No, I don't hesitate.
I change my mind.
I do a full reversal, a fucking one-eighty, practically overnight because of Karissa.
She's not just under my skin, she's in my organs, wrapped up in my cells, infecting me.
"I'm just trying to understand, Vitale," he says. "Just trying to understand how you can bear to breathe the same air as that girl and not spend every second of it thinking it should be my daughter breathing instead. That it should be your daughter, or your son, instead of Johnny's kid. How can you be with her, fuck her, do things with her you used to do with my daughter, and not still want to slit her fucking throat because of how unjust it is?"
I'm not sure what to say, how to respond to that. I sit there for a moment, not moving, still staring out the window. "She wasn't part of the original plan."
"Plans change."
"Exactly," I say. "And they've changed again. Killing her would make me no better than Johnny, and that's not the kind of man your daughter loved in the first place. Killing Karissa won't do Maria's memory any justice. Killing Karissa will just make it all worse."
I climb out of the car then, not bothering to thank him for the ride. I start to close the door, hearing his voice just before it slams between us. "Another thing we'll have to disagree on."
Standing on the curb, I watch as the limo pulls away, disappearing down the street. Shaking my head, I turn to the house, staggering that direction.
The first thing I see when I step inside, the first thing my eyes are drawn to, are the smears of dried blood all over the floor around my bare feet. I glare at the streaks of dark red, sighing exasperatedly, as Karissa steps into the foyer in front of me.
I close my eyes.
Deep breaths.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I can't clean it up now.
I'll do it later.
Don't worry about it.
When I reopen my eyes, Karissa's right in front of me. She reaches around where I stand, securing the locks on the door, as I run my hands down my face.
It's probably senseless.
I'm not sure if Carmela knows where I live. It's not listed on my license, but if she knows, if she finds out, she now has a key to the place. I know she's smart, but she's also proven to be fearless, and that can be a deadly combination.
As if I weren't paranoid enough before…
Karissa helps me upstairs the best she can. I collapse on the bed on my back, legs hanging off the edge, as my eyes drift closed right away. I don't want to sleep, I shouldn't risk it, but I can't help it. She says something to me, her voice gentle, her fingers even gentler as they run through my chaotic hair, but I don't comprehend it.
The pull is too strong to fight.
Appear as you may wish to be.
I sleep deeply, long hours lost in the abyss, time slipping away, before I finally regain consciousness. I lay in the darkness and stare up at the ceiling as I blink rapidly, trying to come back around.
I'm alone in the room.
My head is pounding and my body feels like it's on fire. I don't dare move a muscle yet, eyes trailing the ceiling fan as it spins around and around, blowing a hint of cool air on my sweaty face.
I'm weak—so fucking weak it hurts to blink, taking every ounce of energy I have left to keep breathing. It would be too easy for someone to end my life today. I'm vulnerable, and susceptible, still alive for the moment but feeling like I've already got one foot in the grave.
I've felt that way for a long time, actually.
I wonder when the other foot will finally join it.
I'm still tired, but I need to stay awake, so I close my eyes to steel myself, gritting my teeth as I force myself out of the bed. Time waits for no man. The world won't just roll over and take it. I have to face it head on, pick myself up and trudge forward as long as I can.
I can't be weak.
I have to be strong.
My legs feel heavy but my footsteps are light, slow and measured, as I make my way downstairs. I head for the kitchen, the light on in that room, my mouth as dry as sand, my throat raw like scratched with sandpaper. Stepping in the doorway, I pause when I see Karissa standing at the counter beside the sink, haphazardly chopping some vegetables and throwing them in a pot on the stove.
She struggles with the knife as she massacres a carrot, the sections uneven, pieces flying all around. Shaking my head, I stroll into the kitchen, watching her with a morbid sort of amusement. "Nobody ever taught you how to use a knife?"
My voice seems magnified by the silence. Karissa jumps, the sound of it catching her off guard. The knife slips as she brings it down on the carrot, slicing right into her pointer finger. Cursing, she instantly lets go of the knife and it clatters to the floor.
"Shit, shit, shit!" she chants as she hops around. "Jesus, Naz! You scared me!"
I say nothing, pausing beside her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand toward me to see the cut. Before I can get a good look, she yanks away, plunging the wounded finger into her mouth, wrapping her lips around it with a scowl on her face.
Nausea swims through me. I can almost taste the blood myself. Disgusting.
I brush by her to open up the drawer closest to the refrigerator. It's full of this and that, a little bit of everything, one of the only drawers in the kitchen that doesn't sit empty. I search around inside, pulling out a small first-aide kit. I set it on the counter and pop it open, grabbing a Band-Aid.
I take her hand again, pulling her finger out from between her lips. I stare at it for a moment as a bead of blood surfaces from the small wound. The cut isn't too deep, she doesn't need stitches, but it obviously stings by the look on her face.
For years I sought this blood—hunted it down so I could drain it, to stop the heart that beats it, to rid the world of that disgraceful bloodline. I never imagined one tiny drop would have such an affect, how her pain, no matter how trivial, would inflict that same sort of ache in me.
Karissa doesn't fight me, watching silently as I open the bandage. "You know, there should be some rule that says only one of us is allowed to bleed per day."
"It's after midnight," she whispers. "You haven't bled yet today."
Yet.
Laughing dryly, I wrap the bandage around her finger, covering the wound. Bringing her finger to my lips, I lightly kiss it before letting go of her hand. "It's kind of late to be cooking."
"Your, uh... that doctor stopped by and he dropped off some prescriptions, and gave some instructions... you know, rest and drink fluids and stuff like that. He said you should try to eat something but that you probably couldn't handle much yet, so I just thought..."
She trails off, still not answering my question. "You thought?"
"I thought I'd make you some broth."
"Broth?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess it's more like soup since it's got chicken and carrots and celery and—" Her voice stumbles as she turns away from me to stir whatever's in the pot. She cuts her eyes my way after a second and frowns at my expression. "It's just that stuff, and some water and seasonings. That's it. Nothing else."
I want to believe her.
I really do.
"We didn't have any broth in the cabinet? I thought I saw a carton of it somewhere."
She grimaces. "There are certain things you shouldn't ever drink out of a box, and chicken broth is one of them."
"I'm guessing wine is another?" I ask, leaning back against the counter.
"I like boxed wine," she says. "It's cheap and does the trick."
"Well, I don't mind chicken broth out of a carton," I say, shrugging as I push away from the counter. "It hasn't killed me yet."
I start to walk out when I hear her voice, quiet as she mutters, "I won't kill you, either."
I don't hang around, shuffling my way to the den. The scent of bleach reaches my nose as soon as I step in the doorway. My eyes trail the floor and along the couch, surveying the area, before turning around and glanc
ing toward the front door.
All of the blood is gone.
Everything looks back in order, scrubbed and sanitized, every reminder of what happened here completely wiped away while I slept upstairs. A feeling stirs in the pit of my stomach that I instinctively try to shove back, but I'm too exhausted for pretenses, too drained to put on a mask.
Gratitude.
She cleaned up the mess I made, wiped up the spilled blood caused by her mother's hands. She didn't have to do it, but she did.
Sighing, I step into the den and settle on the couch, leaning my head back and closing my eyes, trying to breathe through the twinges of pain. I should go back to bed but I feel disconnected up there, trapped in a void where time doesn't exist.
I haven't been sitting here for more than a few minutes, nearly dozing off already again, my body on the verge of shutting down as it tries to process, when I feel something cover me. The material rubs against my skin, soft but startling. My eyes open, instantly meeting Karissa's as she drapes a blanket over my body.
That gratitude swells up again, but I shove it back down. "Why are you doing this?"
She smoothes the blanket before sitting gently down on the small table right in front of the couch, so close her knees rub against mine. It's a startling change from just the last time we sat in this room together, when she did everything in her power not to have any part of her touch any part of me. Hours feel like weeks, days like an eternity, but I know it was less than forty-eight hours ago.
Two days, and such a drastic difference.
"You had goose bumps," she says quietly. "I figured you were cold."
"I'm not just talking about the blanket. Why are you doing any of it?"
"Because you're hurt. You were just shot, Naz. Just yesterday. You shouldn't even be out of the hospital yet, much less trying to walk around like you're fine."
"But I am," I say. "I'm fine, Karissa. It's not the first time this happened to me."
"I know."
"And it probably won't be the last, either," I continue. "I can take care of myself. I've been doing it for longer than you've been alive. I don't need you to pretend to give a shit about me now just because I'm injured, because I'll heal, sweetheart. I'll be just as good as new, with or without your pity."
She pulls her hands away, hurt flashing across her face that dissolves quickly in a barrage of anger. Narrowed eyes focus on me as she clenches her hands into fists on her lap. "Do you have to be such an asshole? I'm just trying to help."
"Why?"
"Because you're hurt," she says again. "And regardless of what you think, it's not pity, or whatever the hell else you want to call it. Maybe you think you don't need anyone, and maybe you don't… I don't know… but that doesn't mean you don't deserve someone. You shouldn't have to be alone or take care of yourself right now, not when someone else can do it for you."
"Why would you do it? Why would you help me?"
"Because it's the right thing to do."
I stare at her as I mull over those words. She stares back for a moment before cracking, looking away as she shakes her head. She starts to stand up when I let out a resigned sigh. We're at an impasse, and we're never going to break it if one of us doesn't give.
One of us meaning me.
She's conceding as much as she can.
"It's not your fault," I say quietly, my words drawing her attention back to me. Her brow furrows as I continue. I haven't told her who shot me... I haven't told anybody. But I can feel the shame wafting off of her, regardless. "If you're doing this out of some twisted sense of guilt, if you think it's because you owe me…"
"It's not that," she says quickly, although the tone of her voice tells me it is, at least partially. "I thought I was watching you die, Naz. That's not something I want to go through again. And I know you don't trust me. I don't know if you'll ever trust me again, but I'm not trying to trick you. I'm not trying to hurt you, or do anything except help. I just want to help you. That's it. Can you just… give me the benefit of the doubt?"
I have half a dozen reasons not to trust her, not to believe a single word she says. History certainly is on my side when it comes to that family. But I just told her this wasn't her fault. Holding it against her now would make me less of a man than I try to be… less of a man than I want to be.
Leaning my head back again, I close my eyes, drawing on her words from just days ago about the coffee machine. "Thank you for the blanket, Karissa. I appreciate it."
Give and take, I remind myself. There has to be give and take.
"You're welcome." Her voice is quiet. I feel her legs brush against mine, get a whiff of her fragrant perfume as she shifts closer, seconds later feeling her soft lips against my cheek. "Sweet dreams."
Sweet dreams. It's a nice sentiment.
But my dreams are never sweet.
I only have nightmares.
Memories.
The same one, over and over, time and time again.
The pain.
The anguish.
The gunshots.
Bang.
BANG
I drift off to sleep again right there on the couch, in and out of consciousness the rest of the night, trying to shift position, trying to get comfortable, but there's no relief to be found. Something wakes me around dawn, early morning sunshine streaming through the windows and illuminating the wooden floor, casting everything around me in gold tones. I'm shivering, heart racing wildly, a cold sweat coating my body from head to toe.
I need a shower.
And a fucking shave.
Something.
I lay completely still, straining my ears to try to riddle out what disturbed me, swallowing back the swell of nausea when I realize it was the front door.
It opened, and closed, the locks jingling. Soft footsteps descend upon the house, restrained like someone is trying to sneak from the living room into the kitchen, things shifting around, drawers opening.
Forcing myself up, I grasp the bandaged wound on my side, holding it like I'm trying to hold myself together. I slowly make my way out of the den, on alert, vision fuzzy and head foggy.
I'm a fucking mess.
If someone tried to attack me right now, they'd take me down easily. My blinks are accentuated by blackness, my reactions slowed.
I quietly make my way toward the kitchen and pause in the doorway, a sense of relief calming the tension in my muscles when I see it's Karissa. Just Karissa. She's dressed in a pair of cut-off jean shorts, barely covering her curvy backside, and a white tank top that's downright sinful.
I lean against the doorframe, unable to sustain all my weight on my tired legs, as I watch her. I need some energy back, and I need it back quick. Just staggering here took it all out of me. A few grocery bags surround her on the floor that she digs through, pulling things out to put away. Her earbuds are in her ears, the faint sound of music reaching me.
I wonder what she's listening to, but I don't ever ask.
She takes a fresh box of Cocoa Puffs and reaches up on her tiptoes to shove it onto the top of a cabinet. Her shirt rides up as she does, my eyes drawn to the sliver of exposed skin. She can be self-conscious about her body sometimes, especially when she catches me watching her, tugging fabric to cover up places she doesn't want me to look. It's senseless, though, because I know every inch of her.
I memorized every curve and crevice, every scar and scratch marking her skin. It's unforgettable, the dimples on the small of her back, the ridges of her ribcage when she's stretched out straight, the strain of her fingers when they clutch onto me, the curl of her toes when pleasure overwhelms her. She's perfectly imperfect, down to the scattering of freckles along her back and dotting her flushed cheeks.
Everything about her is beautiful to me.
Even when she's scowling, when she's angry and full of hate. She's beautiful when she cries, when she's in the throes of grief. She's beautiful when she smiles, when she laughs at me. But she's the most beautiful when she's d
oing nothing. When she thinks nobody's looking, when she thinks she's alone. Her walls are down, her defenses off, and the real Karissa shines through. She's pensive and passive, a calm breeze in the middle of a storm that somehow pacifies me. She gets lost somewhere up in that head of hers, and as much as I hate when she overthinks things, she's goddamn beautiful when she does it.
If I were hard pressed to explain why I fell in love with her, that would be my answer. Because she's beautiful. And I don't mean it in a superficial way. You're not going to find her on the cover of a magazine. She's more the kind you find at a museum, on a painting or in a piece of literature. Her beauty is in her soul.
She has enough of that for both of us.
Karissa drops down flat on her feet and turns back to the bags, jumping when she catches me standing here. She yanks the earbuds out, the music growing a little louder, as she lets out a gasp. "Jesus, you're practically an invalid and you still sneak up on me!"
"An invalid?" I raise an eyebrow at her. "Are you calling me worthless?"
"Well…" She gives me a playful smile as she steps toward me. "If the shoe fits."
"I'm wounded."
"You are," she points out, motioning toward my side. Her expression shifts the closer she gets to me, worry lining her face. The tranquility fades as once more turmoil takes over. Pausing in front of me, she reaches up and cups my cheek. "You're sweating like crazy, Naz. What are you doing standing here?"
"Thinking about how beautiful you are."
It's the truth.
That's exactly what I was doing.
I don't think I've told her that enough.
She rolls her eyes, the flush on her cheeks deepening, as she reaches up to feel my forehead. "You've got to have a fever."
Grasping her wrist, I pull her hand away from me and shake my head. "I'm fine."
"So you keep saying." She steps back and hesitates before walking over to where her purse sits on the counter. She searches through it for a moment, pulling out two orange pill bottles, and turns back to me. "I went and got your prescriptions filled, grabbed some other stuff while I was waiting for them. I didn't know what kind of health insurance you had…"
Torture to Her Soul Page 8