Page 25

MARGOT

I can smell the man’s blood on me.

The sound of the bath running plays in the background of my muddled mind as I stare down at my abdomen. Lace clings to my belly like the chilled, thick liquid is a glue. It was hot when it touched me. And red. So red.

My eyes had opened when my assailant’s mouth ripped from my nipple and the weight of his body left. I was confused at first. He looked more afraid than I felt. I didn’t even know his jerking body was being stabbed until liquid fire spurted from his mouth onto my stomach.

I screamed. I thought I was next.

Then his body dropped, revealing Arseni clutching a knife like a mad man. He looked so enraged, I wasn’t sure if I should be scared.

I’m still not sure.

My back leaned against the filling tub, I peel the skimpy lingerie from my stomach to see the blood smear.

I close my eyes and let the lace fall while Arseni moves around the bathroom, collecting things for a bath that could never wash away tonight.

Or last night or the night before. Or even twenty-seven years before when I first witnessed death.

It’s their bodies I think of instead of the man’s from tonight.

My father’s blood under my bare feet, painting footprints on our hardwood floor.

My mother’s silk robe in the clutches of my tiny hands.

Her strangled cry.

His yells of remorse.

Him calling my name softly, gingerly, as if he didn’t plan to kill me too.

The worst day of my life.

For twenty-seven years I’ve given it that claim without a second thought of if a day could get any worse. Now, I consider it. But no, it still takes the lead.

“Fuck!” Arseni yells, slapping a hand on the porcelain wall of the tub. It makes me jump.

My eyes open as I turn to him, but he isn’t looking at me. I’m not sure he ever will again.

His forehead is pressed to the wall, his eyes clenched shut.

Regret. He’s regretful.

I wish I cared.

When water spills over the side of the tub, wetting my back, Arseni shuts off the faucet and kneels in front of me. I just stare at him and wait to see if he’ll look at my face, but he chooses my stomach instead. His head hangs low as the crease between his eyes deepens.

“Are you hurt?” he asks in a voice that sounds so uncertain. I hate him for it. I hate him for having the audacity to come to my aid when it was too late.

“Yes,” I say. Firmly . Though I know he’s talking about the blood. It isn’t mine, but that isn’t what he asked. He doesn’t deserve a moment’s reprieve from the guilt hunching his shoulders.

Clearing his throat, he tucks one hand under my knees and another around my back to lift me gently. He places me in the tub, sending water splashing onto his shirt and drenching his shoes before he removes the soaked lingerie over my head like I’m his dying grandmother, lost without him.

It’s wrong and stupid, but it makes me more aware of my age. It makes me think of the blonde he was with and the way he took her hand. Has me imagining what it must be like for her after they have sex and she’s lying on his pillow.

I doubt he cherishes her, but I bet he’s never left her lying in her own self-hatred with his cum leaking between her thighs.

Arseni spurts liquid soap onto a rag, then runs it over my arm, creating little suds of masculine scent.

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything that smells better,” he says, moving the rag across my neck, down my other arm. “I could go look for something else…”

My face has remained pretty much blank, but now it scrunches. I move my head to look at him, but of course, he’s pretending to be focused on cleaning my neck. I wonder how inflamed my skin will be before he moves lower.

“Are you fucking serious?” I ask. This makes him pause, but he doesn’t answer. Or he’s at least too slow.

“After everything you’ve done to me, this is what you’re sorry for? Not having frilly soap ?”

“No.” He shakes his head.

“Check the bedroom your psycho friend took me to. I saw plenty of girly products while I was being made to look like a whore. You could score me some perfume if you’re feeling generous.”

He leans back on his heels and lays the rag on the side of the tub. He looks off like he’s lost for words, but that isn’t good enough for me. I’ve spent so much time feeling overly sorry for him. Now I feel like an idiot.

“I should’ve shot you when I had the chance.” My voice quivers with what I tell myself is anger.

He nods. “I know.”

“I should’ve filed fucking harassment charges against you.” Water sloshes when I turn, not even sure if he follows what I’m saying. “I should’ve called the police when I busted you with pot. I should’ve sent you to jail .”

He nods again. “I know.”

“I was easy on you. I… I was kind to you.”

“I know.”

“Don’t fucking tell me you know!” I screech, my voice reverberating off the bathroom walls.

He doesn't flinch. The bastard doesn’t even flinch.

I swipe up the rag and slap it against my knee, lifting my leg to wash the touch of the dead man off me. No surprise, it doesn’t work.

“I’m sure your toddler girlfriend appreciates you giving her a bath, but I happen to be a grown woman. I can wash myself. Go the fuck away.” I say it with such bite, such confidence that it hits me like a wind-knocking blow that I don’t actually want him to leave. And I’m afraid he will.

Arseni is… I don’t know what Arseni is, but he’s all I have.

“My toddler girlfriend?”

My jaw clenched, I turn my glare his way to finally, finally see him looking at me. And the asshole looks annoyed.

“You are obsessed with age.” He shakes his head and lays his forearms on the side of the tub.

I huff and roll my eyes but can feel my face heating. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. After everything you went through tonight, you’re still managing to be jealous of some girl younger than you.”

I’m certain my face is red as a tomato now. My lips are pinched as I turn away, but I’m only forcing myself to be angry. I’m really just ashamed.

“Listen to me, Margot,” he says, drawing me back to him with his hand on my cheek. His eyes are so serious, I want to stand up just so I’m taller than him. “Listen very fucking carefully so I can say this for the last time… I do not give a shit about your age.”

I stay perfectly still, despite the urge to squirm. To fight back. To slap him just because I want to. Just because he deserves it. I don’t because I want these words, despite everything in me telling me they don’t matter.

“I do not give a shit who you’ve fucked or how old they were when you fucked them. I don’t care that you were once my foster mother. I don’t care that you think fucking me is wrong. You are a woman, and I am a man. That’s it . Anything else is just filler.”

His words make my chest hard, like it’s frozen. When I speak, even the words passing through my mouth feel cold. “Except, it is wrong. You’ve been raping me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay.”

“Is that just filler , Arseni?”

“I haven’t done anything you haven’t enjoyed.”

“Oh.” My laugh is short and bitter. “I must’ve been moaning hard tonight then, huh? ‘Cause I just loved that shit.”

He cringes and looks away. His guilt has returned.

“You can’t even look at me, let alone tell me you’re sorry. You’re a coward,” I spit with watery eyes.

“I am sorry.” After a deep breath, he turns to me. Instead of remorse, I catch anger making his brown eyes brighter. “No one is ever going to touch you again… I promise I’m going to find a way to fix this.”

“Fix what ?” I watch for him to cringe, as if realizing how moronic it is to tell me he can fix what’s already happened. But he doesn’t. His eyes hold steady onto me.

“I’m gonna get you out of here.”

My pinched face relaxes until my skin feels loose and sunken. “What?”

“I don’t know how yet, but I’ll find a way… No one is ever gonna hurt you again. You have my word.”

“Your word means nothing,” I say, but my voice is weak. Hopeful.

He nods. “I know.”

I blink at him. I think I don’t know what to say until the word slips out. “Why?”

His lips part, but he doesn’t speak. I wonder if he’s thinking about what to say. Or what his answer is.

Have I misunderstood? Is he really talking about letting me go?

My life beyond here materializes in my mind. Being on the run, or more likely, being in prison. I didn’t know it was possible, but a sudden fear rushes through me at the thought of leaving.

“Because I’m sorry,” he says.

I wait for more, but it doesn’t come.

I can’t think of anything to say. Thank you feels too ridiculous. I don’t believe you feels too repetitive.

‘How could I ever go back to my old life? ’ feels too pathetic. Because what kind of person wouldn’t jump at the chance to leave this house of horrors?

What kind of person wouldn’t jump at the chance to leave Arseni?

He stands, obviously having no more to say, and leaves me to wash myself in my grown woman bath. All I can think the whole time is how I wish he was doing it instead.