Chapter Text
The door clicks shut behind me. I stare down the endless stretch of gray walls. Left? Right? I can't remember.
I start walking. My fingers trail along the cold cinder block. My pulse drums in my ears, quickening with every blind turn I take. The hallways stretch longer and longer like they're growing beneath my feet.
Which way did I come from?
I look back over my shoulder. I don't know why. I don't expect anyone else to be there. But I look anyway.
A scream tears through the silence. Faint. Real. Bone-chillingly real.
It echoes down the hallway, bouncing off the concrete, chasing me. My hands fly to my ears "Stop," I whisper to myself. "Please, stop."
It keeps going, broken sobs tangled between shrieking cries, words I can't make out—pleas, maybe. I don't want to know.
My steps quicken. I feel sick. I feel dizzy. My vision tunnels, the walls close as I half-run, half-stumble towards nowhere. My fingers dig into my ears, hard enough to hurt, but I can still hear him. I can't stop hearing him.
The sound twists into something worse. A scream that breaks in half, cracks and splinters into silence for one awful moment before starting again.
I reach a corner and turn sharply, my shoulder clipping the wall as I struggle to keep my balance. And still, his screaming, it's following me. It's inside me.
I see the dull red glow of an EXIT sign, flickering at the end of the hall.
I hit the door, shove it open, and stagger out. When I reach Richie's car I fumble with the key before it slips from my hand. I drop to my knees to snatch them up. Then I force the key into the lock. It doesn't go in right, but I try again, gritting my teeth as I turn it.
The lock opens and I slide inside, slamming the door shut behind me with enough force to rattle the car.
I grip the steering wheel with both hands. My head falls forward and I squeeze my eyes shut. I try to breathe. In, out. In, out. But sobs break free.
Thomas is going to be dead. Murdered. His blood will stain the ground. His life will be torn away, erased like it never existed at all. Reduced to whatever Richie leaves behind.
I should be screaming at Richie to stop. I should be calling someone. I should be sick with terror at what he's capable of.
Thomas is dead. That's the truth I can't ignore, no matter how much I want to. And with that truth comes a quiet, shameful voice whispering in the back of my mind: You wanted this.
And I did, didn't I? I've wished for this. I've spent so many nights hoping he was gone, dead—out of this world, out of my nightmares.
But what does this make me? I should feel horrified. But instead, I'm sitting here, holding the steering wheel, and starting to feel a terrible sense of peace settle over me.
I feel evil. Rotten to my core. The kind of person people tell cautionary tales about.
What kind of person feels this way? What kind of person lets someone else do something so monstrous and feels relief?
I'm complicit. I'm cruel.
Thomas is dead. Richie's made it happen. He's doing me a favor in his eyes. And maybe...it feels like a favor in my eyes too.
Time drags. Three hours pass. My legs bounce. My cheek throbs where I've bitten it raw. I glance at Richie's watch again, it hasn't moved fast enough. It taunts me with an unrelenting march of minutes that do nothing but remind me of how long I've been sitting here. Waiting. Wondering. Weeping.
Tears fall and fall, soaking into the fabric of my sweater. I think about going inside. But I know I wouldn't want to see what's in there. I don't want to see what he's done. My imagination is already bad enough.
I begin to smell something burning. It grows stronger, filling my nostrils then curling in my throat. I don't need to see the flames to know what's feeding them. I don't need to see the smoke to understand what's been set alight.
Another hour passes. I lose track of how many times I've counted the same cracks on the dashboard.
I feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin, but just as I'm ready to break, the warehouse door swings open with a deafening screech.
My head snaps up, my neck straining as I stare through the window.
Richie steps out. The light catches him as he emerges. He doesn't even look human. His skin is streaked, splattered, painted in blood. So much blood.
His shirt is clutched loosely in his hand, a wadded mess of red-stained fabric. He tosses it off to the side and walks towards me in no rush at all.
All I can do is stare, frozen in place as he closes the distance between us. He steps up to the car window, standing just outside it.
I sit unmoving, looking at him through the glass for a good two minutes. Eventually, he pulls the door open. I continue to stare at him, my eyes darting all over his blood-soaked body. His lips are smeared with it too.
As if it's the most normal thing in the world, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and peels them off, tossing them back into the pile with his shirt.
"You want to help me or just keep staring?" he asks like we're in the middle of some mundane chore.
"Help?" I whisper.
He lifts a brow, gesturing to himself like it's obvious. "I just need you to make sure I get it all."
I turn the car off and step out, my knees wobbling beneath me.
He grabs a cloth from the back seat, "Follow me," he says, already walking toward the trees. He stops in front of a well, dropping the cloth on the edge of the basin as he grabs the pump handle. The rusted handle creaks in response, and after a few pumps, water begins to spill from the spout.
The water flows into his cupped palms. He scrubs beneath his nails with the edge of his thumb, then splashes water up to his wrists. Again. Then again.
The blood resists as he scrubs his forearms, so he grabs the rag. He works in sections, as if his body is divided up like quadrants on a map, washed clean one inch at a time. There's nothing frenetic about it. He works like the blood itself were nothing more than dust on a mirror that needs wiping clean.
"I have to vomit," I blurt out.
He glances up at me briefly before resuming his work. "Go ahead," he says, nodding toward the tree line.
I make a break for the trees and double over, emptying what's left in my stomach onto the dirt. I stay bent for a moment, my hands braced on my knees, gulping down uneven breaths. When I straighten up, my head swims. I close my eyes, dragging in deep breaths. The nausea doesn't vanish completely, but it settles into something bearable, something I can ignore if I try hard enough.
I trudge back toward the well. I cup my hands under the stream of water and bring it to my lips. I spit the water out, repeating the process until the taste of bile fades.
"Did I get it all?" Richie asks.
I shake my head, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand before holding my hand out.
He hands me the cloth. I step closer, squinting in the low lighting to see the places the blood still clings to his face, the edges of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, the stubborn streak near his temple. I press the cloth to his skin, wiping it away.
We walk back to the car in silence. I sink into the driver's seat, lean against the headrest, and close my eyes.
I hear the soft thunk of the back door opening. My eyes snap open. Richie walks back around with a set of fresh clothes in hand.
Once he's changed, he carries the pile of blood-soaked clothes a few feet away from the car. He pours something over the heap. He strikes a match, tossing it onto the pile without ceremony. Fire roars to life, and he steps back, watching it burn.
He walks back to me, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He tucks one behind his ear and lights another, the flame flickering before he inhales.
He watches me. Detached. Calm. Like he didn't just murder someone. Like he doesn't even care. The blood is gone, but it's like I can still see it. I look at his hands, the way they rest so casually by his sides, fingers curling and uncurling around the cigarette as if they're not capable of the destruction I know they are.
I don't know what to say. What could I say?
"Do you..." I swallow hard, forcing the lump in my throat down as I try again. "Do you...regret it?"
"No."
I nod even though the answer does nothing to soothe the knot in my stomach.
"Richie," I sigh, "I...I don't think this was a good idea. You shouldn't have done it. And what if someone finds out? What if the police figure it out? What if they're already looking? Oh my god, what if they're coming for us right now?"
My breathing picks up, my thoughts spiral faster than I can keep up with. "You should've just...just beat him up and left it at that. But murder? Murder, Richie? It's so wrong. You can't just kill people because you think they deserve it."
"What if—what if they come to the house? What if someone saw you? What if someone finds us?"
"I feel so guilty," I whisper, my voice breaking on the last word, "I feel so guilty, Richie. So guilty. I keep thinking about what he looked like, what he must've felt, and—and..."
I trail off, my chest heaving with the effort of trying to breathe. "Do you feel guilty? As guilty as I do?"
"Do you even hear yourself, Prissy? Do you know how insane you sound?"
His hands twitch, curling into tight fists at his sides. I shrink into the seat, pressing back as far into it as I can.
"Do you think he lied awake at night, haunted by what he did to you? No. I'm sure he slept just fine."
He paces a step away from the car, his cigarette smoldering between his fingers as the ash threatens to fall.
"Don't you dare sit there and feel pity for him. That piece of shit doesn't deserve your guilt. You hear me? You hear me?!" he shouts.
I nod.
"I loathe men like him." The word 'loathe' comes out like a growl, his teeth clenched so tightly it sounds like it hurts to say.
He leans forward, planting one hand on the open door, his body looming over mine. "Men like that. They don't feel a goddamn thing. They hurt, they destroy, and they leave us to pick up the pieces."
"And you feel bad for him?" he demands, his tone incredulous, disgusted. "You sit here and feel bad for HIM?!" he yells.
His breath hitches, and for a second, he looks away. His hands shake slightly as he runs them down his face. He scoffs bitterly, then takes a long drag of his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for a second before releasing it in a slow exhale.
He crouches down in front of me, resting his forearms on his knees. "You didn't do anything wrong," he says firmly, "Not a damn thing. You have nothing to feel guilty about."
I sniffle, my eyes dropping, but he tilts my chin up with two fingers.
"And neither do I," he adds, "When the person who did unspeakable things to you is still out there, taunting you just by existing; it festers. It grows into something you can't control anymore. It poisons everything good inside you. I won't let that happen to you, too, Prissy. You're still good."
His hand slides gently over my knee. "Every second he drew breath after what he did to you was a second too long. No one like him deserves the privilege of existing in the same world as someone like you."
I nod slowly. Even though the guilt doesn't magically disappear, his words make it feel just a little less unbearable.
"Now move over. It's freezing out here."
"Oh," I say, realizing that the cold has seeped into my bones too, making my limbs stiff.
I climb over the center console. My knees bump against the gear shift, awkward as always, and I mutter a quiet apology. He slides into the driver's seat beside me. I hand him the keys but he doesn't start the car. We just sit, staring ahead into the dark expanse of the forest.
He pulls out the cigarette from behind his ear and lights it. The smoke surrounds us and I stare at my hands, fingers tangled together in my lap.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks.
I duck my head, "It's embarrassing, Richie..."
He turns his head toward me and takes another drag of his cigarette. "Did you want the baby?"
I shake my head quickly,"No, I didn't."
I take a deep breath, "I lied to him. A lot," I admit, my voice cracking slightly. I glance up at Richie, before quickly looking away again. "He used to come up with these... plans. Fantasies, really. About how we'd run away together. How he'd leave his wife, and we'd have this perfect little family. She couldn't get pregnant, you know. And he always wanted a child of his own. So..."
"I told him whatever it took to stay," I whisper,"I did hate him. I hated both of them. They weren't the only bad ones, but they were the worst. But, at least I'd know where I'd wake up and where I'd go to sleep every night. At least I'd know what to expect." I bury my face in my hands, my body shaking as the sobs take over.
I hate how pathetic I sound. Stability, even the cruel kind, was something I clung to. And I hate myself for that, too.
"You're right Richie. Nobody cared about me. My family didn't even want to save me. They could have. I wasn't that hard to take care of."
I lower my hands to my lap, staring at them like they hold some answer. "I'm not a burden," I whimper. "I'm not. I can clean—I'm good at cleaning. I can sweep and mop, and I'll even dust without being told to. I could cook, too. If you need me to. Well, not big meals, but, um...I could make, um, grilled cheese, scrambled eggs... even spaghetti. I don't need much. Just a place to sleep and maybe a blanket that isn't too scratchy. I won't take up any space, I promise. I'll be quiet. I'll stay out of the way. You won't even know I'm there most of the time. I can help. I won't be any trouble at all. I won't complain, never. I'll do whatever you need me to, whatever you ask—"
"Prissy..."
"Grammy, please," I beg, "Please don't make me go back. I'll be good, I swear. I'll be so good. You won't have to worry about me. I can take care of myself. You don't even have to look after me. Just let me stay. Please let me stay."
"Priscilla."
My eyes dart to Richie's.
"Come back, baby." His thumbs move gently under my eyes, catching the tears. "It's okay. You're okay."
I slide my hands up to his wrists, holding onto them tightly. "I'm okay," I whisper back.
"There's nothing you could say or do—no mistake, no misstep. Nothing. Nothing. That would ever make me want to walk away from you, okay?"
"Okay."
"You know...back in school. My buddies and I used to make blood oaths. It's a promise you can't break."
He reaches between his seat and pulls out a knife. "I think it's time we made an oath of our own."
He takes my hand in his, "An agreement," he says, meeting my eyes. "No matter what happens, no matter who comes between us, no matter how hard things get...we'll always be together."
"Always?" I ask.
"Forever."
He flips the knife open, holding my hand steady as he drags the blade across my palm. I wince as the pain blooms. The sting deepens, spreading through my hand. I bite my lip, holding back the cry. The blood wells up immediately, pooling in the hollow of my palm before spilling over the edges.
Richie flips the knife in his hand and presses the blade to his own palm. The cut is deeper than mine, but he doesn't flinch—not even a twitch. He brings my trembling fingers up to his cheek, leans into my hand, and presses his lips against my palm.
He runs his fingers over the cut then guides my fingers to his own palm, tracing over the wound he's made.
Then carefully, he lifts my fingers to his lips. The blood stains them as he kisses my fingertips. He parts his lips, taking my fingers into his mouth.
He brushes his hand against my jaw before pressing his thumb to my lips. I part them without thought, the weight of his thumb settling against my tongue. The taste of him—of us—floods my senses, pools against my palate.
When he pulls his thumb away, he traces the edge of my bottom lip. Then he slides his index and middle finger into my mouth. I let him feed me this piece of himself. His fingers slide in further as if to say, Take it all. And I do. I take everything he gives me.
This is how we love.
He slides his hand into my hair, tilting my head back as he leans in. His lips demand, his tongue commands. I give in, because how could I not?
He pulls back, his lips barely hovering over mine, "Look at me," he orders. His eyes stay locked on mine. Mine stay locked on his. He kisses me again, never breaking that gaze. We barely blink, as if this moment is too important, too sacred, to break eye contact even for a second.
I can see everything in his eyes. I hope he sees everything in mine, too. I hope he sees how much I love him. Even though I know what he's capable of. Even though I know what he's done for me; the lines he's crossed, the way he's shattered himself just to protect me.
And I love him even more for it.
I hope he sees that my love isn't conditional. It's steadfast, the kind of love that survives the unspeakable. I hope he sees the way I love him even when it hurts, even when it terrifies me.
We're bound now, in ways that can't be undone. We're bound by blood and by choice, by pain and by promise. Bound in a way that stretches beyond the fragile limits of mortality. This isn't just for now—it's for always, it's for forever.