmoved. “Take that fucking thing out of my house. And get rid of my goddamn bike. Sell it, burn it, use it for parts. I could not give less of a fuck.”
“Do what he says, Show.” Lilli’s voice was flat, and Isaac looked at her. She met his eyes and then turned around and walked away.
He turned back to the fire.
Ride or die.
He couldn’t ride.
~oOo~
Saying she had his first aid under control, Lilli sent Show and Shannon home right after that. Show rode Isaac’s bike away. Lilli came back in from the porch and stood at the entrance of the living room, her arms crossed.
“You want me to clean that up, or would you rather sit there and maybe bleed out? Your call.”
He took a deep breath—his lung power was a lot better these days—and found calm. The wounds in his leg were bleeding, but not gushing.
“What I really want is for you to stop shutting me out. I have enough shit, Sport. My head is packed full with it. I need us to figure ours out.”
She walked through the living room, past him and into the kitchen without at word. He heard her rummaging around in there, and then she came back with scissors and the first aid kit. She knelt in front of him and began cutting the right leg of his sweatpants away.
“Throwing a tantrum because you’re stuck in that chair, when you’re the one who fucked up your chance to get out of it , strikes me as epically childish, Isaac. I’m so pissed at you I can barely look at you.”
Rage spiking again, h e pushed her away from him and tried to roll away. But there was no room to move around her. She had him trapped. He slammed his fists down onto the wheels of his chair. “Fuck you, Lilli. Fuck you for hiding that shit from me. And fuck you for making that decision without me. I have fucked things up enough. I won’t put us on the fucking street!”
She went back to work, cutting the ruined part of his pants out in a large, uneven square. He looked down at the bare, bloody thigh. Skinny. Piece of fucking rotten meat. He’d done a decent number on it, leaving two overlapping rings of bloody gashes. A Venn diagram of impotent rage.
Seeing the evidence, his worthless fury deflated. As he watched her check for pieces of glass, then wash the wounds with alcohol, and then coat them in antibiotic ointment, he said, “If you can’t deal with me like this, then go. I get it. But I won’t let you ruin us chasing a fucking fantasy of what I used to be.”
She jerked her face up, and he saw that she was crying. “You are such an arrogant
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