Page 77 of If You Go
Once gloved, I take his penis in one hand, and the knife in the other, and I squeeze as hard as I can, causing him to cry out in pain. Then I nick it slightly, causing blood to ooze out. Gavin begins to scream and scream, this time not letting up. I continue causing small cuts all over his penis, the erection slowly shrinking into his body.
“Oh come on now Gav, if I remember correctly, you tend to get off on inflicting pain, why the limp noodle?” I say as his cock finally shrinks back into a flaccid, disgusting piece of bloody meat, diverting my attention to his testicles.
The moment I reach to grab one, Gavin begins to shriek like a pig, the sounds so outlandish I laugh, I can’t help it, pulling my hand back for the slightest moment. Brenden makes a choking sound in his throat, trying to stave off his own laughter.
I pull myself together, inhale deeply, and then grab one testicle between my thumb and forefinger, the flesh warm and slippery. I make an incision with surgical precision, the sharp knife's edge parting skin with a wet whisper. The insides bulge then burst forth—pearlescent, viscous—like a ripe grape surrendering its pulp when squeezed too hard. Blood wells up, crimson and thick. I reach behind me for the jar of bleed stop powder sitting on the concrete floor, its metallic smell mixing with the copper tang already hanging in the air. I coat the deflated skin sac thoroughly, the white powder turning pink, then red as it clots the testicular artery. It is highly unlikelythat he would completely bleed out from this, but I want to keep him slightly lucid. His screams become guttural, animal-like, before his eyes roll back. He passes out, but only briefly—Brenden's open-handed slaps echo like gunshots until Gavin's eyelids flutter open just in time to watch me position the blade against his remaining testicle. His renewed screaming vibrates through my bones as I complete my work. I stand back, wiping sweat from my brow, to admire my masterpiece.
I take the knife one last time, and cut a smiley face on his lower abdomen, just like the one from my hysterectomy. Hip to hip, going into his flesh about a quarter of the blade's length, we now have matching scars on our lower abdomens. Brenden, noticing how deep I cut him, begins to pour Bleed Stop on the wound immediately.
“Why are you stopping it?” I ask incredulously. “That’s the cut that killed me. And it’s how I planned on him dying too.”
Brenden looks at me and grins. The expression is so malicious that even I get nervous. “So, I had an idea…
Once Gavin’s wounds were packed, we left him there and drove until the world outside blurred into silence. I let the images of the last hour replay in my head like a film reel soaked in crimson, each frame dripping with satisfaction as the emotions crashed over me in waves. Every time the blade kissed his skin and parted flesh with that soft, wet resistance, a piece of me knitted back together—that raw, jagged placewhere he'd hurt me suddenly smoothing over, the phantom pain evaporating.
My hands had trembled with power, not fear, as I carved my vengeance into him. I was maniacal, pupils blown wide, breath coming in short gasps, lost in a blood lust that painted my vision red and made my mouth taste like copper pennies. But at the end—when I stepped back and saw my handiwork glistening under the harsh light—it was a baptism. Nothing I did would end his life, though my fingers had itched to press deeper. But everything I did would sit as permanent reminders for however long he has left on this earth. He would sit in that chair, no pain meds to dull the burning, no medical attention to stop the angry red inflammation that would bloom around each wound, just him and his scars searing into him in the exact same places he left scars on me.
I am pulled from my thoughts as the truck pulls into a parking spot at a cheap hotel on the outskirts of town. A place where nobody would ask questions.
Alisha, bless her, had thought ahead—an overnight bag waited for us in the backseat. Clean clothes, toiletries, and everything we didn’t realize we’d need. Brenden jumps out, but my body is stuck in slow motion as the weight of the last week pounds against me, the agony, the build, and then the release. I watch this man I am blessed to have run around the front of the truck and up to my door, opening it like we are in an old-fashioned movie where men were still chivalrous. He helps me out, grabbing the bag from the back and unlocking the room.
When we walk in, Brenden heads straight for the bathroom and turns on the shower. The pipes groan to life, steam spilling through the open doorway. He meets me by the bed again, grabs the bag, wordless, and leads me to the bathroom. He helps unpack the bag–lining up toothpaste, hairbrush, deodorant, the kind of small, normal things that make the world feel real again.
Then he turns to me.
His hands, rough and warm, catch the hem of my shirt and lift it slowly, carefully, like I might break. He never looks away. The shirt hits the floor, followed by my bra, unhooked with practiced gentleness. The air is cool on my skin, goosebumps following his touch.
He kneels. Lips trace a quiet path: mouth, throat, collarbone… down to the scars that cut across my hips. His fingers work my buttons loose, his breath warm against my stomach. His tongue laves at the scar, soft and reverent. I step out of my pants and stand before him, bare and trembling, not from fear, but release.
The air between us hums with electricity. It isn’t sexual. It’s sacred. Worship.
He rises, his lips catching mine again before pulling off his own shirt. Then his jeans. Then nothing between us but air and the heat of the running water.
We stand there for a heartbeat. Just looking. Love, grief, exhaustion, and something wordless passing between us. Then he takes my hand and leads me into the steam.
The shower scalds at first, reddening his skin, and he hisses through his teeth. “Damn hotel water pressure,” he mutters, and I laugh. An actual laugh, small but real.
We squeeze into the tub together, too close, too crowded, and neither of us cares. He trades places with me so the spray hits my back, my hair heavy with water. The scent of cheap soap fills the air. I look down at the tub floor and watch as the blood—rust-colored and thick where it's dried under my fingernails and nearly everywhere else, bright crimson where it's fresh—mixes with the scalding water running off me. It creates an abstract dance of pink and clear swirls that spiral toward the drain like watercolor paint. I lift my trembling hands a little, taking in all the dirt, grime, and dried blood of the last twenty-four hours.Flecks of someone else's skin still cling to my knuckles. My gaze drifts back up, scanning the white tile walls, searching for something to wash away the evidence of what I've done.
“Let me,” he says quietly, reaching for the washcloth.
He starts at my shoulders, running the cloth across my shoulders, every moment a question.Does this hurt? Are you still here?His touch is steady, solid. He reaches my belly and then sinks the cloth between my legs gently. He lathers soap there, as if trying to wash away the feeling. Little does he know, I had tried to do that before as well. We haven’t spoken of it, yet. And now is still not the time. He continues down to my feet, before standing back up and rinsing the cloth out.
I turn toward him. “I’m okay,” I whisper.
He nods, eyes glassy. Then he spins me gently so the water rinses away the soap. His fingers find my scalp, working shampoo into my hair. I close my eyes, the rhythmic motion lulling me into something close to peace.
Neither of us says anything for a while. Only the hiss of water. Only breathing. Once I am fully washed, he beings on himself, and we trade places so he can get the blood and grime off of his skin as well.
When the water runs cold, he shuts it off and grabs the towels. He wraps one around me first, careful and firm, tucking it at my chest before towel-drying my hair. Another goes around his waist.
We brush our teeth side by side at the sink like we’ve done this a hundred times. Domestic. Quiet. Strange.
Back in bed, we sit in the soft light, phones in hand. I text my dad and brother short messages, just enough to say where we are and what the plan is. Dad replies that he’ll post a guard outside of the mattress shop. Sam tells me to keep him updated. I promise I will.
Across from me, Brenden murmurs into his phone. “Yeah, thanks, man. Eleven tomorrow night. Got it. Appreciate you, Elliot.”
He hangs up and slides into bed beside me, pulling me close, skin to skin, a tangle of limbs and warmth.
