A Single Glance

by W Winters

  I ignore his demand and pick up the gun. I don’t aim it at him, I merely hold it and tell him, “Put the open cuff around your other wrist.” Although I lack true confidence, the gun slipping slightly in my sweaty palms.

  “And how would you like me to do that?” Jase questions, a lack of patience and irritation are the only things I can hear in his voice. Like I’m a child asking for something ridiculous.

  “You’re a big boy,” I bite back, “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  All the while I watch him and he watches me, my heart does this pitter-patter in my chest making me think it’s giving up on me as it stalls every time Jase looks back. Using the pillow and occasionally leaning down to hold the cuff between his teeth, he struggles to lock it. I don’t trust him enough to do it myself though. There’s no way he wouldn’t grab me.

  My heart beats faster with each passing second as he attempts to close the cuff himself.

  Every moment his gaze touches mine, questioning why I’d do this, I question it myself.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper when I hear the cuff finally pushed into place. He rests his wrists against the iron rod, pushing it tighter and securing it.

  “Then put the gun down,” he urges me and I listen. I set it down on the dresser where it sat only minutes ago and hesitantly turn to him, each wrist cuffed to his bed.

  “You can still uncuff me,” he suggests with more dominance than he should have. Especially because I lift the knife at the end of his sentence.

  “More cuffs.” I speak the words and fight back the bile rising in my stomach from knowing my own intentions.

  Jase’s eyes stay on the knife as he answers me, “In the top drawer of the dresser. To the right side… with the ropes.” His voice is dull and flat. “You’re going to cuff my ankles?” he guesses correctly and I nod without looking at him, simply because I can’t.

  Thump. Thump. My heart feels like it’s lagging behind as I pick up the cuffs from the drawer, right where he said they were.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asks me; any hint of arrogance or even anger is gone.

  I can barely swallow as I move toward him. With the sheet barely covering him but laid haphazardly over his groin still, the rest of him is fully exposed. He is Adonis. Trapped and furious, but ultimately mortal.

  “I want answers,” I say, and I don’t know how I’m able to speak. “You lied to me. I know you did.”

  His only response is to stretch out his legs, not fighting, not resisting. Putting his ankles close to the rods.

  He’s helping me. Or it’s a trick. I decide on the latter, moving closer, but hesitantly.

  “Go on,” he tells me, staring down at me.

  I stand back far enough away from the footboard, cautious as I click the first cuff into place.

  “Go ahead, cailín tine,” he tells me, staring into my eyes. His nickname for me breaks my heart. Even as I look away, feeling shame and guilt consume me even though I know I have a good reason to do this. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

  With the last cuff in place, and Jase half sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard and staring at me, I observe him from where I stand.

  “What are you going to do now?” I ask him.

  “Wait.”

  “You lied to me.” I whisper the ragged words and turn the handle of the knife over in my hand.

  “When?” he questions, and the muscles in his neck tighten.

  A sad laugh leaves me and I’m only vaguely conscious of it when I hear it.

  “So you did lie?” I ask weakly, feeling the weight against my chest. “And here I was hoping I was just crazy.”

  “I’d be hard-pressed in this moment to call you sane,” Jase comments, and my eyes move to his. “Yes, I lied to you.”

  “What was a lie?” I ask him and take a step closer to the bed. The floorboard creaks under my step and I halt where I am, taking it as a warning.

  “I don’t want to tell you. It doesn’t matter.” He speaks a contradiction.

  Wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, still holding the knife, I walk closer to him, gauging his ability to move, even though he’s still as can be.

  “I don’t think you could do anything,” I start to tell him as I stand right in front of the nightstand, “if I stand right here.” Holding out my arm, I gently place the blade of the knife on his chest, not pushing at all, but letting him see how far away I can be while still capable of hurting him. “What do you think?” I ask him, wondering if I truly am crazy at this point.

  “What do you want to know?” he asks, not answering my question.

  “What did you lie about?”

  “It’s irrelevant.”

  “Anything relating to my sister is relevant.” I grit out the words, pushing the knife down a little harder. Enough so the skin on his pec surrounding the knife, tightens under the blade.

  “Did you hurt her?” The words come out unbidden.

  “No, I told you that.”

  “And you told me you lied,” I counter.

  “I lied to protect you, Bethany.” He almost says something else, but instead he rips his gaze away from me, gnashing his back teeth to keep him from talking.

  Before I can continue, he tells me, “I have a name, but it’s useless.” His dark eyes lift to mine. “We think he got her hooked, intentionally or not, but he can’t be tied to anything else. Nothing ties him to her death.”

  “Give me his name.” The strong woman inside of me applauds my efforts, rejoicing in the fact that it took this much to make him speak and that I was able to push myself to this point.

  And that I have a name.

  I have someone I can blame and punish, someone I can make pay for what they did to my sister. They tortured her. Broke her body. She was gone for so long, I don’t know how long it went on. And then they burned her. They left nothing of her for me.

  There will be nothing of them left when I find them.

  “No.” His answer dies in the tense air between us. It takes me a long moment to realize what he’s even saying no to. My mind has gone to darker places, and tears streak down my cheek thinking about what she went through and that I wasn’t there. I couldn’t save her.

  “Tell me who it was,” I say as I move a bit closer, holding the knife with both hands, barely keeping it together. I let the tears fall with no restraint, and no conscious consent either. “I want his name!” I raise my voice and even to my own ears it sounds violent and uncontrolled.

  Jase stares straight ahead, ignoring me, not answering.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.” The confession sounds strangled.

  “You don’t have to,” he answers.

  “Give me the name, Jase!”

  “You’ll get yourself killed!” he yells back at me and the sound bellows from deep within him.

  “You don’t understand what they did to her!” I scream at him, feeling the well of emotion filling my lungs. I remember the fear when she went missing. “She would text me every day when she woke up, regardless of what time that ended up being. Sometimes she forgot. But every day, there was at least one text…” I trail off, remembering how angry I’d been when she messaged last. She wouldn’t come back after I made her admit she had a problem. She refused to come back and get help. But she still messaged me every day. Until she didn’t.

  “And then there was nothing,” I speak so softly, using what’s left inside of me as the tears fall freely down my face.

  “For days and then weeks, there was nothing but fear and hope. And fear is what won. Every day she didn’t text me. The fear won.” As I try to regain my composure, I wipe haphazardly at my face and focus on breathing.

  “I waited in silence for nothing. The first forty-eight hours, no one did anything at all,” I say and my words crack. “Why would they? She was reckless and headed down the wrong path.”

  The knife is still in my hands, still pressed to his skin when I tell him, “I knew som
ething terrible had happened to her, and I could do nothing. She was still alive then. I know she was. I remember thinking that. That she was still out there. That I could feel her.”

  I’m brought back to my kitchen, crying on the floor, hating myself for pushing her away, regretting that I yelled at her, all alone and praying. Praying because God was the only one left to listen to me. Praying he could save her, because I couldn’t.

  “I had no name. No one had a name for me. But you do.” I twist the knife just slightly, and suddenly feel it give, but I don’t dare look. I don’t look anywhere but into Jase’s eyes, even as he seethes in pain.

  “Give me the name.”

  “He’ll kill you, Bethany.” Sorrow etches his eyes and I know his answer already even before he says, “I won’t do that.”

  I scream a wretched sound as I pull back the knife. It slices cleanly, so easily, leaving a bright red line in its path. Small and seemingly insignificant, but then blood pours from the wound and he bites back a sound of agony.

  It’s bright red. And it doesn’t stop.

  What have I done? Jase’s intake is staggered but he doesn’t show any other signs of pain.

  “Fuck!” The word leaves me in a rush. “Jase,” I say, and his name is a prayer on my lips. “No,” I think out loud as my hand shakes and the knife drops to the floor. There’s so much blood. There’s so much soaking into the bed as it drips around his body.

  It doesn’t stop.

  “Jase,” I cry out his name as I ball up the bed sheets and press them to the laceration.

  He breathes deep, staring at the ceiling. Silent, and ignoring me as I press more of the cotton linens to his chest, only for it to be soaked a half second later.

  There’s so much blood.

  “I’m sorry,” I utter as I rip the sheets out from under him, desperate to make it stop. “I’m so sorry.”

  The blood soaks through the fabric within seconds, staining my hands.

  Staring down at the blood that lines the creases of my palms, I take a step back and then another.

  What have I done?

  Jase

  It’s like when you wake up from a nightmare. There’s a moment where it all feels real and then, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, reality comes back to you. The horror stays, the damage done, the terrors in your sleep lingering as you walk down the steps of your quiet house to get a drink of water. And sometimes those monsters stand behind you. You can still sense them, even when you know they’re not real.

  That’s what this feels like as the slice on my chest rips agony through my body. Like I can’t get away from the ghosts in her eyes, even if she’s woken from her dream. Even if disbelief and regret are all she feels, all she sees, all she recognizes.

  The ghosts will still be there, waiting in the dark.

  Every time she presses the sheets to the wound, a renewed sense of pain spreads through my body, but I refuse to make a sound. My hands turn to fists and I pull against the cuffs, feeling the metal dig into my wrists.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t… I didn’t mean…” she says, choking on her words.

  “I told you I would tell you,” I remind her, flexing my wrists and breathing through the pain. I’ve had worse shit done to me. “When I know who it was, I will tell you and I will make them pay.”

  Besides, I fucking deserve this.

  “I’m not going to give you a name without knowing for sure,” I confess to her, letting her believe that’s the only thing I’ve withheld, the only lie I’ve spoken. “I promise you.”

  Her beautiful hazel eyes lock onto mine, begging and pleading for forgiveness but more than that, an out. A way out of the nightmare she’s in.

  There’s no way out of this shit though. This is what life is. It’s what mourning is. A waking nightmare.

  “I’m sorry,” she blurts out before turning her back to me and running to the bathroom.

  I hear her open the medicine cabinet and when I do, I push the escape lock on the cuffs with my thumb. It would be all too fucked up for her to have found the cuffs in my car; the ones I put on her, the ones I keep in my car. And not these safety cuffs I intend to use when I light her ass on fire with my paddle. The ones for play sold at sex shops.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have let it go on for as long as I did, but I think she needed this. She needed to get it out of her system.

  I’m quiet as I unlock the ones on my ankles, taking my time to put them away, gritting my teeth every time the sharp pain reminds me that she cut me.

  With the drawer open, I drop the cuffs in, one by one when I hear her close the cabinet and I wait.

  Her gasp is telling and I turn around slowly to see the halo of light surrounding her from the bathroom door. A bandage and gauze in one hand, and hydrogen peroxide in the other.

  Horror plays in the depths of her eyes as she freezes where she is. She’s a beautiful, broken mess.

  I take a single step toward her; the floor groans and the only other sound is the hushed gasp she makes.

  “Jase,” she pleads, not hiding her fear. She doesn’t hide anything; it’s a big part of what I admire about her.

  “Jase,” she says again and this time my name is strangled as it leaves her. So much begging in only a single word as I take another step.

  She trembles where she stands. I reach out for the bandages, and her arm drops dead to her side as she awaits her sentence. I place the bandage over the cut without sparing it a glance and wipe up the remaining blood with the gauze before tossing it behind her into the bathroom and onto the floor.

  And she flinches from the movement. From my arm moving her way.

  It fucking kills me. My chest doesn’t feel a goddamn thing from the cut. But it feels everything knowing that she thought I was going to hit her. That I would strike her.

  Everyone deserves punishment for their sins. And I accept mine. But I won’t accept losing her.

  Her eyes never leave mine, and mine never leave hers.

  She doesn’t beg for mercy; she doesn’t try to run.

  The world is full of broken birds and pain. I won’t add to it.

  Not her. Not my fiery girl, my cailín tine.

  “Jase.” She says my name thickly and swallows after a second passes of silence. Just the two of us knowing the other’s pain, knowing what’s happened wasn’t a nightmare, it was real.

  “I’m sor-”

  I cut her off with my own apology. “I’m sorry I can’t bring her back.” The emotion wells in my throat as I add, “If I could, if I had that power, I wouldn’t be feeling the same shit you are.”

  The tense air changes, and everything falls around us. For me it does. Nothing else exists for me but her.

  “If I could, I would,” I tell her as I brush her hair off her shoulder and lower my lips to hers. It’s all done slowly. I’ll be sweet with her tonight.

  Her lips brush against mine gently and then she deepens our kiss.

  Her fingers are hesitant at first, as if she’s still expecting me to snap like she did.

  I have all the time in the world for her tonight. To see what’s really here. To know what’s between us.

  I can show her, and I do. Slowly, gently, and with every small touch, I chip away at any armor she has.

  I don’t want the hate; I don’t want the fight.

  Not tonight.

  Tonight I make her feel loved.

  A part of me knows it’s selfish, because I don’t deserve her or any of this. But tonight I need to feel loved too.

  Bethany

  The Coverless Book

  Fourth Chapter

  “Do you think Mama will be okay with it?” I ask Caroline, nervously peeking up at her. The silk is like water under my fingers. So smooth and easily flowing. “I’ve never worn anything like it.”

  “It’s perfect for your first date,” Caroline tells me with that sweet Southern charm.

  I turn around fully to face her, repeating my question, “But do you think Mama
will be okay with it?”

  Caroline’s expression falters.

  “I think your mama would love it, Emmy,” Caroline says, forcing that false smile to her lips. She’s worked for our family since just before I got sick. I know all her tells and that smile she’s plastered on her face is only there to hide the truth. She hates my mother, but I don’t know why.

  “She’s sick too,” I whisper defensively. “That’s why she’s not here.” The excuse falls flat, just like it does every time.

  “She’s not sick like you. She’s just in pain,” Miss Caroline corrects me.

  Those in the most pain, cause pain. My mother told me that once. It was a while ago and she said that’s why she doesn’t see me very much. She doesn’t want to hurt me. I know it kills her inside to know what’s happening to me. “Pain is a sickness, isn’t it?” I ask Caroline.

  The false smile wavers as she reaches down to pick up the pair of shoes. “Your first pair of heels,” she states and pretends she didn’t hear me. She does that sometimes. She doesn’t answer me when I ask questions. I know they’re insignificant, but I have no one else to talk to. Some days I wonder if I’ve spoken when she does that.

  I only know I have when I hear her sniffle. They don’t like to see me like this, frail and losing weight and muscle like I am. No one does. I’m not just sick; I’m dying. That’s what the doctors say.

  Smoothing the ruby red silk fabric with my hand, I turn to the mirror thinking, Jake will like me in this dress. He won’t mind seeing me sick. He doesn’t cry when I tell him I’m invincible, not like Mama and not like Miss Caroline.

  Jake thinks I’m pretty. He thinks I’m sweet.

  “Soup, Emmy,” Caroline calls out and I can hear the spoon clinking against the porcelain.

  “Is it- “

  Before I can finish, Miss Caroline nods and says, “Of course it is. I had to make your favorite for today. Drink up, baby, you need to be strong.”

  “I already am strong,” I tell her with a smile, feeling the excitement of tonight. “Haven’t I told you? I’m invincible.”