Page 43 of Kaine

Sucking him. Making him harder. Making him come.

I force myself to look away, to move away.

But I know I can’t, not until I look at one more thing. This may be my only chance.

I drag my eyes up his body and to his face. His eyes are closed, his hands still in his hair. And then he turns to face the water spray, and for the first time the left side of his face is completely exposed to me.

And I see it.

The mangled and scarred remains of a horrific accident. The left side of his face, an expanse of wrinkled flesh and the bumps and lines of skin grown back to heal over wounds. It starts at the edge of his left eye and travels all the way down his cheek and halfway down his neck. Oh, Kaine, what happened to you?

I let out a small gasp and cover my mouth a fraction too late.

His eyes open and he sees me staring at him. He roars like a wounded animal and immediately he turns away from me, pressing a button somewhere inside the shower and the bathroom light shuts off, casting the room in darkness.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?? GO!!!!” He roars again and his voice echoes and bounces back to me against all four walls of the bathroom.

I can’t move. My feet won’t move.

“Just fucking get out! GO!!” he yells.

I try to open my mouth to explain, but I can’t.

“Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone?!”

I reach forward, an empty gesture; he can’t see me in the dark. I just want to tell him, tell him it’s ok. But all that comes out is a strangled, “Kaine...”

“Fucking hell! Didn’t you hear me?! JUST GET OUT OF MY FUCKING LIFE!!” he yells again and the thundering of his voice in the dark rattles me to my very core. And this time, I can’t move fast enough.

I run out into the living room, pulling on my clean clothes, almost falling over as I hop from one foot to the other, cramming my things into the work bag Harriet brought for me.

I don’t know what’s happening, just that I need to get out of here.

I race to the elevator, pushing on the button over and over and over. It dings as it arrives and I run into it, finding the button for the ground floor and holding my finger on it, willing it to close as fast as possible.

The ride to the bottom floor feels like I’m in a time warp, and it’s moving second by agonizing second through sludge. When it finally arrives with a gentle jerk, my fingers dig into the doors, clawing at them to open faster.

I run out into the street, looking around, suddenly not knowing where I am. The doorman comes up to me, asking if I need assistance.

And then there’s a sudden sharp pain. And I feel a dampness on my side. I press my hand to my stomach and pull it away. We both look down; my palm is covered in blood.

“I think... I think I need to go to the hospital.”

“Yes, ma’am, right away,” he says, hailing a cab.

I try to slow my breathing, as if heaving will push my organs out of the stomach wound. The doorman helps me into the taxi, and closes the door behind me.

“To the nearest hospital, please, as fast as you can.”