Page 88 of Refrain

What do youwant?

My fingers flex, my knuckles still raw from the other night. The sound of my voice doesn’t even seem familiar. “A knife.”

She’s already moving across the room, her hair flying out behind her. Whether intentionally or not, she lets her fingers flutter frombladeto blade to blade, taking her time before finally settling on one. When she returns to my side, she presents it blade-edge first.

I only see her. I don’t hear Arno. I don’t hear Mack. Jose’s a fucking speck.

Only her. Yellow. She hands me the knife when I reach for it. That’s it. No words of encouragement. No look laced with pity or doubt. Just the ice-cold scrape of metal against the flesh of my palm and the knowledge that this is all me. My choice.

My goddamn burden.

Mack’s still running his fucking mouth when I face him again. He spits out a taunt I don’t bother to decipher, his bruised jaw standing out in stark contrast against the rest of his skin. Jose did quite the number on him, but even he went easy. This was a part of his game all along. Why? I don’t fucking care.

I justfeelin this moment.

I don’t hold back when I swipe the knife against Mack’s bare side, catching the design of a tattoo. I go deep, letting the blade hiss the words I don’t have the energy to say. Blood tells all. In rivulets. In drips and drops. I’m painting the floor with my own pain, and it feels…so goddamngoodnot to have to fucking think.

So I don’t. I tune the world out—everything but the cold fingers resting on my forearm. It’s a new kind of torture session—How far can I go before she flinches back? Withdraws? Pulls away from me?

How much blood does it take to dilute yellow?

I make another cut. Another. Another. I see the picture I’mmaking in my head rather than on the flesh itself. Letters. Seven of them.

T R A…

Two fingertips flutter against the crook of my elbow, and I slow the motion of my hand. But they only press deeper. The nails graze my flesh, silent and commanding.I’m here. Keep going.

Do it.

One more strike.

I

Two more cuts.

T

Another.

O

I have to shake my head to snap out of this hell. Hell—because nothing in heaven could ever feel this good. This fucking right. There’s nothing holyinthe complete lack of guilt I feel as I take in the bleeding, gaping marks I’ve made right across another man’s rib cage. I went deeper than I had to. He’s going to fucking scar.

Good.

Her hand is still there when I raise my arm again, controlling the blade with the perfect fluidity needed to finish off my creation.

R

Mack’s howling when I finally shake that black-hole concentration off. Threatening. Cursing. Blah, blah, fucking blah.

I don’t bother to trade his barbs this time. I just hold the knife up, staining the air with a new form of paint. Good old Mack will never forget what the fuck he is. Neither will I.

I wait until he falls silent to feel. Arno’s disgusted. Jose’s amused. Yellow… She’s just waiting and watching. Nothing I do seems to surprise her. Nothing shocks her.

She’s in my fucking soul, crawling through the filth and garbage. She doesn’t wrinkle her nose at the smell. She breathesme in deeper and runs her fingers along the mess. She calls it art.

“Tell us what you know,” I say to Mack. I sound so tired. So goddamn old. So much like Dante that my ears sting.

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