Page 97 of Lady and the Butcher
Hospitals had their own weather. Too bright, too cold, too clean. Storms dressed up as safety. The walls here didn’t breathe the way a house did; they exhaled antiseptic and swallowed prayers whole.
I’d walked enough families through them to know the rhythm—doors sighing open, machines clicking, the hiss of oxygen like a snake in the walls. But never like this. Never with my brother’s life in the balance. Never with Atticus volunteering his marrow as casually as if he’d offered Stephen a ride across campus.
As the appointed time neared for harvesting, Atticus sat across from me in the waiting room, his body dwarfing the chair, shoulders squared as if furniture had been designed to lose to him. He didn’t fidget, didn’t glance at the clock the way my father did every thirty seconds. He just waited. As if waiting was a kind of violence he knew how to deliver.
The fluorescents hummed loud enough to get under my skin.
“Lady.”
His voice cut clean through the hum.
I looked up.
“You’re wearing a hole in your hand.”
I glanced down. My paper cup was dented from my grip, water sliding onto my knuckles.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“Don’t be.” He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. His hands clasped like prayer if prayer had ever been taught to him. “Be here. That’s all.”
I nodded because I couldn’t promise anything more.
The nurse came then, soft shoes, calm voice. “Mr. Carver? We’re ready for you.”
He stood, unfolding himself slow and deliberate. His gaze cut to me, to Stephen’s room, to my father at the door. Then back to me.
“I’ll be back,” he said. No bravado. Just fact.
And then he followed the nurse into a room I wasn’t allowed to enter.
The hours stretched like pulled sugar—shiny, brittle, ready to snap.
I went to Stephen’s room before they wheeled him down. Alicia was already there, her body curled around his in the narrow bed. Her eyes looked raw, rimmed red, hair spilling onto his pillow like she’d given up pretending she was fine. Her hand traced circles on his forearm, steady as a heartbeat.
“You okay?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “He jokes too much when he’s scared. That’s how I know.”
Stephen cracked one eye. “Stop psychoanalyzing me.” His grin was weak but cocky. “Besides, I’ve got Carver in my corner. You think leukemia stands a chance against that jawline?”
Alicia swatted his arm. “Don’t be an ass.”
When they rolled Stephen away, Alicia clutched his hand until the nurse pried them apart. She kissed his forehead once,hard, then straightened and pressed her palm over her own heart like she could hold the rhythm for both of them.
The waiting room was half-empty when I returned. Dad had nodded off, his chin against his chest. I couldn’t sit. I walked the hall, shoes squeaking against waxed tile. I passed the chapel and paused at the door. Someone had left a tissue crumpled in a pew. I thought about going in again, but I didn’t barter with gods. I bartered with myself.
If he comes back out, if Stephen makes it through, I’ll stop wasting time. I’ll make a life with Atticus. Honest.
I thought about the letter I’d written to Alpha Mail.Show me danger. Show me what it feels like to lose control.
Atticus had given me exactly what I’d asked for. Except now it was danger remade—danger bleeding willingly so my brother could live. The Butcher, giving life instead of taking it.
When the doors finally opened again, I was already standing.
Atticus emerged between two nurses. He was pale, sweat sliding down his temple, a hospital gown hanging awkwardly off his shoulders. An IV line trailed from his arm, a bag filled with dark red swinging like proof.
He didn’t stumble, but his jaw clenched, his steps deliberate. His hand tremored once before curling into a fist.
