Craving Resurrection
Page 118
“I love ye, too, lass,” I whispered past the lump forming in my throat.
I’d felt the urge to cry more times in the past six hours than I had in twenty years.
I understood that everyone made choices that they later regretted, some large and some small. It was human to get it wrong, to not see the larger picture until it was too late. But I didn’t know how to reconcile that with the decisions I’d made.
“I’m not sleeping in those sheets,” Amy told me quietly after everyone was gone. “They smell like some teeny-bopper store at the mall.”
My shoulders slumped as I remembered the scene she’d walked into when she first got there. Christ, I couldn’t get anything right.
“I didn’t fuck her,” I replied, making Amy flinch.
“It is what it is, right?” she sighed, looking around the room. “But if it happens—”
“Of course it won’t—”
“I’ll leave you, Patrick.” She said solemnly. “I can’t take any more. I can’t.”
I stepped forward and jerked the sheets and blankets off the bed, rolling them into a ball and tossing them in the hallway. I’d make a prospect wash them in the morning… or burn them.
“I don’t want anyone but ye,” I told her, pulling two of the quilts Mum had made me out of a chest against the wall and laying them flat on the bed. I paused, suddenly ashamed that I didn’t have somewhere nicer for her to sleep. “Honest to God, Amy? I don’t see anyone but ye.”
She nodded and slipped her skirt down her hips, making my breath catch in my throat. Her legs were long and strong, and she was wearing the same little shorts that she’d had on the last time I’d seen her.
“I’m sorry I don’t have somewhere better for ye to sleep,” I murmured, clenching my jaw as she climbed in between the quilts. “I’ll find a place—”
“This is fine, baby,” she replied, relaxing into the bed.
Baby.
My chest grew so tight as she watched me that I couldn’t breathe. She was in my bed. I didn’t deserve for her to even glance in my direction on the street, and there she was, in my bed.
“Go clean up, Patrick,” she said gently as I stood there staring. “You’ve got blood all over you.”
“Aye,” I mumbled, my gaze searching the room blankly.
“Bathroom,” she reminded me. “Next time, I’ll help you… this time you can do it on your own.”
I stumbled into the bathroom, and finally gave into the nausea that refused to calm. I’d been swallowing repeatedly for what felt like hours, able to control my body by refusing to acknowledge the churning in my gut. I could no longer do so.
I heaved and heaved until nothing was left, and then I heaved some more, tears rolling down my cheeks.
I’d been so confident when I’d left Ireland, so unbelievably arrogant in my assumption that my sins wouldn’t catch up to us. I’d assumed that we’d be safe, never imagining that in the few days between our departures, Amy would be the one paying for my mistakes… I hated myself for that.
The details of Amy’s attack and the memory of Malcolm’s large frame in comparison to her small one made me livid, and before I was even done vomiting, I was tearing apart the room.
My fist went through the mirror and shattered the shower door.
I kicked through the flimsy cupboard doors between the sink.
I ripped the seat off the toilet and threw it through the small window.
“Poet!” Slider yelled through the door, breaking me out of my haze. “You stupid son of a bitch, you’re already busted all to hell. You’re gonna die of a heart attack if you don’t calm your shit, ya old fuck!”
My chest was heaving as I threw open the door, and Slider’s eyes widened as he got a good look at the destruction I’d caused. “Needed to remodel, anyway,” he said calmly, reaching out to grab my arm and lead me toward his room. “You can use our shower. Vera’s out cold, she won’t even notice ya.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I confessed, looking at the ground as we reached the door to their room.
“Ya get a handle on your shit, and ya take care of your woman, ya stupid mick,” he replied sternly. “This ain’t about you. This is about Amy. So you make sure she’s got what she needs. The rest will sort itself out.”
“How do I know what she needs, man? I fucked up so badly, I t’ink—”
“Stop thinkin’, you’re actin’ like an asshole.” He shook his head and leaned against the wall. “Ya remember when Farrah’s ma came and took her away from us?”
“Dat’s not—”
“It sure as shit is not the fuckin’ same, you’re right about that.” He scratched his jaw and looked away from me. “My woman went through a different type of pain, but pain all the same. Poppin’ pills and drinkin’ until I’d find her passed out in the hallway… like she’d just hit her limit and hit the floor. Lockin’ herself in her room until I had to break the door down with a fuckin’ axe so she didn’t overdose in there alone. Fuck, I didn’t know what to do. I finally realized, though, they don’t need ya to do anything, man.”
“I hadn’t known,” I mumbled, shaking my head. “Moira never said shite about Malcolm, not one fuckin’ word. All dese years and I hadn’t known dat he’d done dat to Amy because of me. He fuckin’ tortured her, Charlie.”
I’d felt the urge to cry more times in the past six hours than I had in twenty years.
I understood that everyone made choices that they later regretted, some large and some small. It was human to get it wrong, to not see the larger picture until it was too late. But I didn’t know how to reconcile that with the decisions I’d made.
“I’m not sleeping in those sheets,” Amy told me quietly after everyone was gone. “They smell like some teeny-bopper store at the mall.”
My shoulders slumped as I remembered the scene she’d walked into when she first got there. Christ, I couldn’t get anything right.
“I didn’t fuck her,” I replied, making Amy flinch.
“It is what it is, right?” she sighed, looking around the room. “But if it happens—”
“Of course it won’t—”
“I’ll leave you, Patrick.” She said solemnly. “I can’t take any more. I can’t.”
I stepped forward and jerked the sheets and blankets off the bed, rolling them into a ball and tossing them in the hallway. I’d make a prospect wash them in the morning… or burn them.
“I don’t want anyone but ye,” I told her, pulling two of the quilts Mum had made me out of a chest against the wall and laying them flat on the bed. I paused, suddenly ashamed that I didn’t have somewhere nicer for her to sleep. “Honest to God, Amy? I don’t see anyone but ye.”
She nodded and slipped her skirt down her hips, making my breath catch in my throat. Her legs were long and strong, and she was wearing the same little shorts that she’d had on the last time I’d seen her.
“I’m sorry I don’t have somewhere better for ye to sleep,” I murmured, clenching my jaw as she climbed in between the quilts. “I’ll find a place—”
“This is fine, baby,” she replied, relaxing into the bed.
Baby.
My chest grew so tight as she watched me that I couldn’t breathe. She was in my bed. I didn’t deserve for her to even glance in my direction on the street, and there she was, in my bed.
“Go clean up, Patrick,” she said gently as I stood there staring. “You’ve got blood all over you.”
“Aye,” I mumbled, my gaze searching the room blankly.
“Bathroom,” she reminded me. “Next time, I’ll help you… this time you can do it on your own.”
I stumbled into the bathroom, and finally gave into the nausea that refused to calm. I’d been swallowing repeatedly for what felt like hours, able to control my body by refusing to acknowledge the churning in my gut. I could no longer do so.
I heaved and heaved until nothing was left, and then I heaved some more, tears rolling down my cheeks.
I’d been so confident when I’d left Ireland, so unbelievably arrogant in my assumption that my sins wouldn’t catch up to us. I’d assumed that we’d be safe, never imagining that in the few days between our departures, Amy would be the one paying for my mistakes… I hated myself for that.
The details of Amy’s attack and the memory of Malcolm’s large frame in comparison to her small one made me livid, and before I was even done vomiting, I was tearing apart the room.
My fist went through the mirror and shattered the shower door.
I kicked through the flimsy cupboard doors between the sink.
I ripped the seat off the toilet and threw it through the small window.
“Poet!” Slider yelled through the door, breaking me out of my haze. “You stupid son of a bitch, you’re already busted all to hell. You’re gonna die of a heart attack if you don’t calm your shit, ya old fuck!”
My chest was heaving as I threw open the door, and Slider’s eyes widened as he got a good look at the destruction I’d caused. “Needed to remodel, anyway,” he said calmly, reaching out to grab my arm and lead me toward his room. “You can use our shower. Vera’s out cold, she won’t even notice ya.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I confessed, looking at the ground as we reached the door to their room.
“Ya get a handle on your shit, and ya take care of your woman, ya stupid mick,” he replied sternly. “This ain’t about you. This is about Amy. So you make sure she’s got what she needs. The rest will sort itself out.”
“How do I know what she needs, man? I fucked up so badly, I t’ink—”
“Stop thinkin’, you’re actin’ like an asshole.” He shook his head and leaned against the wall. “Ya remember when Farrah’s ma came and took her away from us?”
“Dat’s not—”
“It sure as shit is not the fuckin’ same, you’re right about that.” He scratched his jaw and looked away from me. “My woman went through a different type of pain, but pain all the same. Poppin’ pills and drinkin’ until I’d find her passed out in the hallway… like she’d just hit her limit and hit the floor. Lockin’ herself in her room until I had to break the door down with a fuckin’ axe so she didn’t overdose in there alone. Fuck, I didn’t know what to do. I finally realized, though, they don’t need ya to do anything, man.”
“I hadn’t known,” I mumbled, shaking my head. “Moira never said shite about Malcolm, not one fuckin’ word. All dese years and I hadn’t known dat he’d done dat to Amy because of me. He fuckin’ tortured her, Charlie.”
