Page 25 of Bleed the Shadows
“Don’t fuck up the walls just because you’re freaked,” Poe said.
“Fuck you,” Bram said. “Why would I be freaked?”
“You know why,” Poe said.
Their voices lowered to murmurs again. After a couple minutes I gave up and took the tray of food Poe had brought me to my bed. The tea was cold, but the sandwich was fine, and I tore into it, suddenly ravenous.
I thought about the Hunt, about the Ghosts.
Something was bothering me, a loose thread I couldn’t quite get a hold of, an itch I couldn’t scratch.
I mean, there was a lot that bothered me: the way Meathead had taken me down hard, the violence with which they’d chained me to the wall and stripped my clothes, the glee in the Observer, his eyes glittering with hatred behind his mask.
I touched my neck. I could almost feel the point of his knife still digging into my skin.
I didn’t know if any of it was normal. I’d only ever been caught by the Butchers, and they’d been more interested in the Hunt itself than in subjecting me to any kind of violence.
But there was something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on, like a word on the tip of my tongue, a thought that had suddenly vanished into thin air.
I tried to find it while I ate, but it was still out of reach when I finished the brownie, so I guzzled some water from the bottle Poe had brought with my food, took the tray back to the dresser, and crawled back into bed.
I wasn’t ready to deal with the reality of my new situation. There would be plenty of time for that later.
Three months, to be exact.
19
POE
Peace wasn’teasy to come by the morning after the Hunt. It didn’t help that I was cold, the November air like a frigid wind on my naked body. I considered grabbing for my sweatpants, or at least my sweatshirt. Anything to ease my discomfort.
But I forced myself to sit, to focus on my breath rising and falling.
Running from discomfort never worked, and nobody knew that better than me because I’d tried. After Whit had gone to prison I’d done pretty much everything not to think about how much he’d fucked over our grandparents, how much he’d decimated what remained of our family after our mom went missing.
I’d beaten and bruised my way through Blackwell with Bram and Remy. I’d played in Hunt after Hunt. I’d had my share of fun with my share of women. I’d tried to lose myself in the hunks of metal I shaped in the studio.
None of it had done a single thing to make me feel better.
Finally, I’d stopped.
I’d just… stopped.
I’d stopped trying to figure out where everything went wrong, what I could have done differently to save Whit.
To save my mom. To save all of us.
I’d forced myself just to be with it all, embrace how much it all sucked. How much it all hurt.
It didn’t make the hurt go away, but something else had happened: I realized the hurt was just a feeling that came and went. And when it came, I could breathe through it.
Usually.
Now I accepted these thoughts, these memories, and returned my focus to my breathing.
That lasted about a minute before Maeve’s face swam in my mind.
I tried to release it — for now anyway — but it didn’t work. She was there, just like she’d been since the day we’d brought her home from the last Hunt.
