"I don't have any."
She looks genuinely surprised. "None?"
"No."
"You should really have some."
"Do you have health insurance?"
She doesn't. I know she doesn't. Her shake of the head doesn't surprise me a bit. Insurance means records, which means a trail of paperwork that can lead someone straight to you.
"Well, I don't need any," I say. "My doctor takes cash payments instead."
"Anyway," she says, disregarding my statement as she holds up the pill bottles. "I went ahead and just paid full price for them, you know, since I didn't know if you had any coverage, and I didn't want to wake you up to ask."
"I appreciate it, but you shouldn't have bothered," I say. "I have no plans to take them."
Her expression falls quickly as she looks between the pill and me. "If you're worried… I mean, if you think I messed with them, I swear I didn't. You can count the pills… check them. You'll see."
"It's not that."
"Then what is it?"
"I don't like being medicated."
"But you need them," she says, shaking the pill bottles at me. "Ones an antibiotic. You don't want to get any sicker. And the other's just for the pain. I know you have to be in pain."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not," she says, raising her voice, the last word cracking a bit as she forces it from her lips. I can see the gleam in her eyes from where I stand, unshed tears building around the edges. "You're being stubborn. You won't eat my soup, you won't take your medicine, you won't rest… I had to fight with you to get you to accept a damn blanket. You tell me I overthink things. Ha! Look at you! You're worse than I am!"
She's yelling at me.
Yelling.
She's beautiful when she yells, too.
A smile cracks my face, but it does nothing to calm her down. If anything, it gets her more riled up. She glares at the sight of it, cocking her head as she studies me. "What are you smiling at?"
"You," I admit. "You're still so beautiful."
"And you're goddamn delirious," she says, her voice dead serious as she steps toward me again, thrusting the pill bottles right at my chest. I wince as she hits me, nearly stumbling backward, letting out a low hiss as the jolt in my body makes the fire in the wound rage. Her expression shifts as if she's been doused with a bucket of ice water, eyes wide with regret. "I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't apologize," I say, clutching hold of the bottles. "I figured you'd like seeing me suffer."
"Yeah, well, you figured wrong," she says. "Believe it or not, I'm not that kind of person. I'm not a sadistic freak who gets off watching others struggle."
I stare at her as she takes a step back away from me. There's a fire in her today, stronger than it's ever been before, but I don't think she has it in her to be intentionally cruel. "Like me, you mean?"
"What?"
I palm both bottles in my left hand, reaching for her with my right. She startles as I run my fingertips down her neck, my hand coming to rest at the base of her throat. "A sadistic freak who gets off on others struggling."
"I didn't mean it that way. I wasn't calling you—"
Before she can finish, I pull my hand from her skin and turn away from her, shaking the pill bottles. "I'll consider taking the antibiotic."
"What about the pain killer?"
"I don't want to kill the pain," I say. "If I stop feeling it, I might forget."
"Forget you're wounded?"
"Forget someone wounded me."
She doesn't respond to that, standing silently as I toss the bottle of narcotics straight into the trashcan before setting the antibiotic on the counter. Shuffling over to the refrigerator, I grab a bottle of water and unscrew the cap, taking a sip.
"Masochistic," she mutters. "That's what you are."
"Those are some pretty powerful words for someone who just used her first safe words two months ago."
Rolling her eyes, she fishes the pain killers right back out from the top of the trash can and sets the bottle on the counter with the other. "Just think about taking them both, okay? I think you've suffered enough. No reason to torture yourself. God knows you torture me enough for the both of us."
She starts to walk out as I lean back against the counter beside the refrigerator. "Sounds like you're calling me sadistic again."
"Yeah, well, like I said earlier, if the shoe fits…"
I laugh to myself once she's gone, lingering there for a moment, sipping on the water. My thirst is unquenchable, my chest aching and stomach tearing up as wooziness continues to overwhelm me. After a moment, I push away from the counter and stroll out, slowly making my way upstairs.
I desperately need that shower.
I bypass the bedroom, where Karissa lays full dressed on her back on the bed, arm draped over her eyes. I think she slept less than me the past two days and don't want to disturb her when she's trying to rest. Instead I make my way straight to the bathroom, grimacing the second I glance in the mirror.
I took a shotgun blast to the chest and never looked this bad.
I was younger then, more resilient… or maybe I just didn't notice myself back then. The world revolved around everything I lost, when today what matters is that I'm still here. I'm falling apart, and I feel like shit, but I'm alive, and breathing.
And somebody's going to pay for it.
I struggle taking off the sweaty, stolen scrubs I'm still wearing, stripping out of them, leaving them in a pile on the floor. I start the shower, letting the water warm up, as my gaze surveys the white bandage on my side. I pick at the surgical tape, tearing it from my skin. I get it halfway off when there's a light tap on the bathroom door, my name softly called out before it opens.
From the corner of my eye, I see Karissa hesitate when she sees me standing here completely naked, but it only stalls her for a second. I'm still picking at the tape, hissing as I try to rip the bandage off, when she walks over and pushes my hands out of the way.
"Let me get that," she says, gently plucking it from my skin, making a face as she discards the bandage in the trashcan. I step over and survey the damage in the mirror. The wound in front is small, a perfect circle where the bullet sliced through the skin, but the back looks like it exploded out of me. The jagged, misshapen hole was haphazardly sutured closed.
"Oh God," Karissa whispers. "That's horrible."
"It's not so bad," I say. "It'll heal quickly. It'll all heal. A few days, and I won't feel it anymore. A week or two, and all I'll be left with are some new scars."
I turn away from her and climb into the shower, not bothering to close the curtain, not caring that I splash water all out on the floor. I'm too exhausted to care about anything today. I expect Karissa to leave me in peace, to walk back out the door, but instead she strolls closer to the shower. "Can I help you?"
"I don't know," I say. "Can you?"
She hesitates, wavering for a moment, before reaching for the hem of her tank top and pulling it off, tossing it to the floor with my clothes. I turn my head, closing my eyes, and let out a deep sigh as she undresses right beside me. I don't look—I can't. She steps into the shower behind me, her hands instantly running up my spine, sending a shiver through my body.
It's agony.
It's not in my nature to let anyone take care of me. I don't like relying on others for anything. But something inside of me breaks at the feel of her hands on my skin, her presence around me, as she tugs the shower curtain closed, casting the two of us in shadows.
She washes me as I stand there, gently cleaning the blood from around my wounds with a soft cloth, trying her damnedest not to hurt me any more. I stand under the spray letting the water rain down on me for a while, neither of us speaking, before the dizziness gets to be too much. Pulling away from her, I sit down on the edge of the tub, leaning my head against the tile wall.
She steps in front of me, under the spray of the water, and gazes down at me. No matter how hard I try not to look,
my gaze rakes up her body, drinking in every inch of her frame, before meeting her eyes.
She says nothing.
I don't know what I'm supposed to say.
Instead, I wrap my arms around her, pulling her to me, my head resting against her stomach. She runs her hands through my hair, caressing it, as I close my eyes, letting myself, for the moment, feel it.
Feel it all.
Every bit of it.
Everything I avoid, and push back, and ignore.
I'm in love with the one woman I should never have fallen for.
We're a tragedy in the making. The game of tug-of-war we're playing will end up destroying us, because she doesn't have it in her to surrender, and I can't let go.
It's something else I love about her.
There's a fight in her.
But it's a fight that'll be our downfall.
Because I have that same fight in me.
We still don't speak. I hold her, until the water starts to run cold, a chill in the air making a shiver run through her. She pulls away from me, slips out of my arms, and climbs out of the shower. I sit there for a while longer, listening to her walk out of the bathroom, before reaching over and turning off the water.
I give myself one more day.
That's it.
Just one more, before the paranoia gets to be too much and I can't just lay around anymore.
I put on my brave face and force myself back on my feet. There's hell to pay with each small step I take, but I keep making steps despite it.
It feels like there's burning lava in my gut.
I grit my teeth and don't let it show, even when my vision gets hazy, even when my head feels dizzy, even when the pain makes my knees want to buckle beneath me.
Karissa isn't in the bedroom.
It's dusk, I think, or maybe it's nearing dawn. I'm not sure anymore. All I know is the house feels dark. Too dark. I lost hours, too many hours, hours that left me exposed and vulnerable. A nagging feeling continually hounds me, the silence deafening in her absence.
At first I think she's gone, but light streaming out from the bathroom pushes those thoughts back down inside of me. I find the bathroom door cracked open a bit and I push it open further, glancing inside.
She's in the bathtub.
I lean against the doorframe and watch her for a moment. The water teaming with bubbles shields the most intimate places of her body, but I can see enough for my imagination to take over.
Once again, I'm struck by how beautiful she is.
The relief of her presence is enough to dull some of the pain, at least temporarily. She's so ingrained in my life these days, burrowed so deep in my heart, that I think killing her now would really be the death of me.
I managed to survive last time love ripped me apart.
I don't know if I can survive that again.
And that's what Ray doesn't understand, I think.
Ray doesn't understand love anymore. He has a wife, and a mistress, hundreds of men at his beck and call, but I don't think he's ever loved anyone outside of his daughter. Love destroyed him that day, too, and he never recovered.
He doesn't understand how I can.
Karissa's reading, a familiar old book in her hands, one I recognize with just a glance. The Prince. I've read it so many times I can quote it verbatim. Based on the crease along her forehead, the puckering of her lips as she glowers, I'd say she doesn't find it nearly as fascinating as I do.
She's reading it, though.
I'll give her some credit.
"The Prince."
My voice sounds magnified in the silent bathroom. She jumps, startled, not noticing me until now. The book slips from her hands, hitting the water with a splash. Cursing, she snatches it back up before it fully submerges, shooting me a panicked look. "Shit, sorry, I didn't mean—"
I hold my hands up to stop her. "Don't apologize."
"But your book," she says, shaking the water off of it. "It's wet."
I stroll toward her, shrugging. "It's just a book."
"It's your favorite book," she says. "I'm guessing, anyway, considering half of it is underlined and highlighted and you scribbled all in the margins. Ugh, and I'm ruining it… I'm sorry, really. I didn't mean to, but you scared me. How the hell do you keep doing that? You'd think I'd be used to it by now."
"You'd think," I say, "but you lack intuition."
She rolls her eyes. "Oh no, I have it, it's just going haywire. I think my mother's getting to me."
Hesitating, I debate for a second before pushing away from the door and slowly strolling over to her. Gritting my teeth at the stabbing pain, I slowly sit down on the edge of the tub. It eases once I'm sitting. "Why do you say that?"
"She was always paranoid, you know, thinking people were watching her, and I guess in her case they sort of were..." She shoots me a pointed look. "But I don't know... I keep getting that feeling, too."
"The feeling that somebody's watching you?"
"Yes. I felt it yesterday, when I went to the store, and then today I went to the driveway, and I know it's only like ten feet but I just..." She trails off, frowning. "I guess I'm just jumpy after what happened to you."
It's not paranoia, I think, although I don't tell her.
It wouldn't surprise me a bit if she were being followed, if people were watching.
It puts me on edge.
"What are you doing, anyway?" she asks, changing the subject. "Why are you even out of bed?"
"I have things to do."
"Yeah," she says incredulously. "Like sleep, and rest, and recover."
"It's just a flesh wound," I say. "Barely even hurts."
She rolls her eyes but doesn't argue with me about it, her attention going to the book once again. "I really am sorry I got your book wet."
"It's fine," I say. "I can buy another copy."
Sighing, she closes the book, her cheeks tingeing pink. "But you'll lose all of your notes."
"Nonsense." I tap my temple. "It's all up here."
"I bet," she says, holding the book out to me, offering it up. I take it, feeling the soggy cover. It's old and vintage, definitely ruined. "It kind of did feel like I was getting a peek at your brain."
"And what was that like?"
"Complicated."
I laugh lightly, cringing. Shit, even that hurts. "Is that good or bad?"
She offers me a slight shrug, shifting in the water to pull her knees up further, wrapping her arms around them. The discomfort is creeping in as she tries to shield parts of herself from me, parts she doesn't want me to see.
She's needlessly self-conscious, considering I know every inch of her already.
"Huh." I glance down at the book in my hands as I consider that. "Men judge more by the eye than by the hand, for everyone can see but few ever come in touch with you."
"Are you…?" She twirls her fingers around in the water. "Are you saying you want to feel me up or something?"
I stand up again, shaking my head. "I'm saying you've touched me, Karissa. You've gotten a lot closer than the ones who can only see. That's why it's complicated."
I walk out, leaving her in peace, not wanting her to be any more uncomfortable than she already seems to be.
I drop the soaked book on the dresser in the bedroom before I head for my closet, pulling a suit off the rack. I hear Karissa pad down the hall, coming straight to the bedroom behind me. I cast a glance at her as she stalls right inside the room, clutching a stark white towel around herself as she regards me.
I pull the shirt off the hanger and slowly start putting it on as I look back away from her. It's a matter of seconds before she's in front of me, forcing my hands away to do it for me. "So, uh… are you saying you don't want to feel me up then?"
Her playfulness makes me smile. It's nice to hear it again. "I don't think you'll ever hear me say that."
Stepping back, I sit down on the edge of the bed to pull on the pants before looking at her again. My eyes trail the slivers
of exposed skin in the dim moonlight before meeting her eyes. She's watching me curiously, brow slightly furrowed.
"Are you sure you're okay, Naz?" she asks quietly, stepping closer, wrapping her arms around herself. "I really wish you'd take it easy."
Looking up at her, I study her face, drinking in every drop of her expression. She sounds genuinely worried about me. Slowly, my hands reach for her, starting at her knees and running up her thighs, slipping beneath the towel and coming to rest on her bare hips. I pull her closer to me, between my legs, and rest my head against her stomach.
Again, she doesn't tense up or push me away.
Wordlessly, she runs her fingers through my hair.
"I'll be fine," I mumble as I close my eyes. "I'll relax when everything's taken care of."
"When what's taken care of?"
I sit there for a moment, not responding, just relishing touching her. I don't give her a chance to pull away from me again. This time, I let go.
"What time is it?" I ask, looking past her, seeking out my watch, but I have no idea where it could be, nor do I know where my phone is. I'm so out of touch. It's not like me.
"Uh, 7 o'clock, maybe."
"AM or PM?"
She looks at me incredulously. "PM."
"Do you know where my phone is?"
"Downstairs," she says. "On your desk in the den."
Nodding, I stand back up, fastening my pants before stepping past her to seek out some shoes.
"When what's taken care of?" she asks again. "Where are you going?"
Once more, I don't answer her.
She watches me for a moment before turning away, snatching up some clothes for herself and storming out of the room. I hear her as she stomps downstairs, hearing her banging things around and slamming doors.
She's angry.
What else is new?
Houses creak, shifting and settling when everyone's in bed at night. I bought this house when it was brand new, just after the last nail had been hammered into the woodwork. Until Karissa moved in months ago, I was the only one to ever occupy these rooms, the only one to walk these halls in the darkness or nap in the den in the daylight.
Torture to Her Soul Page 9