33. Knox
33
KNOX
W ho the hell goes around telling people they love them only to turn around and practically die?
It’s just plain rude.
Offensive.
Loutish.
I can’t stand the disrespect. What makes it even more like a slap in the fucking face is that no one has ever said those words to me before.
Those magical words deserve a moment to be basked in. I should be reveling in the moment. I know how deeply Thatcher and Sagan love me. It’s not the love you see on television shows or read about in books. Their love transcends all that. It’s deeper, filthier, more corrupt than that light, fluffy shit people believe in. Their love is toxic—an all-consuming rot that has taken over me, stained my soul, and infiltrated the walls I’d erected around my heart. Their love is a filthy poison with no antidote.
And I love them just as deeply.
Yet they’ve never uttered the words to me. I’ve always been ok with that. One, because it’s a rule. And two, because as long as I can feel it—as long as I’m theirs —it doesn’t matter if it’s spoken or not.
With Beatrix, however, something’s different. Her love is more subtle—a quiet, creeping presence that lulls a person into a sense of peace. Like being sealed in a room with carbon monoxide and not realizing it. Being wrapped up in Beatrix’s love is like being slowly crushed to death. It’s not painful at first. Just a little pressure here and there, until you realize it for what it is, and then you suddenly can’t breathe in its enviable totality.
But I don't want to fight the crushing weight or for someone to open the sealed room and let in fresh air.
I want to be consumed, crushed, obliterated by Beatrix’s love.
That can’t happen if she’s not alive.
Ever since I started feeling that warm sticky goo clinging to my insides whenever she comes around, I’ve known where my feelings stand when it comes to Beatrix. I should’ve told her right when I realized it—that I love her. She wouldn’t throw it back in my face or use it against me in some way. So why didn’t I? Is it because I know my love isn’t as pure as hers?
My love is rough around the edges. I’m the splinter that digs under your skin—an irritant but otherwise seemingly harmless. But I’m also the infection that seeps into your blood because you disregard the dangers of such a simple, underestimated threat.
I’m not pleasant to be around for long periods of time. I know that. My love looks unappealing because, despite the fact I can lower my guard around you, the person behind that wall is a bit of a brat. My attitude is something I’ve stopped fighting to keep at bay, and I’m quick to judge. I’m defensive and wary, possessive and needy. Beatrix has seen it all—having been around me and the twins for a few weeks now.
Despite it all, even with all my flaws, Beatrix loves me. She loves me for who I am. I can’t ask for anything better than that. Except, maybe that she fucking lives so I can show her just how much she means to me.
I watch as Thatcher slips out of the house.
The Hunt twins will catch Angel Eyes, I’m sure of that. So rather than worry about what those two are up against, I turn around to head for the kitchen.
Except as I do, the room spins. My stomach clenches painfully and the beads of sweat that gathered on my forehead earlier begin to run down my face. Shit. I reach out and brace a hand against the wall. Shannon may have thought she cleaned my damaged eye socket, but I’m pretty sure there’s an infection ravaging my body right now. I could feel the start of it yesterday. On top of the constant, heavy throbbing pain radiating from the empty eye socket that was so intense I’m surprised my skull hasn’t cracked open from it, the first signs of a new problem emerged. The rolling waves of heat and sudden, harsh chills had come on slowly, but when I recognized them for what they were, I knew I was in trouble. I haven’t mentioned it to Beatrix. She wouldn’t have been able to do anything except fret.
The pain and fever—as serious as they may be—wasn’t the most important issue at hand. Keeping positive was. It was clear that Beatrix was slowly sinking into herself. Given what she was going through, I don’t blame her. But I couldn’t let that happen. She needed the constant conversation to keep her mind preoccupied and from giving up. So I talked. I talked for hours, and even when she didn’t respond, I continued to talk. She fell asleep and woke to the sound of my voice. I didn’t, for a second, want her to think she was alone in this. While I talked, I was counting down the seconds until I could get to her. To crush her to me, to devour her in order to save her from the two fuckers who tried to claim a piece of my girl.
But this morning I had to fight to keep food down and sitting up had been difficult. When she escaped and killed Shannon, I had a burst of adrenaline. I carried her up those stairs and was certain I would’ve been able to carry her out of this house. The adrenaline is fading, though. My legs feel weak and wobbly. The room stops spinning, but I have a feeling it’ll start back up again once I begin walking. Watching Thatcher leave, I wonder if maybe I should have asked him to stay.
Well, that’s no longer an option. I’m the only one left and I need to get my ass moving. Baring my teeth and setting my shoulders, I force myself to head to the kitchen. Beatrix needs me. I can throw up and lie down later—when I know she’s safe.
“Ok, let’s get out of here,” I tell her as I enter the next room.
One glance down at Beatrix, though, and I know this is going to be hard. I might have the keys and access to a car, but getting to it is going to be a problem. Running out into the night, looking as I do with an unconscious, bloody, and naked woman in my arms doesn’t sound like a smart plan. Neighbors talk, after all.
The cops could be called and if they show up before I get out of here, questions are going to be asked. Answering them could get… complicated. I know taking her to the hospital will probably result in the authorities getting involved, but I don’t have any choice if I want to save Beatrix. So, I’ll have to think up something plausible to tell them on the way there. Until then, I need to be inconspicuous getting us out of this house.
Quickly, I get to work covering Beatrix. I carefully pull Thatcher’s sweatshirt over Beatrix’s head. She doesn’t stir. In fact, she hasn’t moved at all since she passed out. Her lips are losing color and her breathing is shallow. I left the plate shard in her gut, and now I worry jostling her might cause internal bleeding. On the flip side, I’m not a doctor, but I’ve killed enough people to know what happens when you pull the thing that’s stopping the flow of blood out of a body.
It’s a death sentence for her.
Fuck, I could lose her tonight if I don’t hurry. The thought is terrifying. I can’t lose her. Without consciously thinking about it, my gaze land on her bare feet.
She’s already bleeding out, don’t make it worse ! I snarl at myself as a thought crosses my mind. But I might not get a chance to do it another time if she dies tonight …
I’m back on my feet a second later, my decision made, I grab a knife from the butcher block and then crouch down by Beatrix’s feet.
“One second, Beatrix, then I’ll get you out of here,” I tell her.
I use the blade and get to work cutting off her left pinky toe. It’s a relatively easy feat, despite having to work with a dull knife. Get it right between the joints, and really, it’s just a tiny bit of cartilage and skin to contend with. It takes less than twenty seconds to remove the toe from her foot. Not knowing when I’ll have time to properly cook it, I raw dog it. I plop her little toe into my mouth like a goddamn M & M and swallow it.
“Now we’ll be together forever, Beatrix,” I tell her.
Instantly, I can sense her entering my bloodstream. I know it takes time for the body to break down the things you eat, but when you devour pieces of a person—you get that instant satisfaction that they’re one with you. This time, it’s no different.
With no time to bask in the thrill of having Beatrix be forever a part of me, I get moving again.
I tuck the phone and keys Thatcher handed to me into the sweatshirt pocket so I don’t have to worry about carrying them too, and I brace myself. With a steadying, determined breath, I bend down and scoop Beatrix up off the bloody kitchen floor. I stumble a moment as the room swims. My feet spread apart while I steady myself. My grip on her tightens, and I pull her close to my chest as I close my eyes.
“Faint later, asshole,” I growl to myself as more sweat beads down my face.
When I open my eyes, the kitchen has stopped spinning. In my arms, Beatrix doesn’t make a sound. She doesn’t even stir at the gentle jostling. My gut clenches tight.
“I got you, Shining Starr,” I tell her.
Unconscious, I doubt she heard me. Hell, I barely hear the words over the thundering beating of my heart. I’ve never saved anyone before—minus digging Beatrix up out of that grave. That doesn’t count, since she was there because of me. I’m a killer. Have been for a few years.
Right now, though, that's the furthest from what I want to be.
I have to protect the life that’s now cradled in my arms.
As I run out of the house through the open back door and slip around the building, praying no one sees us, I have the urge to scream for help. I tamp it down—as hard as it is to do so. I can’t draw that type of attention to us.
It’s difficult not to stumble as the world tilts on its axis. Each time it does, I have to take a second to breathe evenly before I can continue. I feel Beatrix slipping away with each wasted pause on the way to the car.
After what feels like trekking for miles, I spot the green sedan.
I have to put Beatrix down to grab the keys, unlock the car, and open the back door. When I attempt to lay her in the backseat, I’m not as gentle or as careful as I’d like to be. I practically drop her onto the seat as my arms give out.
“Fuck, sorry,” I groan as I reach up and brace myself on the door frame.
Beatrix doesn’t respond.
“Just hold on for me, Beatrix,” I plead, forcing myself to shut the back door and hurry around the car.
When I climb into the driver’s seat, I fumble to get the keys into the ignition. My shoulders sag in relief when I finally get the car to start. When we peel away from the curb, I only have one thought:
Get Beatrix Starr to the hospital before it’s too late.
Somehow, I find the hospital.
I get us there in one piece, but just barely. There were a few times I blinked and the road had turned fuzzy. Cars honked as I swerved and took turns too fast. Maybe I clipped a parked car or two? I can’t remember, and I don’t really care.
Throwing the car into park, I yank open the door and attempt to get out. I only manage to fall out of the car, landing on my hands and knees.
“ Help,” I say, my voice hoarse and slurred. “Help us… please .”
With a great deal of effort, I manage to get my feet beneath me and stand. My stomach revolts and immediately I’m folding in half and throwing up. The little bit of food I’ve consumed splatters onto the pavement.
“Sir? Are you al—” a sharp, concerned voice calls out.
“ Help ,” I manage to rasp out after I stop heaving. When I straighten slowly, I find a young woman, probably younger than Beatrix, staring at me in alarm.
“I’ll get someone,” she says, blinking away her shock before she turns on her heels and hurries inside the building.
I don’t wait for her to return. Somehow, I manage to get Beatrix out of the back of the car and into my arms. Just as I turn around, a flurry of nurses and doctors appear.
“What happened?” a doctor asks in alarm as nurses take Beatrix from me. They place her on a gurney just as another is rolled out with another handful of nurses.
I scramble for something to say. During the ride, I was supposed to come up with something to explain our situation, but I’d been too focused on trying to get us here in one piece. I can’t let them find Angel Eyes’ house. I don’t know if he has any evidence of us and our nighttime activities. But how can I possibly explain our condition? Thinking fast, I grasp at partial truths and hope to hell like I can piece them together to give me a good story to tell.
“We…my, ah, wife and I,” I start as hands push me down to the gurney. I go willingly, but I keep my eyes on Beatrix as they roll her through the automatic sliding glass doors into the hospital. I’m pushed right in after her. “We were kidnapped but, ah, managed to escape. I stole a car to get us here.”
“Kidnapped?” someone, a nurse, gasps.
“Is Beatrix going to be ok?” I ask anxiously as the nurses that are rolling her gurney put distance between us. We’re following but too slowly for my liking. I start to roll off the bed, but hands push me back down.
“We’re going to do our best to help you both ,” a doctor says between barking orders to the nurses around me.
A woman peers down at me, shining a light in my good eye. I blink at the sharp pain. She says something to the nurse beside her and that one takes down notes.
“Please, I need to make sure she’s alright,” I demand weakly. “ Please .”
“I need you to stay calm, sir. Can you tell me your name? And you said that’s your wife? What’s her name again?”
I swallow hard before answering. “I’m Knox and that’s Beatrix… Last name Keele.”
“Alright, Mr. Keele. We’re going to check you out, and when we hear anything about your wife, we’ll let you know,” the doctor says. “We’ll do everything in our power to save her.”
I nod, my head dropping down onto the shitty hospital pillow. The fluorescent lights overhead dim as I finally take a second to breathe.
It’s not an easy breath to take, but I have a feeling I won’t breathe easy until Beatrix Starr is by my side.
“Save her… please.”