Page 94 of Hurt

Words wouldn’t come. His mouth was dry, and he couldn’t swallow past the dirt and emotions clogging his throat.

Roland extended a water bottle toward him. Weakly he took the drink and struggled with the cap. His fingers felt too thick and wouldn’t bend properly. Taking pity on him, Roland took the bottle and unscrewed the cap. Holding it to his lips, he dribbled the water in slowly.

Swallowing was difficult, but he managed to swish the water around his mouth and clear it.

The hand holding the plastic bottle was covered in blood. A large laceration ran across the back of his hand, and blood sluggishly drained down his wrist.

“…what…” It was all Kurt could manage.

Roland looked at him impassively. Crouched in the desert, the hulking man in a crisp suit looked about as out of place as Kurt felt.

“Bullet grazed my hand.”

Taking another sip of water, Kurt reached up to touch his head. Warm blood soaked his fingers. There was pain, but he couldn’t feel any gaping holes.

Finally able to breathe a little easier, he looked back up at Roland.

“Why?”

The gangster cocked his head, taking in Kurt’s fragile body without answering. His penchant for silence was usually irritating, but today, it was infuriating.

“Why? You hate me, so why save me?” he rasped, words grating on his sore throat like sandpaper.

Roland looked surprised by his words. “I’ve never said that.”

“Please.” Kurt would have rolled his eyes if he could have. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Roland looked at Willow like she was all things bright and wonderful while Kurt was the winter: A suffocating cold that blanketed the world in a wet gray. An icy absolute that kept all things bright from flowering.

Even drunk, he had seen it the night Roland had asked Willow to come to Weaver Syndicate with him.

It was the reason he knew Willow would be safe with him.

“I cannot hate you,” Roland said as he stood and dusted his pants off. “Willow loves you. I cannot hate what she loves.”

Kurt stared up at him. “You love her.”

Roland nodded as if it was obvious.

“Then let me die!” he shouted, then winced as he felt his throat rip. He tasted fresh blood. “Dying is the only way I can free us! The only way I can protect her.”

His final gift. The one thing right he could do in a life filled with mistakes and pain. The thought that his family would be safe from him was the strength he needed to pull the trigger.

Flicking the blood off his hand, Roland flexed his fingers. “I want Willow to be safe. But your way will make her sad.”

A closed fist cracked into Kurt’s skull, knocking him unconscious.

“My way won’t.”

Roland looked down at the limp form of his lover’s brother and tried to imagine whatever tie Willow had to this man. All he could see was someone who had given up on life. A sick animal that had reached the end of his life, and the only thing he had to look forward to was death.

If it were up to Roland, he would have allowed Kurt to die. Not out of a personal grudge but because it’s what he wanted. Choosing to die was not an easy decision. Kurt had certainly seen enough pain to justify it. His actions were noble. Allowing him a martyr’s death was likely the best end he could hope for.

He had thought about all that as he had watched Kurt press the gun against his temple. Did Roland have the right to make this decision for him? Wasn’t that akin to taking a life? Forcing someone to breathe when they didn’t want to was the same as taking their breath away when they wanted to live. Wasn’t it?

It was a philosophical question that Roland did not have the patience nor time to debate with himself. And it wouldn’t matter what answer he came up with—Kurt couldn’t die.

Roland could tolerate many things in life. He had survived his parent’s death, was raised by an apathetic grandfather surrounded by violence and secrecy, and constantly compared to every Weaver who had ever lived more times than he could count. Expected to be a human battering ram, his fist was always in pain, and he knew too well the feeling of a skull cracking beneath his hands.