Page 9 of Absolution

Guilt suddenly stabs me. “I can help you with that.”

He chased me off last night, but I still feel the urge to help him with what he obviously can’t handle himself. And in a way it’s my fault, but I silence that thought, because mainly it’s his own fault and I need to stop taking the blame. But I can’t let him die.

“No, don’t. It’s all right.”

He protests, but this time I’m not letting him. My stomach clenches with worry, and I’ve already pushed that side of his shirt off his shoulder.

Warm air rises from his skin mixed with a scent I recognize all too well, a scent that used to make me implode with need. His skin is too hot. I continue with his bandage where I left off last night, and sure enough, the shoulder is swollen, the wound has glaring red edges and there’s white-gray goo between them. I press at his skin where there’s an angry red swelling and it seems to fluctuate.

“This doesn’t look good.”

“That should please you.” His voice is raspy, tired, sounding as if he’s given up all of a sudden.

It suddenly worries me that he’s ill, and that he’s so indifferent about it. It worries me that I’m concerned. I shouldn’t be. “Hey,” I say, putting on a cheery tone, “not as much as it pleases me that I get to cut into you with a knife. Again.” I grin and pat his arm.

He glances at his shoulder. “You’re probably right.”

“We’re gonna need to open that. It’s filled with pus.” I press carefully at the red area and he groans.

“Fucking brilliant.”

“Don’t be such a wuss. I got a nail through my finger the second week we lived here. We were fixing the porch. It looked like this after a few days and I had to go see a doctor. He cut it open and gave me antibiotics for it. It could have destroyed the joint, he said. This—” I poke the swelling again, “this is just flesh.”

I leave out the part about how I forgot to take the pills after a couple of days and had to have the procedure done all over again and with a new prescription.

He makes a face as he glares at his shoulder again, a shudder rippling through him. “If you leave it, I might die. I thought you’d like that.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with your corpse, now can you please turn around and give me your damn knife. It’s probably the sharpest thing in here.” A brief shiver runs through me as I think about where that knife has been.

He sways and lies back down. “Can’t it wait?” Closing his eyes, he turns his back to me again.

“Christian! Get a grip! Come on! Don’t leave me alone with a child in this weather and with a broken car, you piece of shit!” It comes out even more desperate than intended. He’s really freaking worrying me right now.

“Okay,” he grumbles and sits back up. “You’ll probably need to sterilize the knife first.” Even weak and tired he’s suddenly all business.

“With alcohol?”

“That’ll do if you have something strong enough.”

I probably don’t. I only drink an occasional glass of wine. I shake my head. “In a flame?”

He nods.

“Where’s the knife?”

“In my pocket.” His voice is so damn faint. I hate that there’s a flutter of worry in my chest when I should rejoice.

I open the leg pocket with trembling hands and haul out the knife. I look at its matte black blade. I’ve never seen anything like it. As I flick it before me, a shudder ripples through my chest.

“How many people have you killed with this?”

He gives me a glare through heavily lidded eyes that, despite his weakened state, is so filled with danger it makes me shiver. That is obviously a line I’m not supposed to cross.

I march off to the fireplace, opening one of the thick glass doors and sticking the blade in the fire for a few seconds. Then I walk back to the couch and sit down next to him. As I hold the tip to the wound, the blade is still smoking hot. Christian glances at what I’m doing and jerks away.

“For fuck’s sake! Let it cool first!”

“Oh. Sorry.”

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