Page 33 of Grace

My body tensed under his. An icy chill ran through me, then… fire engulfed me.

Myriad tiny lights danced before my eyes as pain exploded inside me like fireworks. The inside of my mouth and my skin burned, my veins ablaze with dark fire.

My heart raced, slamming against my ribcage as hot tears streamed down my face. I was screaming. Thick, dark, metallic-tasting blood filled my mouth. Blood formed foaming bubbles on my lips, popped and ran down my chin.

He lifted the pliers with my bloody tooth, without remorse or pity.

My jaw hurt like hell.

I cried, choking on my blood, coughing it up. All my senses were dominated by blood, its rich, metallic taste filling my mouth.

Chase

I stepped out of Grace’s room and threw the bloody pliers across the room. Anger was too small a word for what filled my body and mind. My blood boiled, and I almost exploded with rage. Her crying… I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Grace’s scent was still in my nose. It spread through my senses and calmed my racing heart.

Grace…

I’m sorry.

Summer 2009

Grace

“Grace! Grace!”

“Ahm… what?”

“Were you listening?”

“Yup.” No.

“What did I just say?” Cyrus looks deep into my eyes.

He takes a sip of his coffee, silently waiting for my answer. The air thickens around me, and hot shame floods my body.

“I’m sorry, I…” I mumble, biting my lip and hitting myself in the head.

“I’m trying, Cyrus. I really am. And I know that I’m mostly a burden to you…”

“You aren’t,” he says in a tone that brooks no argument. I stop.

“I was telling you that Wendy’s going to be late today, but don’t even think about replacing her. I know you sometimes try on the girls’ outfits.”

I stare with wide eyes, the sticky swamp of shame swallowing me.

This is… awkward.

Cyrus steps out from behind the worn black desk that barely reaches his thighs and comes to stand in front of me. He puts his index finger under my chin, lifts my head, and pulls my fingers away from my mouth.

I hadn’t even noticed how much I had managed to “achieve” in such a short time. Whenever I’m anxious, I chew my nails—or my nail beds, once there’s no nail left. My blood must have gotten all over my face, because Cyrus gently cleans something away with his thumb.

“All I want is not to have to worry about you. You are safe behind the counter. These people are low-life scum.”

“I know,” I reply, putting my hand in the back pocket of my jeans.

“I know why you’re doing this.” He takes a step back and sits on the desk, crossing his arms over his muscular chest, his head tilting slightly to the side.

“Really?” I ask, a hint of cynicism in my voice.