I press my legs together to stop the blood, my entire body heatless and tight.I can’t answer.I can’t say it.Because if I tell him more, he’ll walk out and come back with more blood on his hands.
And it’ll be my fault.
He watches me struggle, sees the fear, the hesitation.Then he realizes he’s losing control.
“Clean yourself.”He grabs a cloth and a bucket of water, holding it out without looking at me.“I can’t… I can’t help you with that.It’s not proper.”
His arm shakes.
I take the supplies.
He steps into the doorway with his back turned, arms crossed so hard his shoulders bunch like boulders.
I know every twitch in his neck, every shift in his legs, every tiny flinch that means he’s barely keeping himself from breaking things.
Quickly, I wash myself with the cold water, wiping away the sticky blood that keeps appearing between my legs.It hurts.Not the washing.The looking.The understanding of it.
When I finish, he leads me back to the main room and pulls out a pencil and paper.
“Write down everything you know about him.”He slams them onto the desk.“Write his name.His parents’ names.His address.What he looks like.His tattoos.His car.Where he works.Where he hangs out.Everything.”
Shame slithers up my throat.Shame for letting this happen.Shame because I know what Jag will do.Shame because I put that hurt look in his eyes.
I pick up the pencil with trembling fingers and write what he asks.
When I’m done, he scans the paper and shoves it into his pocket.
“I’ll get what you need for your period.”His tone is flat.Not calm.Not angry.Worse than both.
I don’t want him to leave.Not like this.I don’t want him to do this terrible thing for me, even though, deep down, I don’t feel guilty about this particular death.
I don’t want Jag to feel guilty about it, either.
Telling him was the right thing.The only thing.
When he grips the doorknob, the words tumble out of me.
“I told him no.”
Jag goes still.
I nod toward the paper in his pocket.“I said no over and over, and he wouldn’t stop.”
The change in him is instant.
And horrifying
And familiar.
His face warps.The tendons in his neck stand out like ropes.His nostrils go wide.His eyes go bright.His shoulder veins rise.His fists open and close, and his entire body expands with rage.Monstrous, hellborn rage.
I brace myself.
But he shoves it down.All of it.He forces his lungs back under control, unclenches his hands, and drags that rage inward like he’s swallowing fire.
“Did he do your eye?”he rasps.
“No.I fought with a girl.I told you.Thatwas nothing.”
