Page 72 of Lamb

“Oh my God,” I gasped, jerking my hands back to my chest, trying to lunge away. Lamb’s own arms were clamped like a vice around mine, holding me firmly, but not doing the same damage that I had done. He did not allow me to move more than an inch away. But instead of looking at him, all I could do was stare at the blood seeping from his skin, dripping and darkening his grey pants. “I am so sorry, I am—”

Violent nausea rocked my world, and the sharp sting of acid rocketed up my throat. Fortunately, Lamb and Mint had learned to read at least that much from me as Lamb flinched and Mint reflectively leapt from the bed.

Unwilling to let me go and escape, Lamb was in the splash zone as I hurled hot, acidic stomach bile all over him.

“I am sorry,” I choked out, trying to swallow and stop anything else from escaping. It stung in the back of my nose, and fresh tears rolled down my cheeks. My trembling hand wavered in the air above it, unsure what to do to fix it or make it better. “I am sorry, I—”

“It’s fine,” Lamb growled, his hand clamping shut over my mouth. “Stop apologising.” His eyes had not left mine for even asecond. Not even as I had spewed all over his shirt and lap. His hands stayed fastened in the same place they had been before, their warm grip like hot iron around my cold, shivering skin.

“Lamb, brother.” Mint reached over to put a strong hand over his undefiled shoulder. “Go get washed up. I’ll stay with her.”

Lamb did not move at first, but when Mint gave him a gentle squeeze, Lamb relinquished his grip. It was slow, one finger at a time, as he fought to pry himself away. His fingers lingered across my skin, skimming past my elbows and forearms until his fingertips and mine dragged apart.

He hesitated once, his eyes boring deeply into mine for a moment that felt far longer than the few seconds it must have been before he broke eye contact and turned away.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” Mint crouched in front of me, to where I now realised I was folded between the side table and the corner of the wall, the side lamp laying crumpled on the floor beside me. Fortunately, it was not broken, but that shade was an interesting degree of cock-eyed.

“I killed her … my stepmother,” I whispered, my voice so quiet I wondered if Mint could hear me at all. Apart of my brain screamed to be quiet, but another let the words drip from my tongue one word at a time, out into the air, like a leaky tap echoing in an empty house. “She would torture me whenever my father was away from home. Lock me in the freezer. Shove my face into scalding water. Force me to drink alcohol until I threw up or passed out. Things that would not leave marks.” I felt them all, the years of pain, and misery, and desperation. As if each new inventive way she would take me to hell happened only yesterday. “Then, one day, she took me to this factory. She tied me to a chair and put this cloth over my eyes … It burned. It hurt so bad. I could not see, and I screamed and screamed, but she would not take it off.” My throat tightened, the memory sinkingthrough my chest like the knife, the same one I’d used years ago, sinking inch by inch through my sternum, bone and muscle and sinew cracking beneath my weight. “So, I killed her. I shoved a knife through her chest and listened to her choke as she bled to death.”

I stared at the shattered piece of the broken lamp, unable to pull my eyes away from each little fragment, so broken it could not be fixed. “I thought it was over,” I whispered, “but it never is. It’s never over.”

“Your eyes …” Mint murmured, and I could see his own searching my face, the missing puzzle pieces now fitting together in his mind. I couldn’t look at him, the reflection of myself haunting those pale green eyes. But it was not me now, but the me with blood soaked under my nails, blindfolded and exhausted. The murderer that lived inside me.

My eyes burned with a mix of pain fragmented from the past. But stronger still, the frustration chewing away at my heart and mind. “I hate this,” I whispered, the horrible swell of defeat and pure misery strangling my voice. “I hate it all.”

“You’re in the worst of it right now.” Mint’s voice was soft and reassuring. “But it’s going to get better. I promise.”

The words I had heard so many times only felt like fuel on the fire; they inspired a bitter hatred and wallowing misery that dragged themselves out from the dredges of my soul. I had spent years in suffering, in pain, and in misery. I had survived time and time again only to go through more and more. To sink lower and lower into a dark tar of pain that I was never going to escape from.

“It never gets better,” I breathed, the thought of my future pressing against my throat. It was like the boiling water down my gullet again, my chest pained with each swell, and my body fought to breathe. “It never has gotten better … It never will.”

Never to find relief in death or freedom in life. I was born to suffer. Destined to despair.

I watched Mint lift my hand, not feeling it, nor reacting to it. It was as if it was happening to someone else. He inspected the back of my hand with a frown, and a thick droplet of blood slithered down over my skinny, bony hands. It must have been from the IV. I must have torn it out during my episode.

“Stay there.” Mint scanned me over, lingering for a long time. He was hesitant to leave, but his priorities outweighed his reluctance. “I’m going to get another needle and something to cover that up.” Mint stalked across the room, and a rustling of papers, plastic, and other things filled the air.

I stared down at my hands, feeling alien as I watched the blood trickle over my skin. I expected it to at least feel warm, but I felt nothing. It was not a big enough wound to cause any true harm. Quite literally just a pinprick. If it had been somewhere else, somewhere higher and more vulnerable, then it would justify the concern. The wound to my hand would do little to take me away from it all. To free me the way I always wanted.

Even so, the needle hole was bigger than I had expected. It was the first time I realised the harm a catheter needle could do.

The revelation was like ice. Cold, cold ice pouring down over my back, sharp, electric shocks of cold alighting every nerve. My eyes were lead weights as they moved so slowly towards the bed where the red-tipped edge of the abandoned metal needle poked over the side of the mattress.

Gravity moved my body, no a thought or question slipping through the haze. My blood thickened in my veins, my feet growing heavy like lead pooling in my soles, and my heartbeat like a war drum, steady and loud, pounding in my ears.

I did not dare look away. Did not dare look in Mint’s direction where he could possibly have seen and could already be moving to stop me.

The needle was a searing iron in my hand as my fingers clasped around its thin, lightweight shaft. It felt delicate, like it would snap between my fingers if I pressed too hard, and my hands shook as I struggled to hold it still. My arms felt strained as if I was pushing through layers of resistance as I brought it towards me.

This time …

I can finally …

Finally, be free.

The needle burnt as it pierced my skin. A flash of fiery adrenaline burst like a dam as the first trickle slid down my skin and pooled against my collarbone. It hurt. Even with the medication and the withdrawal burning my nerves, the pain remained.

But it did not stop me.

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