Page 43 of Pray for Scars
I ignore it, focusing on Jeremiah, not letting those memories bleed into my brain.
“Did you bring flowers?” I taunt him. “A ‘Sorry I Almost Fucked You,Again,Sis’ note?”
He stands to his feet, backs away from the couch, which separates us. He glances up at the ceiling, and I take in his lean jaw, the hollow of his throat. He does this, looks up like that, when he has something to say he doesn’t want to say, but he’s already done enough of that shit. Of telling me shit he shouldn’t.
I step up to the couch and plunge my knife into the back of the leather.
Nicolas cries out, “What the fuck, Sid?” and I laugh, manically, as Jeremiah dips his chin to see what I’ve done.
“The least of what you owe me is a goddamn leather couch,” I growl at Nicolas before I drag the knife through the leather, ripping the entire length of it, watching with satisfaction as the white cushion bursts forth from the tear. I see Nicolas glaring at me, his arms still crossed, but he doesn’t say a word.
And Jeremiah only grins at me.
I should have known. I should have fucking known something like this would only make himhappy.
I pull the knife out, flip it in my hand, so my palm is around the blade.
Jeremiah’s smile falls from his face and his eyes narrow as he takes a step closer. I hear Nicolas’s sharp intake of breath.
We can both get our hands dirty,Brother.
“Not so funny now, is it?” I taunt Jeremiah. I squeeze the blade in my palm until it stings. Until I know I’ve cut myself. I don’t dare look as I squeeze a little harder.
“Sid,” Jeremiah says, and he steps closer, his knees hitting the couch. His hands balled into fists at his side. “Sid, please…”
“Please what?” I hold up my shaking hand, dropping the knife to the floor. I hope to God my blood stains this carpet. I see, out of the corner of my eye, that my hand is covered in a line of crimson, and I can feel the warmth of it seeping down my palm, over my wrist. But blood has never bothered me. The monster standing in front of me made sure of that, because he didn’t know I’d already seen enough of it to last me a lifetime. To make me immune to the contents of a body. “Please what, Jeremiah?”
His eyes go from my hand to me, and his brows are furrowed with a look of genuine concern. He always did know how to act like he gave a damn.
“I’m so sorry, Sid,” he says quietly. His eyes dart to my hand again, and then to me. “Please don’t hurt yourself because of what I’ve done to you.”
I laugh, and it sounds sick and twisted to my own ears. “You’ve hurt me enough for the both of us, is that it?” I taunt him. I bend down, pick up the knife again, and when I straighten, Jeremiah is on the couch. He leaps over the side so he’s right in front of me, so close I can smell the leather of his jacket, and I stiffen at his nearness, thinking of what he did to me. Not just what I can’t remember, at the asylum, but of everything after that. Of the bodies and the blood and his threats of Kristof. The first man I remember stabbing.
Because the others…no.
I didn’t.
“Hand me the knife, Sid,” he says quietly, holding out his hand, palm up.
I feel my knees tremble under me as I look up at my big brother. The one who hurt me more than anyone else has in the world. Not because he was worse. But because I was stupid enough to love him. To believe that our love would save us both.
He didn’t save me.
He damned me.
“No.”
“Sid,” he says, reaching out for me, his hand closing around my arm, bare skin on mine. I feel my stomach churn with his touch and yet I can’t move. Can’t look away from him. “Let me have the knife, Sid.”
It’s in my bloodied hand and I don’t want to hand it over, but it’s hard to breathe. And as Jeremiah takes another step toward me, I feel as if I might collapse. Under the weight of what we could have been. Under what he was made into. What he mademeinto. Worse than I was.
He reaches for the blade with the hand not around my arm.
“Let me have it, Sid, and I’ll tell you everything, okay? I promise, I’ll tell you everything.”
As he reaches closer, I see his wrists, the leather jacket tugging up his muscular forearm. I see the lines there, three angry, red vertical cuts that disappear into his jacket, and I know there’s no way in hell they were accidental.
My eyes lock on his and he freezes.
