Page 3 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
“No,” I whisper.
The word feels foreign in my mouth.
I pull my wrist back slightly, testing her grip. “No,” I repeat, stronger this time, the finality of it settling into the room like dust.
Her eyes widen. For a second, clarity slices through the haze. Her nails press harder, as if she can claw obedience back into me.
“Y-you-” she gurgles, foam catching at the corner of her mouth. “You d-”
The rest disappears when her eyes roll back. The insult dies on her tongue.
Disappointment?
Dickhead?
Dark-hearted?
I’ll never know.
I tug my arm free when her grip loosens, scrambling backward until my spine hits the bed frame. I stare at the angryred indents blooming across my wrist, tiny beads of blood rising where her nails pierced skin.
Another scar for the collection.
Even in her final moments, she leaves her mark on me.
Her body jerks once, twice. The gurgling sound grows wetter...weaker. I watch her chest rise and fall, each movement smaller than the last, like a wave pulling back from shore for the final time.
Then it stops.
No dramatic gasp. No cinematic last breath.
Just stillness.
The motel room fills with the low hum of the ice machine outside and the faint rattle of the air conditioner. I stare at her eyes, still half-open, hazy and drugged, fixed on nothing.
My stomach churns. Not from grief. From hunger.
My breathing comes fast and shallow. My hands shake, but not enough to stop me when I push myself to my feet. I look at the half-eaten food scattered on the bed. The stolen diner bag. The crumpled napkins. The fries are cold and limp now.
Without thinking, I sit down.
Her body is still on the floor a few feet away. I can see her from the corner of my eye. I reach into the bag and shovel a handful of fries into my mouth, chewing mechanically. Salt and grease. Stale and cold.
“You could’ve waited until after dinner,” I mutter, my voice flat.
Outside, sirens finally wail in the distance. Blue and red lights begin to flash through the thin motel curtains, washing over the walls in violent color. The lights slide across her face, turning her skin purple, then red, then blue again.
They catch my reflection in the window.
For a split second, it’s hard to tell where her face ends and mine begins.
The banging starts a few minutes later, hard and urgent, the kind that rattles the cheap frame and makes the whole door shudder in its hinges.
“Police! Open the door!”
Their voices cut through the room, sharp and commanding, slicing into the quiet that settled after her last breath. I drop the fry still in my hand. It lands on the carpet beside her body. For a second, I just stare at it. Then I push myself up, my legs unsteady but obedient.
Another bang, louder this time.
