Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
The man walks away. I listen to his footsteps as he heads for the front door, Karissa behind him, showing him out. I can hear their voices in the living room, whispered words I can't make out, before the front door open and closes. Relief eases the tension in my muscles once he's gone and I hear the locks jingling, Karissa securing them.
I don't hear her footsteps.
No, she's deathly quiet.
I don't know she's there until the couch shifts, starling me when she sits down on the edge. I move my arm again, peeking at her as she holds out the orange prescription bottle and shakes it in my face.
"Antibiotics," she says. "You heard the man."
Words are on the tip of my tongue.
I don't take orders from anybody.
I nearly say the words but swallow them back at the last second as I force myself up into a sit. I grimace, one hand clutching the bandage on my side, as I snatch the pill bottle from her with my other hand. I glance at the label, reading the instructions:
Take four times daily for seven days.
Wordlessly, I open the bottle and take out a pill, popping it in my mouth and swallowing it dry. I toss the bottle down on the table in front of me before lying back down and closing my eyes.
"You're supposed to take it with food."
"I'm not hungry."
"Then at least let me get you some water."
"I'm fine, Karissa," I tell her. "Good as new."
"You're delusional."
"You mispronounced handsome."
She scoffs. "Not today. You look like shit."
I move my arm when she says that. The moment I meet her gaze, she rolls her eyes and turns away. "Whatever, so maybe you're still handsome, even when you look like you've been fucked by the grim reaper."
Those words make a laugh echo from my chest. It hurts like hell, but it's worth it, I think, based on the smile that touches her lips. Reaching toward her, my fingertips touch her cheek before grazing her lips. "You're getting awfully brave with your words lately."
"It's because you're infuriating," she says when I drop my hand. "You're so stubborn. I know you probably don't need anybody in life, but I'm here, you know, so I might as well…"
"Help me," I say when she trails off.
"Yes."
I consider it for a moment before letting out a resigned sigh. Appearing weak is against my rules, showing vulnerability too dangerous outside of these walls, but when it's just the two of us, when we're right here, maybe there's no harm in it.
"Fine," I say. "You want to help me?"
"Yes."
"Make sure nobody else steps foot in this house."
She smiles slightly. "That I can do."
One week.
I give myself a week this time, seven days to rest and recuperate. I take the antibiotics when I'm supposed to and give Karissa some leeway. By the seventh day, I'm feeling much more like myself, my strength coming back, the infection cleared. The wound still hurts a bit when I move, but it's healing. Before long, I'll barely notice it's even there.
But for now, I still remember.
For now, I won't forget.
I won't forget how it got there.
Won't forget what I have to do about it…
You can only make one first impression.
My father stressed that when I was a kid. Stand up straight. Don't slouch. Hold your head high. Don't scowl. It takes less than a second for someone to make up their mind about you. Just a glance. The blink of an eye.
It's something I grew up remembering. People see me how I want them to. But as important as it is, making a good first impression, it's the last impression that matters most, I think. They might not remember what they first thought about you. Feelings evolve. People change their minds. But they'll never forget the last moments. They're eternal.
Last words.
They say when Al Capone was on his deathbed, he begged the ghost of Jimmy Clark to leave him in peace. Capone was a troubled man, haunted by the past, tortured by the memory of a man he ordered slaughtered in a garage years before.
I wonder if that'll be me.
I wonder if it'll all catch up to me someday.
Will my carefully controlled world be ripped apart because something finally broke me at the end?
I hope I'll be more like Frank Gusenberg, as he lay in a hospital bed, fourteen bullets pumped into him from Capone's men.
"Who shot you?" the officer asked.
"Nobody shot me," the man said before taking his last breath.
I think about it a lot.
I choose my words carefully.
Don't say it unless you mean it.
You never know when it might be the last thing you ever say.
The old meatpacking plant is abandoned, deep in a rundown neighborhood in Queens. Slaughterhouse Number Five, Ray jokingly calls the place. It's seen more death than a soldier in war. Although the outside of the structure is still sound, the bricks all in tact, the inside is demolished.
Back to work I go.
A man hangs from a meat hook on a rafter by chains around his wrists, dangling so low to the ground that his shoes scrape the concrete. He's battered and bloodied, a fucked up, snot-sobbing mess. I don't know his name. I don't even know what he did to end up in this place. But he's here, and when you end up in his position, there's only one way out of it.
In a body bag.
"Any last words?" I ask.
The man blinks slowly as if drugged, but I know there's nothing in his system. No, his body is just shutting down on him. Who knows how long he's been here. I got a call from Ray this morning, asking me to end the suffering.
So there's this guy...
He stares at me like he's seeing an angel of death, and I guess in a way that's what I am.
I'll take his life as payment for his sins.
With a gloved hand, I reach into my coat and pull out the cheap .22 caliber pistol, already loaded, definitely not registered in my name. The great state of New York will tell you I don't own any weapons.