Page 121 of Out for Blood
Two years ago, I wouldn’t have believed a life like this was possible.
Back then, survival was all I knew. Every day was about making it to the next one no matter how many pieces of myself I had left behind from the day before. Trust felt dangerous. Hope felt reckless. The idea of letting someone close enough to see the worst parts of me, the scars, the nightmares, the rage I carry everywhere I go, felt impossible.
I couldn’t imagine the feeling of safety.
To be able to fall asleep without one eye open again didn’t seem fathomable.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think one day I would be waking up next to someone who knew exactly what I had survived and has never once looked away.
Someone who saw every imperfect piece of me and chose to love me anyway.
He knows there are parts of me that will never be the same. Parts that were stolen that he will never get to see. He knows I still carry ghosts. He knows some wounds don’t heal just because time passes.
And somehow, his devotion to me has never wavered.
He doesn’t love me despite those things. He loves me knowing they’re there. He loves me on the days when I’m strong and on the days when I’m barely holding myself together.
He loves all of me. Not the version I wish I was. The version standing here now.
Maybe that is what a home is supposed to be. Not a place you return to, but a person who makes you feel like you’ve finally arrived.
My home is Tyler.
I reach for him before I can talk myself out of it. The pads of my fingers graze his cheek, and he unconsciously tilts his head, chasing the touch.
I commit the moment to memory before removing my hand as the corner of my mouth lifts despite myself.
Careful not to wake Tyler, I ease out of bed and pad over to the door. Cool wood floors greet my feet as I move through the darkened house to the kitchen.
I turn the Nespresso machine on while I stand at the kitchen island and look outside. The sky is a brilliant shade of blue, so clear and bright, as if last night’s storm never happened at all.
I grab my cup and take a sip and glance toward the clock. My stomach sinks when I see the date. Wednesday.
For two years, without fail, the ritual has remained the same. No excuses. No missed days. Every Wednesday.
An hour later, I’m pulling into a parking lot I could probably find with my eyes closed. The building comes into view, forgettable. Small. Plain. Functional. Nothing about it stands out, yet I would know it anywhere.
Most people probably drive past it without giving it a second thought. To them, it’s just another building tucked between dozens of others.
I know every crack running through the pavement. Every tree planted along the sidewalk. Every security camera mounted above the entrances. I’ve memorized the layout of the parking lot and the way the morning light reflects off the windows.
I’ve been here too many times not to.
The engine of the car is still on as I stare at the building through the windshield. My coffee has long since cooled in the cup holder.
Every Wednesday.
I force myself to turn off the car and get out and start toward the entrance. My stomach churns a little more with every step. The automatic doors slide open, and the sterile scent of disinfectant hits me right away.
The morgue hasn’t changed.
Neither has the reason I keep coming back.
The moment I step inside, frigid air washes over me.
The receptionist glances up from her reading glasses from behind her desk.
Her face lights up when she sees me, full of recognition.
