Page 85 of Rugger: The Huntress

“Sonnie,” I whined, “Turn it off.”

He obliged, lowering the camera after discovering my discomfort.

“No stills and no videos. Please.”

No evidence. I wanted to remind him, but I didn’t have to. He knew exactly why I wasn’t interested in being on film.

“This won’t leave my possession. It won’t be uploaded to any system. It’ll stay right here, on this tape. We don’t have to scrub the earth of our existence, love. Not completely. Let there be small signs that you were here and at some point you were happy.”

“Are you always right?”

“I’m not right and you’re not wrong. Don’t think that way. It’s just that– well– I’ve lived a very lonely life up until this point. I’ve spent most of it trying my hardest not to leave a footprint of any kind.

“Physical. Digital. Financial. Romantic. Nothing. But, something about you makes me want to let the world know I was here. We were here. Once we’re gone.”

I nodded.

“Why have you been alone? No family? No friends?”

“Just me and my guns.”

“Tell me–”

He sighed, rubbing his hands down his pants legs.

“You mind if I cut the cake before I begin?”

“No. Please do so.”

He used the smooth knife to cut into the cake. He laid the first slice on my plate and the second one on his.

“I didn’t think women like you existed,” he spoke after taking the first bite from his fork.

“Like me?” Baffled, I asked.

I understood his deflection was coming from a place of pain, so instead of revisiting the topic he’d changed so soon, I let him lead us elsewhere. I knew that pain. I saw it every time I saw the face of one of my siblings and when I looked at myself in the mirror.

“My kind.”

“Here I am, Sonnie. In the flesh.”

“Here you are.”

“I’ve lost someone special to me, too,” I revealed, peering into those orbs I was growing so fond of.

He sniggered as if I’d cracked a joke. We both knew the death of a parent was anything but funny. However, it was often laughter that replaced crying. Those were the only options we had.

“On my eighteenth birthday.”

His confession broke my heart into a million tiny pieces. I’d had the opportunity to experience my father’s love well into adulthood.

“You were a baby.”

“I was a boy who needed– still needs his mother’s love.”

A million more pieces were made at the realization it was his mother’s love he’d been robbed of, not his father’s.

“Oh God.”

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