Page 79 of Enemy
“You’re Roy’s brother!” he says and knocks his beer bottle against mine.
I don’t know where this is going, but Kalash was cozy with my brother, so he probably wants a chat or some shit for old times’ sake.
“That would be me.”
“I heard you set that bomb in the Vulture warehouse. Bold move, even if it fucked you up for a while. Alive and kicking though, I see!”
“Can’t keep a Butcher down,” I say the cliché and clink my bottle with his. I take a big swig, wishing I was blackout-drunk already. My alcohol tolerance is at times a blessing, at times a curse.
And there comes the inevitable. “You must miss him. Roy was such a bad boy. You never knew what he was gonna come up with,” Kalash says loudly enough I hear him over the chatter and the music filling the club bar. “I heard you guys finished renovating the boxing room he wanted. Nice touch in his memory. Guys like him deserve to be remembered.”
“You wanna go see it?” Because why the fuck not? It’s not like I have anything better to do. At least I’ll be away from the crowd, and far from the women eying me like they wanna jump my dick.
Kalash grins and gives my shoulder a friendly slap that feels way too firm. Then again, maybe it’s me who’s not grounded enough to enjoy normal human interaction?
I take him away from the noise, through the back door, past a couple rutting in the shadowed corner, and into the next building, where we keep exercise equipment. Everything here is brand new, and I feel an inkling of pride when I switch on the light, revealing the pristine space. Several people worked their asses off to make sure the compound’s immaculate for our visitors, even this place, which would remain empty during the rowdy party. Maybe tomorrow it’ll get some action, once the guys attempt to rid themselves of their hangovers?
Kalash approaches the large red punching bag in the middle of the mat and hits it a few times. “We need to get something like this for our club,” he muses, looking around. “You planning to follow in your brother’s footsteps? Rise in the ranks?”
The question catches me off-guard, so I take my time with an answer. “I don’t know if that’s for me, but who knows.” Vague enough.
“There he is,” Kalash says, approaching the shelf mounted close by. A photo of Roy hangs above it, and underneath—a pack of his favorite cigarettes, the keys to his bike, and a small bottle of his favorite tequila, which, miraculously, hasn’t yet been stolen. In the photo, Roy’s quite young, and laughing at something with a bottle in hand. That’s not howIremember him.
I remember his vicious jabs at me, always having to be alert in my own home, and regular fights to“toughen me up”. I guess he succeeded in the last one, because I take no shit from anyone anymore, and always carry a knife, just in case.
Kalash doesn’t care about my silence, and fills it himself, which is a relief. “A party with Roy always led to the craziest fucking situations.” He picks up the photo frame as if he’s reminiscing about something. “Days before he got ended, we went on the most fucked-up bender. Vodka, tequila, speed, coke, you name it, we took it. Tag-teamed a girl on a fucking pool table in a bar, got kicked out, drove off elsewhere, I almost smashed into a tree, then we ended up in some diner, and the waitress was this skinny Minnie white chick. Pale like the moon. I don’t know, maybe an albino or some shit, and Roy gets it in his head, that he’s gonna fuck her.”
I smirk and nod, but the story is as entertaining as watching paint dry.
“Bitch wasn’t having any of it.” Kalash laughs and downs his beer. “But when he heard she was from Vulture Hollow, Roy’s competitive streak kicked in. He grabbed that girl, carried her to his bike, and drove off. She’d either hold on, or fall off and skin her fucking face. I don’t know if she chose right. I tagged along right behind him, and then stayed on the lookout while he fucked her in some bush. Good that no one was passing, because she squealed like a newborn piglet all the way through. I didn’t even want to do her too with that ungodly sound. You know how some girls just can’t shut up?”
He flashes me a stupid grin and winks as I stare at him, numb and quiet.
“You said the girl had long white hair?” I whisper, because I have a sinking feeling that it had to be Luna, Brigid’s daughter. Road would talk about her sometimes, how she’s like a younger sister to him. I’m sick to my stomach when I think of that tiny girl under my brother, and thisfuckin front of me laughing about it.
‘It’s not my story to tell’, I remember Road saying with a pained expression, and I feel so damn stupid. He was right. It wasn’t his to tell. She had her right to a secret, and my brother deserved to die.
And it wasn’t for Kalash to tell either.
I slide my hand into my pocket and grab my switchblade.
Blood thuds in my ears like alcohol pumps through my veins, and I can’t take it anymore. I can’t bear people like him getting away with this shit.
All I can see is those spider tattoos on the guy’s hands as he holds down my wrists, and he’s so fucking heavy I can’t push him off, and I squeal, and I cry, and I beg, and it doesn’t stop him hurting me like that’s what he’s getting off on.
Maybe I’ll never find the man who broke me, but I can gutthispig.
My knife goes in so easily I’m almost surprised by how little force the stab required. The bottle Kalash was holding drops, breaking apart when it hits the floor. I hear his guttural protest just before he shoves me away, but I refuse to lean back, and his own force pushes my knife sideways.
My breath speeds up as I watch the blade in my hand pull across Kalash’s abdomen, creating a wide smile that soon seeps through his T-shirt, staining it red.
“What the fuck?” he cries, reaching down but when he touches the wound, its edges widen, releasing guts. My head rolls, ever lighter as I watch the snake pit he’s been hiding all along reveal itself to me as blood drizzles to the floor.
He’s pale as bone when he stumbles, but he’s not yet dead, and if I don’t act now, he might survive to hurt someone else. My own weight guides me forward, and I stab the knife into him over and over. He smells of rot, and death, and justice that could finally be served.
He might not be my assailant, he might havejuststood watch while Roy violated someone else, but watching him die is like pulling out a splinter from under my nail.
I’m not some bloodthirsty psycho. I don’t usually go on killing sprees, and I don’t revel in murder for the sake of it. Yet this death at my feet feels so satisfying. Like I can breathe again. Like the weight isn’t on top of me anymore.
