Page 72 of Sick Bargain

He screams through the gag and drops almost to his knees, hanging by his wrists. While the tool is still hot and coated in his burning skin, I free his weak arm, press the handle to his palm, and pull off my shirt. “Right here, Remiel.” I point to my heart.

Even though he’s crazy and delusional, or maybe because of it, his fingers wrap around the handle and his eyes meet mine. He can barely hold it up, but he stands, forcing himself to his feet. The leather falls from between his teeth. He breathes hard, and his eyes focus on my chest.

“Sick,” he whispers.

I help him press the brand to my skin, and the pain of it connects our damned souls for all of eternity.

24

PLAYING REAPER

REMIEL

I waded through life numb,thinking it was living. I got comfortable being distant, protected myself and those around me by being indifferent, and quit everything I tried because there was no point. I was going to die by my own hand eventually, so I never put forth much effort. I quit school. Didn’t make more than one friend. Kept space between me and my family. Focused on music and the shop because they were the only guarantees before I died.

Krypt has brought me back to life by making me hurt. Numbness isn’t living; being battered and bruised is. It’s a feeling, and in my new mind, it means I’m fighting. There isn’t a part of my body that doesn’t ache. Muscles I didn’t know I had protest my every movement. My eyes burn from crying, and my throat is coated in fiery ice from screaming, raw and ravaged.

But I bleed from everywhere else. My wrists are coated in a healing balm and wrapped in gauze, the same as my chest. The brands still burn, but the cream helps. The slice on my lower stomach now holds stitches, and sometime after I passed out, Krypt must have cut me more because I have stitches near the femoral arteries in my thighs, next to the pulse point under my jawbone, and on my forehead where my hairline sits. Just littlelines that tug at my skin. He’s marking all the areas of my body that could shut me off, giving me a chance to second-guess my actions before I do something dire.

It’s sick and twisted… but I think it might help. If I ever get suicidal thoughts, I’ll have to go through his marks to accomplish the task, and as disgusting as that makes me, it gives me a level of comfort and relief I’ve never experienced before. A layer of protection in the form of unwanted scars.

But it’s the word trailing down my throat that shocks me most. Because it’s personal. For him. The S starts under my chin and the R ends at the hollow of my throat. The word ‘shatter’ in bold, mismatched letters, the R accidentally marked over with a sliced X.

This part of your body is forever tainted. Every time I look at the way you swallow or the bob of your throat, I’ll shatter. Because it broke me, Remiel.

He’s admitting that he cares about me enough to shatter at my death, and seeing it now, reflected in the mirror of his bathroom in Vile House, a new wave of tears leak down my cheeks. I’m important to him. It doesn’t matter that it’s ownership and possession. Apparently, I don’t need more than that. I just need someone to fucking care. Someone who isn’t my brother, suffering from the same curse. Someone who isn’t my sister, who is trying to save me. Someone who sees the parts of me I keep hidden and lures them to my surface, enjoying them instead of fearing them.

Until Krypt claimed my bargain, I’d never been seen before.

It’s heavy and terrifying, but it’s welcome anyway. It’s proof that I have a role, a purpose, and a life worth living. We’re twisted together in such an unhealthy way, but I think it’s saving our lives. My life, anyway.

Even my teeth hurt when I brush them, crying into the sink because I’m emotional without understanding why. My gums are tender and my jaw aches with the rest of my body.

“Remiel,” Krypt’s abrasive voice isn’t jittery today. I turn to look at him standing in the doorway, his face a mask without wearing one. Even though I’m only wearing boxers, he never looks away from my eyes, and right now, I don’t fear the monsters in his.

“My mom called this morning,” I tell him. “She’s acting weird again. She told me some doctor is waiting to meet me.” Which confused me because my mom doesn’t know I spent a few days in the asylum.

Krypt’s brows pinch. “What doctor?”

“Dr. Grave… Grey, maybe,” I say, looking at the burn on his chest. It matches mine. We really are both sick.

Recognition of the name crosses his face before he wipes it away. “Come. I need to check your wounds.”

He’s showered, my blood no longer coating his face. I don’t know how long it’s been since he chained me to that gate. Maybe it’s the next day, or maybe many days have passed. I’m unsure, but I know he hasn’t left my side. I slept for a very long time.

I sit on his bed while he puts new salves and wrappings on all my wounds. But it feels strange to call them wounds when they did so much healing. “You don’t have to watch me if you have things to do,” I tell him.

“You’re the only thing I have to do right now,” he says, focused on his task. “And we have the next name on your list to deal with.”

Gregory Malone. My creepy stalker who wants to push me to an early grave and ignite my family curse. I almost beat him to it. “What are we doing with him?”

“We’re going to the funerals today,” he says, soft fingers coating my wrists in ointment. “For the Matter Cult members. Malone will be there.”

If I had the energy, I’d snort at the fact that Krypt is going to the funerals of all the people he killed. My perception of the world has changed since walking through the front door of Vile House. Moros has always been dark, but it’s darkly humorous now, and I don’t care what that says about me.

“And since you announced to everyone at Cauldron that I fucked you,” he pauses, eyes meeting mine, “we’re going together. As a…”

He’s afraid of the word.“As a…?”

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