Glaring at the corpse on the floor, I realise I couldn’t care less about Jimmy Storm’s death. But I feel Jimmy’s betrayal seeping through Bronson and into my soul, feel his broken heart as though it were my own, tearing down the middle, just like it did at the park.
This time we are together.
I tighten my hold, clutching at the seventeen-year-old boy who wanted to be something else, who wanted to be a stay-at-home dad, a good person, who wanted to bebetter.
Better than this!
“Shh.” I burst at the seams with sorrow, begging to go back in time, to have another chance at the park, where I didn’t leave, where I saved him from this world.
Where I was his distraction.
From all of this horror.
I try to soothe him with my hand, with a gentle voice, but my body shakes, and he’s far too overwhelmed with torment to hear me.
His tears fall down, mingling with mine, his breath and moans and growls all mix, and it’s the worse sound in the world. Yet, he’s letting me hold him, letting himself be vulnerable with me.
“Bron,” Xander mutters from over my shoulder, and Bronson’s arms tighten around me, as though he can’t bear being seen. Wanting to disappear into my arms, he shuffles in closer. He’s so much bigger than me, but I try to make him feel secure.
I wish I could hide him.
In my peripherals, I see my medical bag being placed beside me.
“Leave them,” Luca orders, but I don’t look up. Hearing the door shut, I cup Bronson’s cheeks, searching and scrutinising the damage to his beautiful face. He sobs into my palms, unable to hold himself together.
Slowly, he opens bloodshot eyes, swollen and utterly defeated. He clenches his jaw, trying to rein in the fitful emotions. I catch his attention, anchoring him to me.
Then he stops crying.
He breathes out hard.
His eyes tormented pits of turquoise.
I wince at the deep gash by his brow, the open split in his lower lip. I lower my gaze, rolling over a thin slice by his abdomen. At the sight of a black handle, swaying from his hip, the blade itself inside him, I break.
“Oh,God.” I burst into tears, covering my mouth and eyes. He leans forwards and kisses my hands, so I drop them to desperately accept his lips on mine. “I love you.”
“Don’t cry, baby.”
I nod, forcing myself to focus, to not get dragged under with my emotions. Leaning back, I inspect the wound. The blade shouldn’t have hit anything vital, but it could have clipped his Iliac artery. If so, when we remove the handle, it’ll need immediate work. A theatre. More than I can offer here. Despair wraps around me, suffocating me, making it hard to breathe.
I ignore it.
This time, I can be what he needs. I push on the skin, watching the flow of the blood that leaks out. Noting the angle of the handle, I’m almost certain the blade is about an inch away from the primary artery.
Steeling his body, he whispers. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I frown up at him. “Where else would I be?”
His hand moves to my face, cradling my cheek fondly, and the look in his eyes is full of horror and fear but also undying affection. A sad affection that begs for something, pleading to be healed. “Shoshanna.You going to fix me, baby? You going to save me again?”
“You saved me first,” I say on a whimper, reaching into my black case, rummaging through it until I find what I need: gloves, fentanyl, gauze, sutures, scissors, bandages. Passing him the fentanyl, I say, “Suck on this.”
He takes the tube, actually doing as he’s told for once. From here, I take a big breath in, pull my gloves on, and get to work. Clenching my jaw, I draw the blade from his flesh. When blood spills from the channel, slow and controllable, I relax on an exhale. “Press here.” I use Bronson’s palm to apply pressure to the site, leaving small gaps where I can suture. Making my way up the wound, inch by inch, I wince with vicarious pain even though he barely flinches.
After I’ve finished with it, I reach into my bag, ready to clean and care for every scratch, big and small, on his beautiful body. Wishing I could do the same for the ones in his mind and heart. He reaches for me, his large muscular arm covered in tattoos, still splattered with blood.
A gruesome but raw vision.