Page 2 of Heal Me

The house I end up at has an orange façade as cracked as every other house in this miserable town, and the roof is crookedand falling apart. I cringe as another unwelcome memory of my childhood home assaults me. At least she has a home,I think as I approach the front door.

Or at least a roof over her head. Because this is not her house, I realize, as I see another name on the front door and notice her address has a B after the house number. Making my way to the back of the house, I find a back exit with the letter B on it. The door creaks way too loudly as I slide it open, and so do the stairs as I make my way up the moldy steps.

I stop before the weathered door that looks like it could barely keep out a racoon, considering how to proceed. Once I have the door open, I’ll need to move quickly. If I’m guessing right, there’s one room on the other side, and she’ll see me the moment I enter. If I have to pick the lock, she might start screaming before I’m even in there, and I risk her subletters running up here, swinging a pitchfork at me. I’m not exactly in a mood to fight angry townsfolk tonight. I just want to grab the girl and get going. But it seems that’s not an option, and I’m not sticking around here for a second longer than needed, so I grab the handle with a heavy sigh. Just like at the bar, it slides right open. And leaves me to stare into an empty room.

What the fuck.She’s not here. Neither is anything else. An old mattress with a thin blanket, a lonely chair, and a small fridge. Her cell in the dungeon will barely be a downgrade. Once again, memories flash too vividly, making my steps too heavy, boots thudding against the floor as I go to the door that must lead to a bathroom. I’m almost tempted to go downstairs and beat the owner up for not providing better living quarters for this girl.

As I shove the door open, I am once again rendered stunned.

Nothing is going the way I planned it. Nothing I find is what I expect, and the sight that greets me is nearly too disturbing for me to take.

I have seen lots of blood in my life. Plenty of it. Red footprints when I stepped in glass. The taste of copper when my dad got mad. Streams of red spilling fromhiswounds when I got strong enough to fight back. Pools of blood gathering around shivering feet as screams sliced through the air and propelled me to strike again. I have beaten men to an inch of their lives and left them lying in a small sea of red. I have stitched up my own gaping wounds.

No, blood has never bothered me. Not until tonight.

Blood is supposed to be violent. Loud and chaotic. Full of hatred and agonizing despair. But the blood-red vision that meets me in this bathroom is none of that. It’s quiet and thoughtful. Almost serene in some kind of warped way.

In an old, weathered bathtub sits the most beautiful creature I’ve ever encountered. Long, blonde tresses spill down milky white skin. Soft, plump lips tremble beneath the weight of what she’s attempting. And wide green eyes stare down at the misplaced trail of red. So much red. It spills down the sides of both her wrists, into the water, enveloping this innocent beauty in a pool of red. But the morbidity doesn’t end there. On the red water floats red leaves of rose petals, and candles on the sides of the tub flicker with a warm light more reminiscent of a romantic movie scene than a death ritual.

An angel in red.

Turning her head, she looks up at me and renders all my expectations useless for the hundredth time tonight. Her eyes are full of sorrow and defeat. Enough of it to end a life—but then again, not quite. As she speaks, those bright, blue orbs fill with a plea, almost like she wants me to finish the job for her.

“I can’t do it,” she says in a weak voice. “I can’t do it,” she repeats, shaking her head with utter defeat. Sorrow makes her slump as she returns her attention to the knife in her hand anddrags it across her wrist. More blood gushes from her, dripping down her milky skin.

I rush to her, but before I can grab the knife, she releases it herself, letting it plop into the water as a mournful sound escapes her. “I’m too weak,” she whimpers as I grab her wrist to apply pressure to the wound. But there’s no pulsing blood spurting from a major artery. The cut is superficial like every other stripe of red on her arms.

Burrowing her head into her blood-stained hands, she weeps. “I can’t do it,” she repeats over and over with aching defeat as I lift her out of the tub.

Sinking to the floor and settling her between my legs, I look around for something to bandage her cuts. They might not be deep enough to end her life immediately, but what she probably doesn’t realize is that the amount of blood seeping from all those wounds will drain the life from her before long if I don’t stop them. Her pulse is already weak as I press two fingers below her jaw.

I find nothing to aid me. Nothing but a dirty towel on the wall and a roll of toilet paper. So I rip my T-shirt off, cradling her against my chest with an arm around her waist as I tear it into strips. I’m surprised by the way she burrows into me, seeking comfort as she weeps. I don’t stop to consider it—not her reaction or the way it makes me want to hold her and promise everything will be all right. Because it won’t be if I don’t do something about her wrists.

She keeps weeping into my shoulder, not protesting the slightest as I grab one arm and wrap strips of fabric around the wounds, then do the same to the other. She has at least five cuts on each arm, but that isn’t the worst. Old cuts and burns litter her skin, and once I’ve finished bandaging her arms and hold her before me, I notice the same marks on her torso.

I’m about to ask what happened—curiosity, I guess—but she has gone quiet, and I don’t want to ruin whatever peace she’s finally found. The weeping has stopped, and now she’s only breathing a few staggered breaths and sniveling a bit as she hides her face in her bloody hands.

It’s strange. No girl has ever calmed down in my presence. But this one seems to have found comfort in my arms, and some part of me wants to pull her back into me to see how it feels.

“Stay,” I say as I get up.

She huddles around herself as I grab the towel and soak the tip in clean water from the sink. Then I sit beside her and start the long process of cleaning the blood from her body. It takes a while and several trips to the sink to wash the blood out of the towel. Still, not a single protest from her. Not even when I spread her legs to run the towel along the insides of her thighs.

Once I’m done, I help her up, all but lifting her as she struggles to find the strength to stand. I’m about to herd her out, sure she’ll follow without question. This girl seems to have latched on to me, thinking I’m her savior or some shit like that. She doesn’t even pull away as she finds her balance. She just keeps acting like I’m a goddamn rock for her to lean on, breathing shuddery sighs into her hands as she sinks into me.

I just stand there for a moment, watching her body tilt into mine as I consider my next step. The normal me would take the syringe in my pocket and stick it into her neck, haul her over my shoulder, and put her in the trunk of my car. But I guess this strange scenario must have gotten to me. Because what I do is nothing like anything I’ve ever done before. I scoop the girl into my arms, cradling her against my chest, and carefully turn to make sure I don’t bump her head on the door frame as I leave the bathroom and the small room she calls home.

Instead of dumping her in the trunk, I open the back door and lay her on the backseat. Taking off my jacket, I use it as a makeshift blanket to cover her.

As I straighten, about to close the door, she looks at me again—the first time since I found her. Her lips part slightly as she whispers the strangest words a woman has ever spoken to me.

“Thank you.”

3

LAVINIA

Everything is quiet. No rowdy men, rumbling cars, or rustling neighbors. No birds, no wind, no traffic in the distance.

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