The vessel I stared down at was empty.
I prayed his soul was somewhere better.
I slumped to the floor, and I took his hand again as his arm dropped from the bed.
I held on tighter than ever, no longer afraid to hurt him, as I leaned into the frame of the bed.
His fingers didn't wrap around mine. He could no longerbring me comfort.
And, in this moment, the few memories we shared throughout our tragic lives didn't, either.
I stayed on the floor, crying until I could barely breathe. My ears took in the sound of Bushy jumping from the bed, his little feet moving closer. I didn't pull my eyes from Woodrow's hand, from my hand holding onto all I had left of him. But my other hand moved to comfort the small animal who shared my pain as he climbed onto my lap.
For a second, while lost in my despondency, I wondered if I should take Bushy with me when I end my life. Woodrow would love to have him with us. . . but he wouldn't approve of the how.
I quickly realized what an awful idea it was.
Bushy could have a good life with someone else. A full life, long and happy. He deserved that.
He meowed a very sad-sounding meow, and his wide orange eyes somehow appeared glossier as he gazed up at me. I soothed his grief, stroking through his thick fur. His purr calmed me for a moment. One single moment where I found the strength to reach for Woodrow's phone and type a message to the only other person he trusted—Ollie.
“Do you like cats?” Content with the question I saw staring at me through tear-blurred vision, I clicked send.
“I'll get you a good home, baby,” I promised as Bushy climbed up to my chest and rested on me, giving me one of those gentle head bumps.
And I waited for the reply.
The phone buzzed on the floor at my side. I tapped the screen before returning my hand to Bushy, and there it was, my answer. . . in the form of a picture message of three cats; one, black and white, one tabby, and one with no hair at all, all staring up at me, accompanied by the message that said,
“I guess you could say that.”
I nodded, smoothing Bushy once more as I whispered, “He's going to love you.”
Chapter 31
Jolie—aged eighteen
Ilimped, following Hell to the door, wrapping a dark towel around my body. The green shade drained me, matching all my fading bruises.
Steam moved into the hallway, trailing behind Hell. I watched the wet patches soaking through his slacks, causing them to stick to him as he moved.
I could hear Ville's voice, and the anxiety it brought had me clutching the towel rail until my fingertips altered in color.
“I told you to come to see me,” he huffed.
Hell didn't know that. Ville had told Woodrow.
Either way, Hell didn't care.
My eager ears took in the sound of bone colliding with skin. And the swearwords that came after it.
I peeked, my eyes carefully glancing around the doorframe.
Ville was on the floor. Hell was straddling his waist, delivering blow after blow to his giant body.
I felt each blast, as phantom aches sent pain through me. I knew Ville would have as many bruises as me tomorrow, and judging by Hell's perfect aim, they'd be in all the same places.
Ville struck a lucky punch, hitting hard and heavy into Hell's throat. The weak spot.
