Page 117 of Judas

As someone who came from a family that didn’t experience the same shit as mine did, he won’t understand why Lucien thought he was protecting me. Or why he thought I was vilifying him as a young boy. Then not knowing where that envelope came from?Why does it matter anymore, just going to take Sadie and run if I have to.

“I’m not sure I can do that. He’s taken so much from us.”

“If you keep on, he will take the rest.”

“Is this your way of telling me you’ll leave? After years of longing for me, I’m standing right here, you’d leave?”

“I mourned you, Kace. There’s a difference. Between breaking up and living life thinking someone died.”

He winces like I hit him again then chooses not to say anything else. Too much has taken place and I’m just so fucking tired of it. I want peace. Peace and war cannot coexist. Even if you can’t have one without the other.

Leaving him to himself, I make a wide berth to move to the other side of the room. Safety and security of my own space is what I need the most right now. Gently, my hand grabs the door handle and I twist it. The gears inside are so loud they’re deafening in a way—there’s no way I’m stopping. Not when sweet freedom is on the other side. Pushing the door open, I turn and carefully close it.

Kace

Witnessing her go deadly still and limp in my hand an hour ago, yeah, it’s been that long since she slipped into that catatonic state, was terrifying. I instantly let her go, eased her down onto the floor and stood by, waiting for her to come back to me. When she didn’t, that’s the point in time I thought it would be best to get down on her level. As I settled, seeing her eyes gave me a little bit of hope—until she started talking at the end. Reachingfor her, and the way she slapped me away in defense, deep in my heart I knew I triggered her. There’s no reason to explain it to me when the haunting of her past is written in tears across her flushed cheeks.

What does someone do in instances like this, other than give the other person space? Feels the most appropriate form of action, despite wanting to hold her close to me and wipe it away. I distinctly remember the sounds of her screams echoing down the corridors of the pit. Never, fucking ever, do I want to hear those again.

Now, though? I have no earthly idea what to do with myself. She said she would leave if I continued the violence. I understand why she wants me to stop, the need to know what Lucien is keeping locked away is the problem. That battle is ongoing and with every reluctant and withheld remark it intensifies.

Being torn is putting it lightly.

Do I get what I came for and secure everyone’s safety, or do I take my girl, my child, and run? Knowing there may come a day where violence will be the answer once again. Tough questions which never occurred to me. Letting her go means cutting the cord, releasing her into a world that has damaged her from the start. Not something I’m prepared to do. Not when that cord is all that’s keeping me together too.

A long time ago, Matias told me I was obsessed with her which may or may not have been true at the time—today is drastically different. I’m obsessed with enacting my revenge on Lucien and still making off with the spoils of war. My dedication, my priorities, were never questioned before today. Seeing Nadia lock herself away from me, putting a barrier between us, it’s the motivator I didn’t know I needed.

“No more violence? Alright, babygirl.” The words are a quiet promise in a room that was just full of chaos and pain.

Leaning forward, I grab the weapons off the floor and make my way to the table. At first I sit them down and stare at the other contents, partially taking stock, and partially thinking how I’m going to accomplish everything I set out to do without raising my hand to anyone else. Autopilot kicks in, putting me through my paces. One after another, I place the weapons in the crate I brought them in. Knives, brass knuckles, clubs, pliers, a hammer, crowbar, ice picks that I didn’t get to use, a few vice grips, rope, chain, black nylon gloves, first aid kit, the list goes on.

Before I realize it, I’ve packed it all away other than the sheet of plastic under Lucien. Even took a moment to check my face to see how bad she got me with her elbow. It doesn’t look like shit yet, just need to give it some time. The bruising will show up in a few days and she’ll feel bad. Speaking of injuries, Lucien has yet to come to which I’m not sure he’s alive to be honest. Nadia hit him pretty fucking hard with that billy club. Surprised the hell out of me, not only her fierceness but her knife wielding was attractive as fuck. Maybe one day I can get her into a gym and we can spar—could always build our own at home.

Either way, I check Lucien over to see if he’s still breathing. Would put Nadia on another wrong path had she killed him. There’d be no amount of convincing her that it was only an accident. She’s self-aware enough to know her strike was the thing that ended his life. His chest isn’t moving, I don’t see a pulse at his neck either. Twisting, I pick up one of the knives once more. Unsheathing it only to hold it under his nose, if fog appears I know he’s alive. If it doesn’t, then I’ll need Babel to come back and help me dispose of his corpse. Mostly to guard Nadia, I can do the rest on my own.

Waiting feels like it’s taking an eternity. Keeping the knife still, I silently demand him to breathe. A few times actually. Just when I’m about to give up, fog hits the cold metal.

Chapter forty-one

Babalon

Have you ever been on a Mary-go-round and someone keeps pushing it faster and faster, even though you’re starting to lose your grip? Where the clothes on your body, your shoes, nothing stops you from sliding along the surface, so you scramble for a new hold only for the pole you clung to doesn’t grab you back? It doesn’t prevent you from getting closer and closer to the edge where you know if you fall off, it’s going to be painful.

That’s how I feel. Scared to let go even though my hands are slipping away from the things I use to hold so tightly to. If the ride doesn’t stop soon, there’s going to be nothing but pain and ridicule at the end—I want off. Something has to give, it’s either going to be my hold or the spinning will finally stop.

Leaning my back against the door, I breathe out a sigh of defeat. Ribs feel tight and stomach heavy from both a sense of powerlessness and thanks to Kace for punching me in thekidney. Willing my thoughts to slow down, I allow my eyes to flutter closed and focus on the things around me.

One thing I can taste—the remnants of my toothpaste from earlier.

Two things I can smell—the linen-scented laundry soap used to clean the bedding and the lingering smell of the body wash from our shower earlier.

Three things I can hear—the heater blowing through the vent above me, a slight breeze rustling the tree just outside of the window, and movement in the living room.

Four things I know—we’re in Canada, Kace is alive, I’m physically whole, I’m forty-five, and nothing makes sense.

Every time I start a new count, it gets easier to shift my focus from the things I’m not able to control, to allowing myself to exist. Even if I don’t feel like I have earned the right to stand here. At the end of the mental exercise my eyes open slowly, taking in the room. The crumpled bedding I could smell, the window with sheer curtains over them barely letting the tree's shadow penetrate it, and the open bathroom door.

I’m in one piece, I’m safe, I’m alive.

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