1
Godric
I open my eyes, and the immediate throb in my temples causes me to wince. My vision is blurry and out of focus as I look around the room. I’m on the floor. Why? I blink a few times. My mouth feels like sandpaper. What happened? Using all my strength, I push myself over onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. A fan rocks back and forth, teetering, on the verge of falling.
My living room comes into view. The leather sofa. The coffee table. The TV’s off. Sweat drips off my forehead, my body slick from the stifling temperature in the room. Why is it so hot in here? Rubbing the sweat off my face, my fingers slip too easily. I bring my hand away. Blood. There’s so much blood.
My eyes widen. I don’t feel any pain. It’s not my blood. Whose is it? My heart drums in my chest. I look around the room in search for my girlfriend.
“Bella!” My voice shakes, my eyes snapping to the front door then the couch. Out the corner of my eye, limp pale legs come into view. “Bella! Bella!” Her name trembles from my lips as I crawl over to her, my heart beating in my chest so hard, I can barely breathe.
Her eyes are open but lack color and life. Her face, usually glowing with a year-round tan, is pale and ashen. Taking her head into my lap, I rest a palm on her cold cheek. Blood drips onto my fingers, and I search for the source.
Her head.
Her right eye squints awkwardly. A clean outline of a hand stains her white tank top. There’s blood everywhere.
An ache slices through my skull, forcing me to close my eyes. An instant flashback of an upset Bella strings into my memory. She was so angry about something. What? Wincing, I press my palm to my temple to ease the throb. I remember us fighting. That’s nothing new. Did it get out of hand this time? I slowly lower my hand over her body, hovering it just above the crimson evidence left behind. The size of the hand matches mine. My mouth drops, eyes fluttering with disbelief as it begins to all come together. She was fighting me…
Shock runs through my limbs. I fall back on my ass, scurrying away from her. Her head lolls to the floor with a thud. My back hits the entertainment center, and the TV rocks before settling back.
Her fighting for her life would explain why I’m starting to feel like I got the shit beat out of me. My fucking head is killing me. She’s always been a fighter. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to drag her out of a bar or store before she got the cops called on her.
I stare at her torn scalp, blood seeping into the carpet beneath her. Something dark snaps inside me, causing a shiver to crawl down my spine. We’ve been fighting a lot lately, but I’ve never put my hands on her. I must have blacked out. Things went too far this time. A noise catches my attention, and I stiffen, my head whipping toward the sound. Our dog is hiding behind the couch, his ears back, head bowed. He’s scared.
“C-Come here, Phil.” I pat the floor next to me, and he hurries over, slobbering and snorting like the bulldog he is.
“What happened? Did I do this?” I ask, scratching behind his ears. His fur has blood on it. I try to remember what happened before I woke up on the floor. Last I knew, we were watching a UFC fight and having some drinks. Anger creeps into my chest. I vaguely remember getting mad at her about something. Really fucking mad. But why?
Did I black out and kill my own girlfriend?
Sirens have the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.
I look to the hallway, thinking about running, but what’s the use? My handprints are all over her.
A loud knock strikes the front door. I don’t move. Someone must have heard the commotion and called the cops. They aren’t going to believe me when I say I don’t remember doing this—that I wouldn’t do such a thing. I am capable of this. I’ve hurt many people in my life. My family is a motorcycle club filled with outlaws for fuck’s sake.
“Police Department!” A female voice muffled by the trailer door. I side-eye the hall again and get to my feet, running toward it with Phil’s fat ass in my arms. I rush to the back door and open it, finding a male cop shining a flashlight right at me. His eyes narrow in on me, the beam of the flashlight illuminating the blood on my shirt.
“You stay right there!” he shouts, his free hand reaching for his gun.