Page 15 of Red

Out.

They all eye him and leave the room. He steps over, and I’m suddenly in the air, cradled against his chest. I don’t say thank you because he sure does need to learn boundaries. I lean in anyway, closing my eyes—his hard chest is a wall against my head. His heart beats below my ear with an inconsistent thud. Nerves—why is he nervous? It’s not like Pratt will come at him from the grave.

The outside winter air swirls around my skin briefly, then I’m lying back in a truck seat. He’s going to take me home. Home to die, then he won’t come back. I can go back to my life, though it might look a little different. Maybe no town visits, but I can have a garden like Mom used to.

It feels like seconds go by before he’s opening the door and carrying me again. I must be out of it. When he places me down onto my bed, I open my eyes and take in the smells. His smell is masking everything else, and I realize—he didn’t take me home. He took me to his home.

“Can you do something for me?” I ask.

I can hear his breath still in the room, though he’s not next to the bed. I take the silence for an answer and risk it.

“I need you to leave me alone.”

“Alo, you need medical attention.”

The nickname makes me wince, shooting pain through my ribs. “Just until sunrise, please. You can bring me some bandages if you must help.” I bite through each word.

Why won’t she—Is she that mad with me? I know I screwed up.

I hold it together.

“Please,” I add for extra measure.

He stalks out the door, feet heavy on the floor. When he comes back, his arms are loaded with an arsenal of bandages, medicines, and swabs for cleaning wounds.

“Thank—” The words don’t come. I start to choke from the blood pooling in my lung. He lunges forward to help, but I hold a hand out. “Leave.” I cough, and blood fills my mouth.

“I’ll be right out the door. Please yell or anything if you want help . . . or someone else’s.”

I’d want your help if it didn’t put you in danger.

The desire to make him feel better almost wins. He isn’t being rude or calling me weak for once. He still hasn’t retreated.

“Scissors.” I point, and he hands them to me. This time, I avoid contact with his skin.

He keeps a straight face, but his eyes are low.

I need to stand my ground, so I grip the metal handles and aim them at the door, waiting.

He shuts the door behind him, and I start to cut the fabric down my shorts. The scissors have minimal resistance as I move to slide them under the edge of my top and slice it off. Once bare skinned, I push myself off the bed and slide my feet across the floor to the bathroom, each step agonizing.

I shove a towel under the door to help muffle any sound, then turn on the tap. Lifting my leg into the clawfoot tub, my knee gives out, bumping into it.

“Fuck. I should’ve let him help for this part.” The words cost me air, and when I cough, that metallic taste comes back.

I’m naked and this isn’t a good look. My arms and legs are covered in gashes and my entire abdomen is dark purple from blood pooling below the skin. My face isn’t far off either.

I try one more time, switching legs, and let out a small cry.

The coldest setting of water fills the tub up until I’m covered below the neck. This might be the worst I’ve ever felt since this all started, when I got a bit cavalier with it. Experimenting with my own body might have been Pratt’s least favorite time watching me. What a memory.

“Here I go.” Launching myself off the cliff to the rocks below, I knew that if I landed right, I’d maybe break something. If not, then I’d break a few things.

“Alo, fuck.” Pratt’s voice echoed after me as I free-fell.

The wind wrapped my hair across my face in a single euphoric moment of weightlessness, then, well, I guess I miscalculated.

I pull the small washcloth off the edge of the tub and dip it into the running water before turning it down. I open the drain, a balance of cold coming in and old water going out. One downfall to Stark being in the house is this is usually a loud process. I shove the cloth into my mouth and tip my head back.