“I needed another mark.” Your eyelids were heavy and your eyes dimly focused. Only two weeks ago you’d been seizing from an inexplicable fever, bone-thin, with a rattle in your chest I thought would never go away. Bleeding yourself like this was incredibly stupid.
“Let me see it.”
I removed your hand from where it was applying pressure and gently unwrapped the towel. You’d cut yourself deep enough to sever a vein, and then bound your arm with fishing line so that the skin wouldn’t be able to knit itself back together.
“It’s the only way to make it permanent,” you said. I’d wondered how you’d been able to accomplish the scarring, but this was barbaric.
“How many times did you have to cut yourself to discover this method?”
You swallowed and met my eyes directly. “A few.”
Well, what was I to do? Demand that you unbind yourself and allow your skin to heal? Berate you for the self-harm? I moistened a washcloth with warm water and cleaned up the surrounding blood so that I could see the wound properly. It was still weeping like a bloody mouth, but the blood was beginning to clot, and the vein and surrounding tissue was repairing itself. I retrieved some antiseptic and wiped around the fishing line so that bacteria wouldn’t fester. I normally wouldn’t be so fastidious but knowing you could run a fever meant I wasn’t taking any chances.
“You need to feed.” You’d lost a lot of blood. I should probably feed as well. The smell was too tempting.
“Later.” You lowered your head as though it were too heavy to keep upright. I didn’t like the pallor of your skin or the blue tinge of your lips. Despite your refusal, I went out to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of juice, and brought it back to you.
“Drink this,” I said, and you did so without argument.
“Sorry about the mess. I’ll clean it up.”
I rubbed my eyes in frustration. That was the least of my concerns. Didn’t you know that?
“You could have told me your intention, instead of barricading yourself in the bathroom.”
“I didn’t want you to know about it at all.”
“Did you not think I’d notice another scar on your arm?” I knew every inch of your body.
That made twelve now in total. How many more until you were finished? You only shrugged in response, so I assured you with, “I’d notice.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” you said glumly. “I mean, I know it wouldn’t have worked anyway.”
Did that mean you’d tried? How many times?
“I’m not sure that statement is as comforting as you think.”
“I’mnotgoing to kill myself,” you said with more certainty. “I know my life has meaning. I am the Parousia.”
“Vincent—”
“Like you said, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. Mater has plans for me. She’s rounding up the Grigori right now, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to see that Azrael is defeated.”
I swallowed my rebuttal, not wanting to fight with you about it. You were too young to shoulder this responsibility, thrust into a revolution that was not your making. And yet, we both knew it was coming. I’d make sure you’d not have to face it alone.
I motioned to the crude lines on your arm. “What’s their significance?”
“For the twelve lives that I took.” Your shoulders caved inward as you caressed the cuts that had already healed. I touched the scars gently. I would learn to love them too, for they were proof of your resilience and strength. “I’m a murderer, Henri.”
“No, you’re not. You were a prisoner, Vincent. Whatever you did in there, you did to survive. Like soldiers do in war.”
“They were innocent,” you said, a plea.
“I know, my darling. But so were you.”
I grabbed your hand and placed it flat against my frantic heart, but I needed you closer still, so I dragged you onto my lap and wrapped my arms around you as best I could. How I wished I could absolve you of your guilt and shame, but it wasn’t my forgiveness you were seeking.
It never was.
