Page 205 of Bitter Poetry
I look away from Christian’s broken body and latch onto the sturdy hook and chain that dangle from the rafters, marveling at how it remains steady and impervious to the sharp breeze.
Unmoved by the weather or the scene that plays out beneath it.
Like I need to be.
Out of the bleakness comes an unexpected light.
I let go.
My breathing steadies.
Trust has been shattered.
But faith can be restored.
Whatever happens, I have loved.
Briefly.
Perfectly.
Let go.
Trust.
CHRISTIAN
Jero and Roman drag me up from the chair. My wrists are still taped together at my lower back and my legs have gone dead.
I wish the rest of me were dead.
Poor choice of phrase—I snicker.
My knees give out. They’re holding my arms, and the sudden wrench feels like they’re about to be ripped from the socket.
“Fuck, he’s a heavy bastard,” Roman grunts. “What the fuck do they feed him?”
Go fuck yourself, asshole.
I wonder if his girl has had her baby yet.
Damn, I think they’ve broken my brain, as well as my body, that I could give a fuck about that.
I think about putting my feet down and helping them out—not helping them is probably hurting me more than them. ButI’m a bit disconnected and decide to be an obstinate bastard as they drag me past Ettore’s soldiers and into the center of the warehouse where cars and men are clustered.
“You’re laying it on a bit thick there, mate,” Jero mutters.
He can go fuck himself, too.
Roman coughs out a breath, like he’s trying to cover a laugh. “I wish he’d just stand the fuck up. I’m going to put my back out.”
Whatever…
I get a vague notion of yet more soldiers and big blacked-out cars through my one good eye. Leon… Dante… Mateo… Their soldiers flank them in a mirror of Ettore, Peter, and Bo.
“Just drag him,” Ettore snaps.
Nice.
