Vein Fire by Lucia Adams Page A

until his face was inches from hers and blew on a chunk of hair caught in her eyelashes. She didn’t move. He took her panties off. This was Hannah, the girl who ruined his life. The doctors could reason how it was actually his fault, but in the end, they ran on a circular track in his head, and all roads led back to Hannah.
    In the room only lit by a television, her skin was a creamy blue color. The lines of scars on the inside of her arm were a lighter color, and they looked like army soldiers lined up, locked and loaded. It was time.
    Matt pushed Hannah’s legs up until they framed the sides of her face. He spit on her cunt, twice, and watched as she inhaled when he penetrated her. Still, she slept.
    “You’re going to let me do this to you every day, aren’t you?”
    Hannah didn’t answer; she was hidden away behind closed eyelids, lost in a dream that smelled like candles burning in a cathedral at Easter.
    “Sshh, now,” he said, even though she was quiet. His hands slid down from her ankle as he lowered her leg and kissed it. He sunk himself in deep, but she was bottomless, like him.
    *
    Hannah slept on the couch that smelled like dog, only half aware of shapes in red light that moved and whispered.
    When she woke up, she didn’t know what happened, only that something had happened. The sun illuminated the silence in the room and she immediately sat upright on the couch and realized it was morning. She was dressed, but wondered if she had been naked at some point because her shirt was on backwards, and her pants were crooked. Matt was asleep at the other end of the couch and his head rested on his folded arms. Hannah realized she pissed her pants, but it must have been hours earlier because the piss was nearly dried. As she carefully rose from the couch, she touched where she had been sitting. It was damp, but just barely. Her hear raced and she hoped it would dry before Matt noticed. Hannah took broad, soft steps as she tip-toed around the house until she found the kitchen and saw her shoes next to the door. Easing her feet into them slowly, she slipped out of the house without waking Matt. After she took two steps off of the porch, she bolted across the yard, only to fall forward into the grass. Standing up in a panic, she ran the rest of the way to her car. She was cold and she felt sick—like she could vomit. Whatever happened, she knew it was her fault.
    When she got home, she shed her clothes and showered. Each bead of water pounded their tiny fists into her skin, screaming at her to remember. She didn’t hear them. Hot soap and water steamed away any doubt she had, and erased the prior night’s smells: cock, smoke, and beer. There was nothing to think about; it was all gone after the shower. When she stepped out of the shower and wiped the fog from the mirror, the questions came back. She had a purplish hickey on the side of her neck. Her muscles were sore. She thought she knew, but wasn’t sure. She fought through her memory of blurry red images, but they quickly dissolved and then there was nothing. In her head, it was settled—she would ask Matt.
    Hannah was happy to stretch out on her own bed. She wondered if her muscles were sore from sleeping on the couch. Her bed felt good, and she fell asleep trying to piece the events of the previous night into a firm memory, but it was like flan.
    *
    Matt and Hannah were an emulsion; they’d never combine together in their fluid existence, yet they surrounded each other. Even when they occupied one another in the same moment in time, they remained two distinct immiscible entities—not able to be fully blended. Their overlapping could be volatile or it could be verdant, however, they rarely had the same take on the flickering procession of film clips which had become their lives. The mixture was remarkable as Matt and Hannah never held the same perspective on their encounters.
    *
    Hannah woke up and looked at the clock—she had slept for hours. She began