Torture to Her Soul
Page 24
Standing on the curb, I watch as the limo pulls away, disappearing down the street. Shaking my head, I turn to the house, staggering that direction.
The first thing I see when I step inside, the first thing my eyes are drawn to, are the smears of dried blood all over the floor around my bare feet. I glare at the streaks of dark red, sighing exasperatedly, as Karissa steps into the foyer in front of me.
I close my eyes.
Deep breaths.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I can't clean it up now.
I'll do it later.
Don't worry about it.
When I reopen my eyes, Karissa's right in front of me. She reaches around where I stand, securing the locks on the door, as I run my hands down my face.
It's probably senseless.
I'm not sure if Carmela knows where I live. It's not listed on my license, but if she knows, if she finds out, she now has a key to the place. I know she's smart, but she's also proven to be fearless, and that can be a deadly combination.
As if I weren't paranoid enough before…
Karissa helps me upstairs the best she can. I collapse on the bed on my back, legs hanging off the edge, as my eyes drift closed right away. I don't want to sleep, I shouldn't risk it, but I can't help it. She says something to me, her voice gentle, her fingers even gentler as they run through my chaotic hair, but I don't comprehend it.
The pull is too strong to fight.
Appear as you may wish to be.
I sleep deeply, long hours lost in the abyss, time slipping away, before I finally regain consciousness. I lay in the darkness and stare up at the ceiling as I blink rapidly, trying to come back around.
I'm alone in the room.
My head is pounding and my body feels like it's on fire. I don't dare move a muscle yet, eyes trailing the ceiling fan as it spins around and around, blowing a hint of cool air on my sweaty face.
I'm weak—so fucking weak it hurts to blink, taking every ounce of energy I have left to keep breathing. It would be too easy for someone to end my life today. I'm vulnerable, and susceptible, still alive for the moment but feeling like I've already got one foot in the grave.
I've felt that way for a long time, actually.
I wonder when the other foot will finally join it.
I'm still tired, but I need to stay awake, so I close my eyes to steel myself, gritting my teeth as I force myself out of the bed. Time waits for no man. The world won't just roll over and take it. I have to face it head on, pick myself up and trudge forward as long as I can.
I can't be weak.
I have to be strong.
My legs feel heavy but my footsteps are light, slow and measured, as I make my way downstairs. I head for the kitchen, the light on in that room, my mouth as dry as sand, my throat raw like scratched with sandpaper. Stepping in the doorway, I pause when I see Karissa standing at the counter beside the sink, haphazardly chopping some vegetables and throwing them in a pot on the stove.
She struggles with the knife as she massacres a carrot, the sections uneven, pieces flying all around. Shaking my head, I stroll into the kitchen, watching her with a morbid sort of amusement. "Nobody ever taught you how to use a knife?"
My voice seems magnified by the silence. Karissa jumps, the sound of it catching her off guard. The knife slips as she brings it down on the carrot, slicing right into her pointer finger. Cursing, she instantly lets go of the knife and it clatters to the floor.
"Shit, shit, shit!" she chants as she hops around. "Jesus, Naz! You scared me!"
I say nothing, pausing beside her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand toward me to see the cut. Before I can get a good look, she yanks away, plunging the wounded finger into her mouth, wrapping her lips around it with a scowl on her face.
Nausea swims through me. I can almost taste the blood myself. Disgusting.
I brush by her to open up the drawer closest to the refrigerator. It's full of this and that, a little bit of everything, one of the only drawers in the kitchen that doesn't sit empty. I search around inside, pulling out a small first-aide kit. I set it on the counter and pop it open, grabbing a Band-Aid.
I take her hand again, pulling her finger out from between her lips. I stare at it for a moment as a bead of blood surfaces from the small wound. The cut isn't too deep, she doesn't need stitches, but it obviously stings by the look on her face.
For years I sought this blood—hunted it down so I could drain it, to stop the heart that beats it, to rid the world of that disgraceful bloodline. I never imagined one tiny drop would have such an affect, how her pain, no matter how trivial, would inflict that same sort of ache in me.
Karissa doesn't fight me, watching silently as I open the bandage. "You know, there should be some rule that says only one of us is allowed to bleed per day."
"It's after midnight," she whispers. "You haven't bled yet today."
Yet.
Laughing dryly, I wrap the bandage around her finger, covering the wound. Bringing her finger to my lips, I lightly kiss it before letting go of her hand. "It's kind of late to be cooking."
"Your, uh... that doctor stopped by and he dropped off some prescriptions, and gave some instructions... you know, rest and drink fluids and stuff like that. He said you should try to eat something but that you probably couldn't handle much yet, so I just thought..."
She trails off, still not answering my question. "You thought?"
"I thought I'd make you some broth."
"Broth?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess it's more like soup since it's got chicken and carrots and celery and—" Her voice stumbles as she turns away from me to stir whatever's in the pot. She cuts her eyes my way after a second and frowns at my expression. "It's just that stuff, and some water and seasonings. That's it. Nothing else."
The first thing I see when I step inside, the first thing my eyes are drawn to, are the smears of dried blood all over the floor around my bare feet. I glare at the streaks of dark red, sighing exasperatedly, as Karissa steps into the foyer in front of me.
I close my eyes.
Deep breaths.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I can't clean it up now.
I'll do it later.
Don't worry about it.
When I reopen my eyes, Karissa's right in front of me. She reaches around where I stand, securing the locks on the door, as I run my hands down my face.
It's probably senseless.
I'm not sure if Carmela knows where I live. It's not listed on my license, but if she knows, if she finds out, she now has a key to the place. I know she's smart, but she's also proven to be fearless, and that can be a deadly combination.
As if I weren't paranoid enough before…
Karissa helps me upstairs the best she can. I collapse on the bed on my back, legs hanging off the edge, as my eyes drift closed right away. I don't want to sleep, I shouldn't risk it, but I can't help it. She says something to me, her voice gentle, her fingers even gentler as they run through my chaotic hair, but I don't comprehend it.
The pull is too strong to fight.
Appear as you may wish to be.
I sleep deeply, long hours lost in the abyss, time slipping away, before I finally regain consciousness. I lay in the darkness and stare up at the ceiling as I blink rapidly, trying to come back around.
I'm alone in the room.
My head is pounding and my body feels like it's on fire. I don't dare move a muscle yet, eyes trailing the ceiling fan as it spins around and around, blowing a hint of cool air on my sweaty face.
I'm weak—so fucking weak it hurts to blink, taking every ounce of energy I have left to keep breathing. It would be too easy for someone to end my life today. I'm vulnerable, and susceptible, still alive for the moment but feeling like I've already got one foot in the grave.
I've felt that way for a long time, actually.
I wonder when the other foot will finally join it.
I'm still tired, but I need to stay awake, so I close my eyes to steel myself, gritting my teeth as I force myself out of the bed. Time waits for no man. The world won't just roll over and take it. I have to face it head on, pick myself up and trudge forward as long as I can.
I can't be weak.
I have to be strong.
My legs feel heavy but my footsteps are light, slow and measured, as I make my way downstairs. I head for the kitchen, the light on in that room, my mouth as dry as sand, my throat raw like scratched with sandpaper. Stepping in the doorway, I pause when I see Karissa standing at the counter beside the sink, haphazardly chopping some vegetables and throwing them in a pot on the stove.
She struggles with the knife as she massacres a carrot, the sections uneven, pieces flying all around. Shaking my head, I stroll into the kitchen, watching her with a morbid sort of amusement. "Nobody ever taught you how to use a knife?"
My voice seems magnified by the silence. Karissa jumps, the sound of it catching her off guard. The knife slips as she brings it down on the carrot, slicing right into her pointer finger. Cursing, she instantly lets go of the knife and it clatters to the floor.
"Shit, shit, shit!" she chants as she hops around. "Jesus, Naz! You scared me!"
I say nothing, pausing beside her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand toward me to see the cut. Before I can get a good look, she yanks away, plunging the wounded finger into her mouth, wrapping her lips around it with a scowl on her face.
Nausea swims through me. I can almost taste the blood myself. Disgusting.
I brush by her to open up the drawer closest to the refrigerator. It's full of this and that, a little bit of everything, one of the only drawers in the kitchen that doesn't sit empty. I search around inside, pulling out a small first-aide kit. I set it on the counter and pop it open, grabbing a Band-Aid.
I take her hand again, pulling her finger out from between her lips. I stare at it for a moment as a bead of blood surfaces from the small wound. The cut isn't too deep, she doesn't need stitches, but it obviously stings by the look on her face.
For years I sought this blood—hunted it down so I could drain it, to stop the heart that beats it, to rid the world of that disgraceful bloodline. I never imagined one tiny drop would have such an affect, how her pain, no matter how trivial, would inflict that same sort of ache in me.
Karissa doesn't fight me, watching silently as I open the bandage. "You know, there should be some rule that says only one of us is allowed to bleed per day."
"It's after midnight," she whispers. "You haven't bled yet today."
Yet.
Laughing dryly, I wrap the bandage around her finger, covering the wound. Bringing her finger to my lips, I lightly kiss it before letting go of her hand. "It's kind of late to be cooking."
"Your, uh... that doctor stopped by and he dropped off some prescriptions, and gave some instructions... you know, rest and drink fluids and stuff like that. He said you should try to eat something but that you probably couldn't handle much yet, so I just thought..."
She trails off, still not answering my question. "You thought?"
"I thought I'd make you some broth."
"Broth?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess it's more like soup since it's got chicken and carrots and celery and—" Her voice stumbles as she turns away from me to stir whatever's in the pot. She cuts her eyes my way after a second and frowns at my expression. "It's just that stuff, and some water and seasonings. That's it. Nothing else."
