Page 88 of Losing Wendy

I find the communal bathroom, a room consisting of a bucket and a spigot that siphons water from the underground streams, and scrub at my bloodied hands until they’re raw. When that doesn’t rid me of the stink of the stranger’s blood, I rub so hard that I draw my own blood, hoping that at least it will mask the stench.

It doesn’t. It smells the same as the murderer’s. Like there’s no difference between him and me. Like even my nose is aware of the fact that both of us are tainted, poisoned with the fact that we’ve stolen a life from this world, severed a soul from its body.

I have to turn the spigot off, because the dripping makes me think of blood. I already have to deal with the sound of crunching ribs echoing in my skull. The sound I know I didn’t actually hear, due to the raging of the waves, but my mind seems to have filled in the gaps of my memories.

When I bite down on my sleeve to stifle a scream, something moves in the corner. I spin around and clutch the water basin, only to find John standing in the shadows. His face is pale, more so than usual. Like all that’s happened has scoured the color right out of his cheeks. Like he’s a sketch being erased by an artist struggling with confidence in his work.

“I hate what he’s done to you,” John says, his voice even, though not the type that indicates calm.

The faerie lantern light flickers on his face, gone gaunt at the cheeks. I hadn’t noticed before how conspicuous his cheekbones have become, how he’s all sharp lines and angles.

It reminds me of Captain Astor, for some reason, but I don’t want it to, so I push it away.

“It’s not Peter’s fault,” I say, sticking my hands back into the frigid water behind me, hoping that this time the cold will cleanse them. And if not, at least it will numb them. At least it will keep me from feeling the resistance of the man’s flesh carried up through the hilt of the dagger.

“I’m not talking about Peter,” says John, his eyes glassing over.

“Oh.” My mind flashes back to the night of our parents’ death, and I realize that to John, this isn’t the only time I’ve been forced to shed blood. Granted, it wasn’t my blade that took to our parents’ throats, but it happened because of me. Even if I don’t understand all the reasons, it’s because of me that my brothers are orphans.

I wonder then if secretly John hates me, despite himself. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but then again, I wouldn’t have thought I could draw blood, halt its pulsing, much less.

“What did it feel like?” John asks, blinking until his eyes come into focus. “Taking that man’s life?”

A shiver ripples through me.

“Horrible,” I say, though that’s such an understatement it feels like a lie.

John nods, then frowns. “Did you know he’d murdered Thomas when you killed him?”

I shake my head, my throat dry.

John nods again, thoughtfully. “It makes sense then, why you feel guilt over it.”

“He was going to kill Peter,” I say. “I had to save him. I want it not to have been me who did it. I want something else to blame, but it was my hands, my fingers, my panic.”

John comes over and reaches behind me, taking my numb hands from underneath the chilled water and handing me a rag to dry them off. “It’s because of how you feel about him. About Peter.”

I nod, because that explanation stings less, though something about it still doesn’t sit right with me.

“If he had succeeded in killing Peter, do you think you would have enjoyed killing him more?”

I freeze, that chill rippling through me again. “John, I—”

John stares at me with mournful eyes. “Please don’t look at me like that,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re disappointed in me. Like you don’t at all understand what I mean. How I could want…” He sighs, letting his shoulders droop, then runs his fingers through his hair. “I dream about it sometimes,” he says, “forcing the captain to slit his throat with his own blade.”

I nod, ashamed of myself for not noticing the bitter hole that’s burned its way through my brother’s chest.

“I doubt it would feel as satisfying as you think,” I say.

“What makes you say that?”

“Victor got his revenge on his brother’s killer. He buried him in a shallow grave so the ravens could pluck out his eyes and the worms could eat his flesh. He spat on the corpse of the man who stole everything from him. And he was still weeping on his knees when we left.”

John stares at me. His voice doesn’t waver when he says, “Victor didn’t get to feel the soul leave that scum’s body.”

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