Page 63 of Expressionate
I find I care less about the fact that he’s dead – he must be…because she said he was, or maybe I want him to be – and more about the fact that she didn’t think she could tellme.
“She called you.” One of Tax’s wide hands wrap around my cold fingers as he steers with his other. “She trusts you, Lovely.” Had he read mythoughts?
I slowly pull my hands away to wipe at the dried tears on my cheeks. “Can you drive faster?” I ask, choking on thewords.
His eyes – dark, like falling into the eye of the universe – meet mine. Tax puts both hands on the steering wheel and then we’re flying. He weaves in and out of the minimal early morning traffic, speeds through red lights, and cuts corners until we’re pulling up to the brick-fronted house that I had been at just days before, dropping Trish off from the hospital. The Jeep stops so suddenly, that it skids before stilling against thecurb.
I’m already out and running towards the front door. I throw it open just as I hear the sirens and wonder how we made it before they did. Blood is splattered across the living room rug. It’s ruined beyond repair. There’s nothing that can be done. It’s on the walls. On the coffee table. A flash of white draws my attention and as Tax’s shadow in the doorway clouds my vision when he steps inside, I move towardsit.
Trisha is huddled against the wall, the white fabric of her t-shirt ripped on the side. Her gray sweat shorts are soaked in blood. I can tell she’s been sitting in it for a while. Her phone is laying on its face right next to a bloody kitchen knife. The blood marks on the floor are streaked as they move around and run onto the wood flooring of the rest of the house, and into thekitchen.
“Trish?” Even though I whisper her name, she jerks when she hears myvoice.
Her hands go to her arms and they rub up and down as if – despite the warmth of the house – she’s freezing. “Love?” Red streaks line her arms now and I realize her hands are covered in blood. Tax moves quietly past us into the kitchen. I don’t stophim.
“I’m here, honey. The ambulance is on the way,” I saygently.
She shakes her head. “It’s toolate.”
Though I’m feeling a bit callous, I refrain from saying that they aren’t going to be here for him. I don’t care about him. I don’t even want to see his damn body. Let him rot in this God forsakenhouse.
Red and Blue lights flood the front windows and spill into the living room, making the entire house and the situation feel surreal. When I sit next to Trisha, and her head falls on my shoulder, hot tears spilling over my borrowed shirt, I want to refuse myself even that much comfort. I shouldn’t be the one here with Trisha. I didn’t protect her. Tax returns just as two blue uniformed officers stop at the wide-open door. He nods them toward the kitchen before stooping to lift Trisha into his arms. She careens wildly, almost falling out of hisgrip.
“Don’t!” I urge her. “Don’t fight him, honey. It’s okay. You can trust him. It’sokay.”
“I can’t – I can’t! Please!Love!”
“He’s not going to hurt you,” I say quickly, grabbing her hand as I follow behindthem.
Tax’s eyes are hard as he carries her outside. Two EMTs park and get out just as he steps into the yard. Tax carries Trish towards the back – she’s gripping his shirt tightly, eyes on me. The EMTs give her a blanket and check her over – even herarm.
The older EMT, a man that looks to be in his late forties with salt and pepper hair, heads inside as the younger of the two – a woman with a strawberry-blonde pony-tail and full cheeks stays withTrisha.
Another squad car pulls up behind the ambulance and two more officers get out. “Love,” Tax calls me over. I look away from Trisha. “Stay with your sister,” he says, “I’ll talk tothem.”
I couldn’t pull myself from my sister’s grip even if I wanted to. “You know they’re going to want to question her anyway,” I say as quietly as Ican.
His eyes move from me to her and they soften. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to my lips. “Let her be with her sister for a little longer,” he says against my mouth. “She needsyou.”
As Tax walks away, I feel Trish’s hand – cold and streaked with dried blood – in my own. She needs me? I look down at her. Why would she need anyone who let this happen toher?
* * *
I breathein the tension of the room as I crack open my eyes. My limbs feel heavy, like my bones are made of lead. I open my mouth and feel the cold air travel down to my lungs filling me with ice. Emotion feels like it’s crawling out – a boogeyman out of the imagined closet of skeletons in my mind to consume me once and for all. I hate it. I hate this. What have I done? What have I lethappen?
“Love?” I look up, my leaden muscles protesting at themovement.
“Trish?”
Her face is pale and drawn. Her complexion is usually darker than mine – her love of the sun – but right now she could pass for a ghost. Her skin looks sallow, almost translucent, and there are deep bruises under her eyes. The cuts on her arms look shallow, but painful all the same. I don’t remember if there was any broken glass back at the house, but there must have been to cause those wounds. At least, that’s what they looklike.
I stand up, and after a moment of being on my feet, I regain control of my bodycompletely.
“Love,” she repeats, her faceblanching.
I reach for her and her arms, even the one weighed down by the IV tube stretches for me. I crawl onto the bed and wrap myself around her as she sobs into my chest. Her tears soak the shirt that I still haven’t changed out of, though it’s been hours and she’s been in an out of consciousness for most of them. I could have left. I could have gone home to change and come back. Tax had called the guys and my car is waiting for me outsidenow.
Her tears make my mouth dry and my eyes ache to cry with her, but I remain with her, holding her. Silent. My eyes remain dry. For now. After a while, Trisha cries herself silent. She cries until the fabric on my shoulder and chest stick to my skin. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I don’t know what I would say if I could. How did we become so fucked up? It isn’t fair. It’s not fair that normal people get to go their entire lives without this shadow constantly on their backs like it clings to mine. It’s not fucking fair. I can feel the weight of my phone in my pocket. Feel the reminder of Anne’s cruel words. Danny’s texts are still there. And I’m a whore. There. I said it. I’m a fucking whore. I whored myself out for a place to live, and I let Danny do what he wanted with me. I’ve fucked so many people, I don’t remember half of them. The consequence of my actions is this. The inability to have anything good. I can’t have Trish. And I certainly can’t haveTax.
