Page 254 of Heart So Hollow

My dead body.

Jerking his leg back, he winds up and delivers a swift kick to my side, “You stupid, selfish fucking bitch!” My limp body lurches and merely scuffs across the earth.

It’s me, but I can’t feel anything he does. I’m just standing here, behind him, watching.

“You goddamn cunt whore!” He doesn’t stop, he keeps kicking my body, teeth clenched and grunting furiously, “You’re nothing!” My head rolls back and forth and my limbs flop over the leaves and twigs. “I fucking hate you!” his voice cracks and he finally stills again, his chest heaving.

Oh, Bo…what have you done?

I feel like I should cry. I feel like I should cry for my mom, my dad, Dallas, Colson, and all my friends. I should cry because I won’t see them again. God, they’ll be so upset…what will Hildy and Hannah do?

No, fuck Hannah. But what will Hildy do when she finds out Bo did this?

But I can’t cry. I should, but I can’t.

Instead, I’m filled with overwhelming tranquility. I can see clearer than I ever have and I can breathe better than I ever have. I feel alert and calm at the same time. I feel strong and I feel happy, like my heart is filled and overflowing. How can I feel this way after something so horrific?

I take a few steps toward Bo and peer around his shoulder. I’m lying face up, my body cocked at an odd angle, my arms and legs splayed out. My eyes are open and I’m staring up at the treetops. But the lights are out and there’s no life left behind my eyes.

I’m gone.

There’s dirt and blood smeared across my face, out of my nose, over my gums, and across my teeth. My left eye is swollen from him hitting me with his right fist. My hair frames my face in a frizzy, red halo and there’s still sweat beaded on my forehead. My tears have washed tracks through the blood on my cheeks and under my eyes.

Damn, I look like hell.

I almost laugh. I’m horrified, but I almost laugh. Even in death, I can’t help but crack a joke.

When I look up at Bo, he’s silent, his chest heaving and his face glistening with sweat. His fists are still clenched and he’s still glaring down at me. I glance down at the bulge at the back of his hip. He had a gun. He could’ve shot me and ended it in a split second.

But he didn’t.

He stands over me for what seems like an hour. What’s he thinking while he’s just staring at me, motionless, in the middle of the woods?

Fucking weirdo.

Finally, Bo rolls his head back and flexes his shoulders, shaking the tension out of his arms. He crouches down and slips his hands under my arms, lifting my shoulders off the ground. When I’m in a sitting position, he takes me by the wrist and lifts my arm over his head, ducking under it so he can lay my body over his shoulder. Then he straightens up and starts walking.

I follow Bo close at his side, like I always do when we come out to the woods. As we walk, I glance up at him periodically. He’s calm and indifferent, like he’s carrying a coiled-up garden hose through the woods instead of a dead body. We walk for a long time until the trees open up and give way to a dip in the landscape. Bo stops here and looks around, then leans forward and bucks his shoulder, dumping me off onto the ground with a thump.

He crouches down to examine my busted knee, then pushes his hands under my back and rolls me onto my stomach. He grasps the back of my calf and turns it toward him, examining the back of my knee. The bullet didn’t go clean through. It hit the bone and shattered everything inside before lodging in my kneecap somewhere. He steps over my legs and straddles me. After a few moments, he reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out his Buck knife. Holding my knee steady with one hand, he starts digging the bullet out of my flesh.

It takes him a while to find it in the dark, even with moonlight flooding through the break in the canopy. But Bo’s good. He finds it. His fingers slick with my blood, thickening by the second, he drops the bullet into his palm and examines it in the dim light. He doesn’t care about the shell lost somewhere out in the woods behind us. Or maybe he’s already found that, too.

Bo stands up and drops the bullet in the side pocket of his joggers. Then, with his knife still open, he circles my body, like he’s deciding what he wants to do. He stops behind my head, then cocks his head from side to side before kneeling down.

Bo squeezes my braid in his fist and pulls it taught until my face is hovering just above the dirt. He flattens the blade between my scalp and my hair band and starts slicing back and forth, letting locks of bright red hair flow free with each pass.

I cringe, then scowl at him for ruining my hair.

By the end, longer, jagged pieces fall over my cheeks and forehead while the back is as short as a pixie cut. He stands back up, holding my bright red braid in his fist—the final thing he can take from me. But instead of being done with it, Bo decides to leave me something to remember him by.

He kicks my shoulder, rolling me onto my back. Then he opens his mouth and bites down on the knife handle, holding it between his teeth while he carefully rolls my braid around his fist into a ball. He gently slides it into his back pocket and takes the knife from his mouth.

Bo crouches down again, straddling my legs, and plants his hands on either side of my hips. After gazing down at my bare stomach for a few moments, he places his palm just under my belly button. Slowly, he drags his hand over my skin, brushing his thumb up and down in waves as he goes. With his other hand, he raises his knife and repositions it for precision, with his forefinger at the hilt.

Then he starts cutting.

I tilt my head, peering around his shoulder as he carefully slices the blade through my flesh with all the concentration of a calligrapher. Blood still seeps from the wounds, a single word slowly materializing across my stomach like magic ink.

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