Page 104 of Wicked Vile King
He shrugs. "I'm alive because of a fucking grease fire."
"Oh my God, Saint," I say. I don't know when I started crying, but fat tears fall from my eyes and onto his chest. "You were so little. You were just a boy."
"You know," he murmurs, his fingers scratching my back again, "that all the docs used to be amazed I remembered it? Like it was a fucking privilege or something, and my father bragged to everybody that would listen that they didn't break his son. The docs would talk about traumatic dissociation and amnesia and shit, yet I always remembered everything. And if I can't forget, then maybe that shit made me into what I am."
I fight a frown, sniffling while he holds me.
"I don't know if one event can define an entire person, " I say, looking at him again. "But I know trauma affects you, for sure. When I was in the hospital after I cut my wrists, the psychiatrist told me that traumatic events can change a person's DNA, like our genes carry our literal past. I guess what I'm saying is that if finding my mom dead in the bathtub changed my DNA so much that I tried to kill myself too, then maybe those three weeks also changed you?"
He swallows, his gaze pensive. "I think you might be right, pretty girl."
I hug him.
"Don't cry for me," he says, "I don't know any different."
"That doesn't mean I can't cry for you," I say with a sniffle. "It's sad."
"It was a long time ago."
I look at him. "Yet, you remember it like it was yesterday."
He frowns and nods. "I can't believe you finally admitted it."
"Admitted what?"
"That you tried to kill yourself."
I shrug. "I guess it's not such a scary thing to admit after all this."
"Why'd you do it?" he asks me.
"Does it matter?"
"To me it does," he answers.
I sigh, and he runs his fingers across my back.
"I don't know," I say with a swallow, "not exactly. But I guess after Mama died, it just felt like there wasn't any point. I couldn't sleep without seeing her body. I couldn't even see the color red without remembering all the blood. And Papa wouldn't talk about it. He still won't even say her name. It just got to be too much. It seems stupid compared to what you've been through."
"You found her body?" he asks.
"Yeah," I nod.
He brushes a kiss to the crown of my head. "I'm sorry that happened to you, pet."
"Are you really?" I ask him.
"I take no pleasure in knowing something hurt you," he says carefully.
"That's not an answer to my question," I say.
"I'm afraid that's about as much of an answer as I can give you. Now, get up. We need to get out of here and clean up."
"Okay."
Neither one of us moves.
"Come on," he urges after a minute, and I climb off of him, and we stand. He starts dressing first, and I follow, sliding on my underwear and jeans, my socks and shoes, and then my shirt, wincing as I roll my shoulder to get my arm through. It soaks up most of the blood, but it's wet and sticky, plastered to my skin.
