Bad Blood - Ash

I've been lay here for four days, hmm, maybe five. Long enough that the mold's grown bold and the rats have stopped checking to see if I'm still alive. They know I'm not a threat anymore, not like this.

My squat isn't much. The mattress beneath me is a piss-stained ruin I dragged off a curb two months ago. It smells like old meat, and at some point I stopped caring. The surrounding walls are tagged over in half-dead neon, layers of curses and gang signs competing for dominance. One says "BLEED FIRST" in dried maroon. I took it as advice.

My ribs are black from bruises. The gash along my hip has started to turn the wrong color, the kind of red that seeps heat and doesn't blink when you press it. I've been rinsing it with warm water from a rusted kettle I stole two blocks over. No meds. No food. Just water and spite and whatever scraps of instinct I've got left.

It's not enough. I'm not healing.

Dreams are dogging me. Vivid, horrible things, always the same. Me, barefoot and small, wandering through alleys with pockets full of lint, stomach gnawing itself hollow. I see the same face over and over again, blurred out, reaching. I don't know if it's a memory or something else trying to crawl in through the cracks. Doesn't matter.

I woke up about 5 minutes ago, sweat pumping out of every pore, heart pounding, and remembered the first real thing that ever happened to me: my first kill. Only ten, missing teeth and a split lip. I remember being hungry, always that. I remember my feet were bare, my shirt too small, stretched over ribs that hadn't stopped growing even when the rest of me wanted to give up. And I remember him.

Older, much bigger. He tried to drag me into his car. Even at that age, you hear of street kids vanishing and never coming back. So when he told me it was ok to scream, because no one would come, they never do. He was wrong. Because I rescued myself.

What I don't remember is deciding. But the sounds his eye made when I jammed the broken antenna I'd been hiding in his face, that's crystal clear. It squelched. He screamed. I saw red, then white, then nothing. When it was done, he was a body. And I was a girl covered in blood that wasn't mine.

I ran. Didn't stop for two days. Thought maybe someone would be proud of me. Thought maybe it meant I mattered.

No one was. I didn't. That's a memory just for me, I've never told a soul. Not that I have anyone to talk to. I buried the memory like I buried him, deep, quiet, with shaky hands and no prayers.

I don't cry about it. I learned early crying doesn't fix what's broken, it just tells people where to push harder. But today?

Today I might. Not because of him, because this feels the same. That same helpless, sinking feeling in my gut. That same whisper that says no one's coming.

I shift, and pain flares up my side. My breath catches and vision skews, tilting the whole world. I ride it, body too heavy to fix it. Deciding instead, the course of action is to curl tighter onto the mattress, jaw clenched, bottle lying just out of reach.

I'm not dying. I refuse.

Even if I am, it'll be on my terms. Not like this, on a dirty floor with nothing in my stomach but infection. So the last few days have been pretty fucking rough, but now I know I'm hallucinating. Because someone is here, the room feels occupied.

Don't look up. Just focus on the bottle Ash, come on, not far.

Wrapping my fingers around the broken neck, I force myself to roll. Get about halfway before my elbow gives out. The bottle clatters to the floor and I collapse onto my side, panting, blood rushing behind my eyes.

It's him.

Standing at the edge of the mattress, hands in his pockets, not a single crease out of place, watching me rot. My voice comes out wrecked.

"If you're here to finish the job, get in line."

Using every bit of strength left, I try to push myself up again, make it a few inches before my shoulder folds. My head bounces off the floor and stars bloom behind my eyes. I start crying before I can stop it. Hot, angry tears spill sideways across my cheeks.

The bastard smiles.

"You look awful Pet," he says, voice smooth as a silk noose. "May I help?"

I blink, my eyes sting with the effort. I don't lift my head when I feel him move. A slow shift in pressure, the scrape of his boot against concrete.

"Get out," I rasp.

"Hmm," he murmurs. "Still got teeth. Good."

The muscles in my jaw clench as I try to do anything. All I manage is a twitch and a grunt, my legs tangling in the stiff blanket. He still watches, studying a particularly tragic insect caught in its own web.

"Don't strain," he offers, crouching beside the mattress. "Wouldn't want my little pet dying on me before we've had time to bond."

"I'm not," my voice cracks. I force it louder. "Don't call me that."

He cocks his head. "'Pet?' But it suits you. Small. Vicious. Scrappy. Starving."

Pursing my lips, I give it everything and spit right at him. Obviously it doesn't work, I'm so dehydrated there's no spare moisture.

He smiles wider.

"You'll come around," he says, and then lifts one hand casually into the air.

There's no flare of light, it just appears.

A steaming bowl. Rich with the smell of spiced broth and slow-cooked meat. A chunk of bread beside it, split open and glistening, freshly torn from the oven. The scent hits me like a truck, leaning in despite my brain protesting. He sets the bowl down beside me, and lowers himself to the floor. Crosses his legs and pulls the bowl between us. I try to grab the spoon, my fingers close around air. The whimper I release is pure seething frustration.

"No strength left?" he asks gently. "Tsk. What would you have done without me?"

"I'd have died alone and happy." I croak.

He chuckles. Actually chuckles. This is all charming. Then he picks up the spoon and dips it into the soup. No way. Absolutely not. I stare at him. My breath is shallow, but pride is still deep, tangled up in what's left of my ribs. But as the steam rises, my stomach growls. Traitor.

He raises the spoon.

I don't move.

He waits.

The salty, warm broth hangs between us, tempting me. I am using every ounce of willpower to stop myself from leaning forward and taking it. The strength-giving, healing sustenance is right there. My resolve snaps, I lean forward and open my mouth to receive his offering.

And hate myself for it.

The broth hits my tongue and I want to sob again. The warmth. The salt. The reality is that it's the first real thing I've tasted in a long time. It slides down my throat and I swear I feel color return to the inside of my skull.

I swallow. He spoons again, and I let him.

Over and over. I'm drowning out my inner bitch, screaming at me that this is the most degrading, infuriating, soul-splitting thing I've ever done. He feeds me until the bowl is empty. Until the bread is gone. Until my stomach aches from the shock of not being empty anymore. Then he wipes the corner of my mouth with his thumb, slowly and deliberately, and speaks.

"That's better."

A scream is right there, hiding on the other side of my teeth. No matter how hard I try to force it out. It's stuck behind something sickening.

Gratitude.