Page 27 of Absolution

Eight

Christian

I keep checking my cell compulsively, but so far, no signal. I’m seriously concerned for us all. Kerry is exhausted. My knee hurts so bad I want to puke. Cecilia worries me like fucking hell. The chilly air nips at our skin, and we’re moving constantly. Half a day has passed since we woke up this morning, and she sleeps and sleeps. That can’t be good.

It feels right that we are doing something, and that we’re not only sitting passively, but on the other hand I’m wondering if we aren’t committing suicide. We reach the plateau and the walk gets a lot easier once we don’t have to walk up, up, up and fucking up.

‘Kis?’ She asked for me. Well… she’ll forget about me as easily. ‘Christian is your dad.’

I’ll never forget her.

Kerry glances at me and inhales. Then she shakes her head and remains silent.

“What?” I say, happy for any distraction.

She inhales again. “Why did you keep looking for—” She snaps her mouth closed and then adds quickly, “Never mind.”

I glance at her and then back at the cold, white wetness as I sigh inwardly at the decisions I’ve made. “You have to admit it, Kerry. We had something; you know we did. It was there.” I want to touch her so badly. My hand hovers in the air close to hers, but I can’t.

I don’t.

She doesn’t answer, but her silence is answer enough. “It was there, yes,” she finally says. “I admit that. A long time ago. You ruined that pretty good.”

“I… yes. I know.”

I glance at her as she stumbles and then regains her footing, changing her grip around our sleeping daughter’s form. My whole body tenses as I ready myself to catch her if she falls. She looks up at me, waiting for me to continue.

“I made choices I regret,” I mumble, my whole being crumbling in shame. Salvatore threatened my sister, but I could have found a fucking way around that if I had only thought a little.

She raises her eyebrows but doesn’t answer. I guess there’s not much to say.

I deflate. I’ve lost everything. Everything that ever mattered to me. And I can only blame myself. Maybe I could force her to become mine, somehow work her, manipulate her. But that’s not how I wanna play it. I don’t want to play at all, actually. I know I’m going to have to let them go. Shut down. Shut them out.

I’ll have to live with it, with what I’ve done, and what I’ve lost.

I realize this is my gift to them, my sacrifice. I’ll take them to safety and then give them their lives back. This walk through these abandoned forests will redeem me, help me forgive myself if no one else does.

“Is this the top of the mountain?” I need to focus on something solid, something I can still work with, something still in my grasp. “We need a break.”

She nods and carefully lowers Cecilia to the ground, snugly wrapped in her blanket.

I drop the backpack to the ground. “I hate trees, and rocks, and roots, and twigs. I’m never setting foot in a forest again. Ever!”

“I’m prone to agree,” she pants and plops down next to our daughter.

“You’ll get cold.”

“I don’t fucking care,” she grits. “Still no signal?”

I shake my head as I start unpacking. Coffee, two mugs, two sandwiches, a bottle of water, and a second blanket. At the bottom of the backpack there are two sandwiches left. For Cecilia. And that’s all there is. I glance up at the wilderness and pray silently we won’t get lost. And that Kerry knows where we’re going. I eye her suspiciously. I really hope she knows the way.

Now that we’ve stopped and seated ourselves at the edge of Cecilia’s blanket, mugs with steaming contents in our hands, and a few chews in on our first sandwich, I realize how sweaty, cold, and deadly tired I am already. And I started this with a not only good physique, but great. Kerry must be so much worse off, but she isn’t complaining in the least.

Her hour of a thousand questions doesn’t seem to be over yet, though, and with some newly found energy, she starts again.

“Why did you come for me that second time?”

I clench my jaws and pray for strength. Can she just not fucking let this go? I inhale to speak, but she interrupts me.

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