Page 64 of Your Hate, My Claim
Tomorrow, everything will fall.
Either we will be free…
Or buried with the empire.
32
SIMON
I t's late. So late. I’m moving around, slowly, like the doctor recommended, and thankfully the painkillers have made it easier.
He said there is no sign of infection and I should be more mobile in the next couple of weeks. He said it could’ve been
worse. If I had full range of mobility I would've knocked his head off his shoulders. Unless you’ve had your back torn to shreds, there is no ‘could’ve been worse’ about it.
I slowly hobble over to the balcony, being very careful not to overstretch my torso. The tightness of my back is horrific. The psychological effects are brutal. Every time I sleep, I have nightmares about the sound of the whip and the pain that coursed through me. When I move, I'm terrified the skin on my back will come away, flaying me.
There is an underlying feeling, too, that I’m trying to ignore. I know Carlos and Lucas have gone somewhere and haven’t returned yet. Mark has been coming in and out of my room checking on me, but hasn’t spoken. Whether Carlos told him not to speak, I don’t know. But the curiosity is killing me, wanting to know what Carlos is up to. Most of the afternoon I’ve been running over in my head how he’s going to pull off tomorrow. What if it goes wrong?
“You’re still up,” a voice says from the door behind me, but I don’t need to turn to know it's Mark.
“Very perceptive of you,” I say. Looking over the grounds. Waiting for what I don’t know.
“Nice to see your sarcasm is returning. Do you want anything?” he asks.
“No, I'm good. Just moving around a little before heading to bed.”
“I’ve charged your phone and left it on your bedside table. If you need me, text or call. I’ve saved my number.”
I’m sick of this. You’d think I was some innocent princess who has never killed or said a swear word before. This is what I hate the most. That people will look at me differently. That I’m perceived as this timid, needy and defenseless flower, rather than the guard to the Kozlovs who has killed more people than I can remember.
“Thanks, but I don’t need a carer. I’m a grown man.”
“Don’t be sensitive, Simon. You know I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, and I’m thrown by the catty tone. Mark is normally mute, I didn’t realize he was as bitchy as me.
“Sensitive? When I’m healed, I’ll show you fucking sensitive,” I say, wincing when I move too harshly.
“Fine. I’m gone.”
“Wait…before you go. Where are they?”
“Who?”
I tilt my head to the side. He’s not this dumb.
“My dead parents. Who the fuck do you think I mean? Carlos and his twin Lucas.”
“A meeting.”
“With who?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worrying, I’m asking who they’re meeting.”
“A colleague.”
“Wow. Informative. I assume you’ve been told not to say?”
