“You’ve lost too much blood already,” I say. “What happens when you pass out and don’t wake up?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not doing it,” I say. The axe feels impossibly heavy. “I can’t hurt you like that.”
He closes his eyes. Barely a second passes when he opens them again, looking frantic. “Please,” he begs. “We’re running out of time.”
“Fine.” I flip the axe around, offering him the handle. “Then cut off my hand.”
His arms stay by his sides.
“Eden,” he says, his voice measured. “I made a promise never to lay a hand on a girl again. I’m not doing it.”
Hedidcut me with the scalpel in the first trial. I almost point it out, but I realize how hard it must have been for him to do. He only did it because he thought he had to, to save my life. But doing this would save both of our lives.
“Do you really think cutting off your finger would be easy for me?” I ask because somehow, I doubt he’ll believe me if I tell him lopping off my hand is only a small step up from pricking me with the point of a scalpel.
He shakes his head, eyes wide and hollow. I recognize the absent look on his face. I saw it the night I stared myself down in the mirror, right before I dug the razor blade deep into my wrist. And died.
I’m not worth preserving. I deserve whatever happens to me.
It stirs something angry in me, a need to rage against every injustice that’s ever made him feel this way. I can’t change his mind about himself in seven minutes, but there’s not a fucking chance I’m cutting off his finger.
“Aim for the pinky,” he says. “I never use it for anything, anyway.”
I heft the axe over my head, gritting my teeth through the scorching pain. His inked hand blurs through the tears pooling in my eyes.
I swing the blade down a good two feet from his hand. The impact sends vibrations up through my arms, and chips of tile scatter across the floor.
“Eden.”
“Guess I missed.” I give him the handle. “Your turn.”
His fingers tremble as they close awkwardly around the handle. He has to use both hands, and his entire face contorts with the effort of gripping the wood. Bracing the head on the ground to steady himself, he pushes himself onto his feet. He stumbles, catching his balance on the wall.
“You still need to put your hand down,” he says quietly, nodding toward the floor.
I crouch down and spread my left hand flat on the tiles.
“Ready?” He pushes himself off the wall, using the axe to balance.
I nod.
Nico lifts the axe. It slips from his grasp and crashes to the floor.
His jaw clenches, and through sheer force of will, he manages to grip the handle again. The muscles in his arms shake with the effort, every tendon standing out in sharp relief, but he gets the axe up and raises it over his head. He looks like a dark angel silhouetted against the glow of the distant lightbulb.
He brings it down.
I jerk my hand into the path of the descending blade. Nico realizes what I’m doing too late. Physics and momentum have already decided, and the blade goes through my hand with a crunch I hear more than feel.
I unplug from my surroundings. I can feel the world still there, still making noise, but my ears are ringing, and it’s like someone hit mute on all my nerve endings and I’m watching this happen to someone else’s hand. Watching some other girl’s fingers separate from her palm in one clean stroke.
My vision pulls away, then snaps back into focus: my left hand is cut in half. All four fingers and the tip of my thumb are gone. Blood squirts from the cuts in steady pulses, already pooling on the floor.
Somewhere in the distance, I can hear Nico shouting my name, but the pain hasn’t caught up with me yet. I curl over my hand because it feels like what I should do, and the smell of blood fills my nostrils, copper and salt and something warm.
A guttural scream rips from my throat.
