From the Ruins

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “Oksana was wearing red shoes,” I say to no one in particular as I run my fingers through my hair. It’s funny how just a moment ago I was ready to run into the blazing flames to save lives yet at the mention of my own wife being possibly trapped, I find myself rooted in place.

  “Help me with this,” Stryker orders, pulling me away from my thoughts and my past that suddenly doesn’t seem decades old. It’s right in front of me bleeding into my present, annihilating my future. I watch him walk off to the side and crouch down over a metal door lying haphazardly across a mound of broken glass. Moving on autopilot, I shuffle my bum leg over to him and grunt through the pain as I help him hoist the slab of metal up and throw it over the flames. As I watch the flames slowly die, I think of Oksana, and though I’m not a man of God, I pray. I pray for the first time in my life, but before I can utter an amen another shrill scream echoes and Jack’s daughter begs for help. It’s in the seconds that follow I learn the brutal agony of survival is that there are choices you don’t want to make but are forced to. It’s the struggle of choosing who you save first, knowing every life has an expiration date and for some that date is today.

  I make my way through the horror that is our reality and search for my wife, I tally the lives of those we can account for. Every step I take is another one closer to finding Oksana but everything seems to stand in my way and I’m transcended back to my youth, to the boy searching for his mother in a lonely alley.

  Nikki screams again and this time it’s louder than before. Closer, much closer and it never ends. It’s bone chilling is what it is and like a moth to a flame, I’m drawn to it. Reality slowly drifts away from me. I forget the bomb and my brothers. I forget the innocent lives that hang in the balance and the others that probably deserve to perish. Like I did when I was a boy, I walk through the valley of the shadow of death alone, and at the end I find the horrific truth.

  Red shoes.

  Long legs.

  A dress that was once red is now blackened by the blood that has seeped into the threads.

  Blood…so much blood.

  It pools around her body like it did my mother’s and like my mother, my wife’s head hangs off her body.

  Her throat slit by a piece of glass.

  Her eyes dull and lifeless but wide open.

  “No, no, no,” I holler, pushing Nikki out of my way. “Oksana,” I cry as I drop to my knees. I reach for her and my instinct is to take her in my arms and piece her back together, but as a man who found his mother in the very same position I know I can’t.

  The past becomes the present and the future dies along with my soul.

  Chapter Three

  When I found my mother’s body, I sat alongside her and held her hand until the garbage men picking up the trash spotted us. At first, they thought I was responsible for her death and when the cops finally arrived, so did they. If I close my eyes, the flashing sirens assault me as they did then, and if I dig deeper I can recall their voices as they ordered me to step away from the body. I squeezed her lifeless hand real tight and ignored them—no one was going to pull me away from my mother.

  Or so I thought.

  A minor doesn’t have a say in when he chooses to let go, especially not when they think you murdered your own mother. They drew their weapons and with extreme force they pulled me away from her. I never got to say a proper goodbye.

  I never got to thank her for choosing me.

  For loving me despite the horror I represented.

  I never got to tell her how much I loved her.

  I was thrown in the back of a patrol car as they zipped the body bag.

  “Pipe,” a voice calls, beckoning me back to the present where the nightmare playing is of the same script as my past and the only difference is the cast. While it may not be my mother as the leading lady this time around, I’m still the poor bastard reaching for a woman with trembling hands, unsure where to touch knowing one wrong move will leave her head completely severed from the rest her.

  Crouching down, I lean forward and stare into her lifeless eyes that are still wide open before lifting my callused fingers to close them. Once those baby blues are shut tight, I allow my palm to travel down the length of her cheek, over the flesh that’s already cool to my touch and I feel my body quake with realization.

  “Pipe, brother,” someone soothes and I slowly drop my hand from my wife as I glance over my shoulder and take in the two former nomads looming over me, Cobra and Deuce. I don’t lift my eyes to theirs and instead I choose to concentrate on their worn boots.

  “Pipe, the paramedics are here,” Deuce reveals.

  “She’s dead,” I say, my voice sounding distant and somewhat foreign to my own ears.

  “I’m so sorry, brother,” Cobra replies.

  “She’s fucking dead,” I say again, turning back to face the gruesome picture before me. With my thumb I brush away a tear from the corner of my eye, and without thinking I reach for her once more. I thread my fingers through the blonde hair I lived to touch and wind around my fingers in the dark night, knowing very well I’ll never do that again. Then I cradle the back of her head with both my hands and lean forward.

  “Pipe, no,” Cobra warns, but I don’t yield to him. This is the end. The curtain is closing on me and Oksana and these final seconds are the last act of a brutal life. Steadying my hands, I cradle her head with one and touch her back with the other before I slowly guide her bloody body against mine.

  I hold her like I never held my mother and I memorize the way her body fits with mine as the tears slide down my cheeks and the curtain closes on the simple life we made together. A short life that held promise I never thought I deserved.

  “Sir, we need to take her,” an unfamiliar voice calls out.

  “Give him a minute,” Cobra snarls. “That’s his fucking wife he’s holding together.”

  “Jesus,” Deuce whispers as I tuck the top of her head under my chin. After a moment, I gently position her limp body across my lap and lean down to press my lips against hers one last time.

  “Pipe,” Cobra says again.

  This time when he calls my name it registers and I lift my gaze to his and stare at him numbly.

  “She’s dead,” I repeat as I lift my hand to my face. Noticing the crimson liquid covering my hand, I pause and watch it drip down my palm. It’s that moment, with my wife’s love and life bleeding in my hands that I break. Pulling his shirt away from his abdomen, Cobra steps forward and reaches for my hand. Startled, I dart my eyes back to him and watch as he wipes the blood from my hand.

  “This ain’t on you,” he mutters as he vigorously tries to absolve me from the ultimate sin. But it’s not just me who he needs to bleach the blame from his soul. Oksana’s blood may drip from my hand but her death is on all of us. Every motherfucker with a fucking reaper on his back is responsible for her death.

  “Where’s Parrish?” I growl, pulling my hand away from him.

  “He’s in bad shape,” Deuce answers. “They took him and Reina out of here first.”

  “This is all his fault,” I sneer as I take in the surrounding destruction. My wandering eye comes to a stop as I notice the two men standing behind Cobra. A veteran in the game of death, I recognize the bag tucked under the paramedics’ arm and I point to it.

  “Ain’t no one putting her in there,” I say hoarsely.

  “Pipe, man, I know it’s hard—”

  “You don’t know shit,” I cut Deuce off before slicing my eyes back to the paramedic.

  “Lay it down,” I order.

  “Sir—”

  Without a second thought, I reach behind me and pull the gun from my holster. I pull the safety back and wrap my finger around the trigger as I aim it between the paramedic’s eyes.

  “Do it!”

  Cobra glances over his shoulder at the two men staring at me as if I’ve lost my mind and not my heart and he gives them a curt nod.

  “You better do what he says.”

  �
��It’s against protocol.”

  “Look at him,” Cobra growls. “His wfe is lying in his lap dead. There ain’t no fucking protocol for this shit.”

  “One wrong move—”

  “You don’t think he knows that?”

  I continue to hold the gun steady as I watch the two paramedics struggle with their decision.

  Then as one begins to prepare the gurney that will carry Oksana’s body to the morgue, the other one holding the bag steps around Cobra and unfolds it, spreading it out before me. Lowering the gun, I watch him draw down the black zipper before lifting his eyes to mine.

  “Step aside,” I order as I set my gun down next to me. Two cops step up behind Deuce but after a quick glance in their direction I forget they’re even standing there. Tuning out my surroundings, I ignore all the remorseful eyes pinned to me and bow my head to stare at the woman in my lap. Softly, I push aside the fallen strands of hair that are matted with her blood and take in her features. I memorize them—all of them. From the shape of her face to the slightly crooked slope of her nose. The beauty mark to the right of her mouth and her full lips. I ingrain her beauty and her death to my mind for when Satan decides to fuck with me and make me believe I’m more than just his fallen angel.

  Then I kiss her goodbye.

  I tell her I love her and promise her she’s in a better place.

  A place where evil doesn’t exist and love doesn’t die bleeding in your hands.

  I carefully lift her broken body in my arms and crawl on my knees to where the bag is. My breath hitches, my pulse hammers, and with a heavy heart I begin to unravel as I set my wife down. Tears fall from my eyes, obscuring my vision as I tuck the woman I was lucky enough to call mine inside a body bad. Sucking in a breath, I reach for the zipper but pause when I spot her red shoes. Not giving it much thought, I remove one from her foot and then the other. Holding onto the heels, I lean back on my haunches and before I can object, the paramedics lean down and pull the zipper up over her.

  “No,” I cry out. “No, no, no.”

  They start to lift her onto the gurney and I drop the shoes as I scramble to my feet in a hurry.

  They can’t take her.

  Not yet.

  I’m not ready for the curtain to close.

  I’m not ready for goodbye.

  “Pipe, you can’t,” Deuce hollers as he wraps his arms around my shoulders and drags me back.

  “She’s all alone,” I shriek.

  Like my mother was.

  “Let go of me Deuce,” I demand. “She needs me.”

  I was too late back then and I’m too late now.

  “She’s gone, man,” he whispers.

  Gone, Gone, Gone.

  Un willing to believe the truth, I shake my head like I did all those years ago and watch my bleeding heart be wheeled away on a gurney.

  “I won’t let her go. Not this way,” I croak as I comb my fingers through my hair. “I’m riding with her.”

  But even as I say the words, I know the truth—our ride is over and somehow that realization resonates with me. I don’t make an attempt to follow the paramedics. Instead, I numbly watch them wheel Oksana out of my sight until I’m ushered through the ruins by Cobra and Deuce. One brother rests a hand on my shoulder while the other holds Oksana’s shoes as if they are a fine piece of china, and maybe they are, they’re all I’m left with.

  A pair of red shoes.

  A pair of shoes that symbolize the sharp knife of a short life.

  In the haze of despair, I walk through the rubble and force myself not to look around. I tell myself I don’t care who lives and who dies but part of me wishes everyone burns in hell. I want someone, anyone to feel as hopeless and hollow as I do. It’s a shit thing to feel, to want, but I don’t try to justify it. I’m a Satan’s Knight, a title I once thought defined me. Day after day, I slipped on that leather vest with price. I straddled my bike with conviction and road alongside my brothers. I took their backs, respected their women and believed wholeheartedly that I was part of something big.

  I thought finding Satan was my saving grace, but as I slide into the patrol car and stare at the flashing sirens of the ambulance in front of me, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that finding Satan was the ruination of me. That reaper didn’t save a lost boy but it sure as fuck killed a broken man. The thing about Satan is he’s a greedy bastard. He doesn’t just sink his claws into you once. He’s never satisfied and he won’t quit his insistent torture until he’s taken everything from you. And even after he’s stripped you of all the good in your life and has left your soul tattered and torn, after he’s stripped you of all the good in your life and has left your soul tattered and torn, after he’s mangled your heart and beaten down your conscience, he still won’t release you from his prison.

  A stupid man thinks he can walk away.

  A wiser man knows he can’t.

  There’s one-way out and that’s death.

  A man who doesn’t give a fuck prays for it. He baits death by walking away and anxiously waits for it to find him.

  “We don’t have to go inside, Pipe,” Cobra says beside me. His solemn voice drags me away from my thought and I turn to him.

  “Not ready to let her go,” I murmur as I glance back toward the front of the patrol car. Through the windshield, I watch as the two paramedics open the back doors of the ambulance and lift the gurney. Still holding onto my wife’s shoes with one hand, Cobra opens the door with the other hand and slides out of the car before steeping out of the way, allowing me room to get out myself. Once on my feet, I start to follow the men wheeling my wife’s body through the front doors of the hospital.

  “Sir, you can’t come with us,” orders the paramedic who has been trying to deny me since he first spotted my woman dead in my arms as he brings the stretcher to a stop. I lift my burning eyes to him and narrow them in anger as I reach for my gun again, but this time I fall short. There is nothing to grab and my chest suddenly grows tight.

  “The fuck I can’t,” I sneer.

  Gone.

  She’s really gone.

  Questions race through my mind as I drop my gaze to the bag on top of the gurney. I take a step closer, then another until I’m standing at her side where I swore to be until my dying day. My knees threaten to buckle as I wrap my hands tightly around the rails of the stretcher.

  Why her?

  Why not me?

  Why not anyone else?

  She didn’t deserve this.

  “We’re sorry for your loss, sir, but you’re not allowed in the morgue,” the officer behind me says.

  My body shakes uncontrollably as I internally battle the differences between right and wrong—love and loss. Slowly, my grip loosens on the rail and I draw in a deep breath.

  “I love you,” I whisper. A truth I’m not sure she truly knew while she was alive. A truth I didn’t express as much as I should have. A truth I took advantage of. I want to tell her we’ll meet again, that I’ll see her on the other side, but I won’t taint my confessions with a lie and reluctantly I take a step backward, putting space between us.

  Instantly, I’m reminded of that sensation that coursed through me when she first told me she was leaving for the Ukraine and just like I ached to keep her then, I’m consumed by the same need now. I reach for her but as I do the stretcher is wheeled away from me.

  Gone.

  She’s really gone.

  They wheel the stretcher into an elevator and once the doors close and she’s out of my site, I turn to Cobra. I stare at the blood stains on his shirt before I take the shoes from his hands. I run the pad of my thumb over the heel before I cradle them to my chest and turn around. I don’t acknowledge anyone or anything as I step through the automatic doors alone.

  Some people are afraid of being alone, others know it’s their destiny and accept it. Being a man who takes the hand I’ve been dealt, a man who does his best not to fold, I’m baffled when I reach the parking lot and find it impossible to mo
ve.

  Paralyzed by grief and reality, I stand completely still with nowhere to go and no one to love. My heart, the thing that keeps me going, the one thing that pushes me day after day, the thing I didn’t know I’d found until I lost it. Now it’s gone. She’s gone and on the way to the morgue where she will be tagged and shoved into a drawer with all the other victims of circumstance.

  That thought brings me to my knees and I drop the shoes as I bring my hands to my face and cry. I fucking sob shamelessly until I feel a hand touch my shoulder.

  “Pipe,” Cobra calls.

  At the sound of my road name, I lift my head and pin him with a glare. That fucking name has brought nothing but grief to the innocent and for a split second I wish I never let Lee Jameson die in the alley with his mother.

  “Get the fuck away from me, boy,” I growl.

  “I’m not leaving you like this,” he retorts. “Tell me what to do, brother…tell me what you need and I’ve got you. You need to forget, pick your poison and I’ll move heaven and hell to get it for you. You need to hit something, I’m right here, take your best fucking shot, brother—”

  Brother.

  Men like us don’t call someone a brother without knowing the rules. Yes, there are rules and obligations that come with the title. You take that title knowing you’ll never leave a brother, that you’ll constantly watch out for him. A man lives knowing he can call upon his brothers in any time of need and they’ll bust through locked doors to get to him. He closes his eyes and rests his head believing his brothers will keep his old lady as safe as they’ll keep their own.

  The rules of brotherhood were broken tonight.

  They were severed.

  Fisting Cobra’s shirt, I yank him forward before thinking better of it and releasing him abruptly. Then without thinking, I draw my hand back and smack him in the face. My assault on him doesn’t end there though and I grab a hold of his face, forcing his wide eyes to mine.

  “You’re no fucking brother of mine,” I sneer. “You’re shit to me. All of you motherfuckers, every last one of you bastards wearing that fucking cut are dead to me,” I holler. My knuckles whiten as my grip tightens around his face as I glare at him.