I light a cigarette and inhale deeply. The smoke burns my lungs, and I take another drag. And another. And another. It suppresses the tears or whatever burns my eyes, and instead clenches my jaw, teeth grinding—a man’s reflex not to cry.
When the cigarette is gone, I light another, then take out the bottle of rum, twist off the cap with my thumb, and take a gulp straight from the bottle.
I take one of the handmade guns from a crate and stare at it. I want to shoot it. I’ve done it many times. I want to imagine Crone’s face as I point the gun at it.
Fuuuuuuck!
I only came to this island, to the town up north, alone, because Qi Shan, who I still talked to occasionally, got into my head about Crone’s big spring break bash, and that I should teach the fucker a lesson and sabotage the resort. Qi Shan had a beef with Crone at that time. But guess what?
I wanted to sneak into one of Crone’s parties and beat the fucking hell out of him or drown him. I didn’t have a plan. I wanted revenge. I took that long-ass trip to get here, full of quiet rage and spite. Didn’t accomplish a fucking thing. Lost my family behind. Found Qi Shan rubbing shoulders with Crone again. Yeah, that fucking traitor.
And then the news about the Change hit. Bombings. Cities destroyed. Borders closed. Any means of transportation stopped.
I feel like because of Crone, I lost everything. I could’ve been with my father and sister. Dead like them. But it doesn’t matter. Because I would be rid of this fucking guilt that’s eating me up.
And nowher.
Four years.
And all these years she thought I was a monster.
Fuck you, Callie!
I sit in the chair and close my eyes.
How stupid was I?
I thought if we talked, there would be closure.
Healing.
I hate that fucking word.
First, the doctors after the fire used it over and over again. Burns over fifty percent of your body come with a lot of motherfucking healing.
Then there was the shrink. And it was healing again but with a different flavor.
Then the tattooist. Because tattooing over scars is prone to infection. And, oh, do I know the cost of it.
I heard that word so often in my life back then that it made me mad, made me go to the gym and lash out at the punching bags, bruising my knuckles to a pulp so I had to skip the gym until my knuckles…healed.
Yeah.
Fuck!
I exhale and sit with my eyes closed for the longest time. And just when I think I am finally calm, there is a knock at the door.
I don’t answer, but the door opens anyway.
And here she is.
Miss Flower.
Un-fucking-believable.
I want her to disappear, and I want to hear her talk. I want to throw her out, and I want to fuck her madly and split her in half with my cock so that she knows how it feels the next morning after being fucked.
“Hey, Kai.” Her voice is low and seductive but out of place.