Page 32 of Penny for Your Saints

Fuck.

In a spray of water, I am flailing backward—my hand shooting out over the edge of the tub for my abandoned sweatpants and the tiny folding knife squirreled away into the pocket.

I have the tiny stiletto knife open in my hand—the point poised menacingly beneath Louise’s chin as she hovers over me in the bath—both of her hands free.

“You won’t do it,” she threatens—her cinnamon eyes burning into me.

“Don’t fucking push me,” I choke down a sob as she allows the soft underside of her jaw to rest against the very tip of theblade, not quite breaking the skin. She’s right of course—but I can’t let her know that.

“Coward,” she accuses coldly—leaning ever so slightly into the knife’s edge—a droplet of her scarlet blood welling where the blade barely pierces her skin.

Though it might make me a ‘failure,’ and it might cost me my place in the Saints; I can’t bring myself to do the deed. Something about the feeling of her, still on my skin,her taste still on my lips—that burning in her eyes—that stirs something deep within me. Maybe it makes me a coward, or a sick-sad-hopeless romantic, but I can’t bring myself to hurt her any more than we already have.

I withdraw my blade, tossing it away onto the cold tile floor—holding both my empty hands up so that Louise can see them.

“Call me whatever name you want, but we need each other if you really want to get through this alive. I know that we haven’t exactly made a sterling first impression, but trust me, compared to the people you work for? Compared tothe Windmill? Once we start to uncover more together, you’ll see we’re actually the ‘good guys.’” I make my plea with a level voice—our gazes locked to one another—the gentle swishing of the bathwater giving a peaceful backdrop to our ragged breathing.

As if woken from a trance, Louise’s hand moves instinctively to her neck, where a small stream of blood has begun to run down her neck from the small cut under her jaw.

“It’s not bad,” I murmur, reaching up to touch her face. “I can get you a bandaid.”

Louise’s features twist in a mask of horror that explodes into manic, unhinged laughter—her trembling hands, dripping with blood-tinged water crawling up over her face as she sits back on her heels on the far side of the tub.

She sits there a moment—crouched in the water, laughing like a madwoman as tears stream down her face while I climb out of the tub, dry off and reapply my hastily abandoned clothes.

Her hysteria has begun to fade by the time I lean down into the bathtub and pull the rubber drain stopper.

“Hey, what do you say? I get you wrapped up in this towel like a warm, dry burrito—and you don’t try to murder me—and we can skip the handcuffs?” I offer comfortingly—opening a large, dry towel at the edge of the tub.

“Ok,” she sniffles; her expression unreadable once again as she curls in on herself in the draining water.

“Alright, let’s get you up and out of here,” I croon, wrapping the towel around her shoulders as I help guide her up and out of the tub.

Like a sleepy kid or a loopy marionette, she allows me to guide her to the closed toilet seat—the towel wrapped tightly around her—her hair dripping in ropy medusa waves in front of her face as she stares through the tile floor.

“Ok, hup-up!” I grunt as I heft her off of the toilet seat. Thank god I started lifting with Seb and Q when I joined the Saints, otherwise I never would have been able to even pretend to hoist Louise’s miniscule form, holding her against my chest in my arms as I carry her back to her futon—a pile of my gray sweats and a white cotton ribbed tank top folded neatly in the corner.

“I know that Q and Frank will be back with some real clothes soon, so you can wait for those—but if you don’t wanna freeze, I brought you some of my sweats. Not exactly chic—but they’re clean,” I offer, squirming a little at the sight of Louise Penny laying on her side—completely unrestrained.

We stay there in silence for what feels like a very long time before she finally speaks. “Thanks,” she sniffles again numbly, wiggling herself into a seated position.

“Don’t mention it.” I look at my feet, suddenly full of shame for keeping this other human being captive for so long—no matter what our lofty goals may be.

At what point do we become worse than our enemy?

There’s a profound sadness to the way Louise shrugs out of her towel—shoulders and breasts bare as she reaches, defeated, for the sweat-set at the corner of the bed; the cut beneath her chin, already beginning to form a scab.

She’s only just shimmied into the hooded sweatshirt, pulling her wet hair out from the collar before twisting it into a knot on top of her head, when there’s a loud bang, the apartment door blowing off its hinges before falling flat into the open living room.

Ifeel like a shoebox filled with tinkling little pieces of broken glass as Caz carries me from the bathroom into the dingy sitting room where I’ve been kept on a ratty futon for the last few days.

Each time I move one of my limbs, it feels like I rattle the box—little shards of glittering razor-sharp pain cutting away at my insides.

I wanted to fuck Caz. I wanted to fuck him so bad—and he felt so fucking good inside me that I almost forgot that the whole reason I’d entrapped him in the first place was to escape this shithole and get free of this fucking nightmare.

How fucked up do you have to be to feel like the only time you’ve ever connected with someone physically and emotionally at such a deep level… was while you were getting dicked down by one of your practically anonymous terrorist captors? I’ve read about Stockholm Syndrome—about how it’s essentially a hoax. I’ve listened to hours of testimony from hostages and FBI conflict negotiators… and I can’t explain myself. I can’t outrun this shame.

Even worse, I can’t deny the connection I felt with Caz; something I’ve never experienced—even with long-term partners.

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