5. Ruin
Chapter 5
Ruin
The first thing I feel when I wake up is the heat. Sometimes, when my body fully remembers itself—every ligament, every tendon, every millimeter of skin and muscle and bone—that’s all I feel. The memory of the flames licking across my skin. I know it isn’t real, because my body hasn’t fully been mine since that night twelve years ago.
Part of it belongs to me, but the fire stole the rest.
This time, however, the throbbing heat has a pulse. Every thick layer of flesh on my body burns with unmistakable heat, the topmost layers of skin having melted away to reveal the wet flesh underneath, my blood boiling and turning to steam, clouding my vision so that all I see is a red haze and all I taste is charred flesh. I crack through the plate of rust covering my eyes and blink up at a starless sky, knowing that even if the fire is out, I’m still burning on the inside.
A part of me will always be burning.
Voices float through the air, obscuring the erratic beat of a heart monitor, O2 sensors, and every other wire connecting me to life. The doctors and nurses in the room watch with bated breath as I pull at the cords, a few of them helping disconnect me, while a few others ensure that I keep the most important needles and tubes embedded in my skin.
I don’t much care for them, can barely feel the tug inside my veins and the pull on my skin, but on some level, I understand the necessity.
What am I without a body to ground me to the earth?
I still need answers to questions I cannot ask, so for now, I relent.
But that doesn’t mean I stop moving.
Her face is like a beacon in the darkness, calling me closer. I can hear voices—all familiar—but there’s only one I truly listen for as I shuffle from one room to the next, the weight of my muscles finally settling onto the bones, making it harder and harder to move as the drugs the doctors have given pump through my system.
I’m not supposed to be awake—but I am.
I’m not supposed to be alive —and yet.
She’s standing in front of me, her eyes glistening with unshed tears and her gentle hands hovering on the precipice of touch. My body aches for more than the pain, and suddenly, it’s as though I’m falling, falling, falling—into her open arms.
Everything hurts, but this—the press of her lips on my forehead, the ghost of her breath across my bare cheek, the way her soul stares into mine—somehow, this hurts a little less.
I think I might be ready for a little less and then, maybe, a little more , too.
In time.
Celia takes a breath, her bronze eyes shimmering like pennies in the rain. “You shouldn’t be up yet.” She slips her hand in mine and leads me to one of the beds lined up in neat rows like narrow coffins, unaware that the only thing I see in The Box is Death, and the only thing I hear are its rattled moans whispering secrets about the other side. I don’t tell her this, because I don’t want her to hear them, too.
The voices of the damned begging for scraps of our lives.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m the only one who hears them, or if we’re all pretending as we look the other way and paint smiles on our faces.
But the smile Celia gives me isn’t one of feigned pity or grief—it’s relief, overwhelming as she gently coaxes me into lying down and slips onto the mattress with me, careful not to tangle inside my double-IVs. My body is covered in gauze and tape from head to toe, but Celia rests her cheek on my chest anyway, listening to the beat of my heart in the exact way I want to listen to hers.
“Sleep with me, Ruin,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. “Just for a little while.”
Slowly, I lift my fingers to her hair and weave them through the silky strands, knowing that I’m dirtying her, understanding that I’m ruining her, but unable to help it.
She might be ruining me, too.
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and the pain eases from my limbs as I drift away into the darkness of slumber, guided by the gentle glow of Celia’s light as she keeps the whispers of Death at bay.
I sleep, and for once, I dream.
Not of screams, or heat, or pain.
But of the parts of my body that have long been missing finally returning home, lured by the subtle glow of a once-weeping soul nestling next to mine.
* * *
Neither the police nor the bratva have found the college girl. I overhear my brothers discussing the details while Celia sleeps soundly beside me. Sitting up pulls at my bandages, but I do it anyway, knowing that stretching my body’s limits is part of the healing process. I’m not burned nearly as badly as I was thirteen years ago, so in theory, I should heal much faster. Even if I don’t, I can’t lie here forever.
No matter how tempting the woman beside me.
I reach around the mattress and find the hidden tear in the side, slipping my fingers through the slit to pull out a rolled-up bag of pot from when I was last here. Rebel perks up at the sight, quickly coming over to help me roll a blunt and share in the spoils. He has to step outside to light up, but once he’s back, I can see the tension slipping from his shoulders as he exhales a cloud of smoke. I do the same after he hands me the blunt, inhaling as deeply as I can and holding it until my lungs burn.
The nurses disapprove, with the bravest of them scowling at us from across the room as she rolls away oxygen canisters, but none of them try to stop us. They know we’ve been through hell more than once, and one little game of puff, puff, pass isn’t going to kill us.
Celia stirs from her slumber, cracking her eyes open to peer up at us through the smoke. Once her mind catches up to what she’s smelling, she chuffs, running a hand through her tangled hair and down her face. “Unbelievable.”
Rebel kneels on the edge of the bed and leans over me to grin at her. “Want a hit?”
She crinkles her nose. “No thank you.”
Exhaling in her face, he steals a kiss and hums against her lips. “It’ll help with the stress.”
“I’m not stressed.”
“Mmmhm.” Rebel kisses her cheek before returning to his side of the bed. It’s a tight fit with the three of us, so he slips onto the cot beside ours. “We’re getting ready to roll out. Mikhail said something about a trip to the police station.”
Celia looks over to the table with only Thanatos and Rage still present. “He’s good at that kind of thing.” She waves her hand in the air. “Smoothing things over. Talking to people.” Quieter, she adds, “Maybe they’ve found Sara.”
I share a look with Rebel, both of us unsure of the best way to respond. The marijuana is a little stale but working wonders, and it loosens my tongue. “Maybe there is nothing to find.” My voice scratches my throat, and I have to clear it. I take another hit before passing the blunt to Rebel. “It’s a good thing, krosotka . She is better off being dead.”
Wringing the thin bedsheet in her hands, Celia shakes her head. “You’re wrong. There’s so much to live for.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I run my palm over Celia’s soft thighs. This might be something to live for. I wonder if Sara has that—something to hold on to through the pain of life.
Clearly, my father does.
I wish he didn’t.
Rage wanders over while Thanatos walks the long stretch of hallway and through the front door, stepping into the morning sunlight without a single moment’s hesitation. Unlike him, leaving the cool, dark comfort of The Box is going to hurt me. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, knowing that my last seconds of comfort are in this moment. The subtle warmth of Celia’s body, the weight of her against my side, the drugs pumping through my system.
I can hear the medical team preparing to-go kits for us, mine undoubtedly being the largest. One of them clears her throat and wanders closer, the patter of her footsteps like falling rain on the sidewalk. “Excuse me, Miss Monrovia?”
The soft click of Celia’s throat as she swallows precedes her voice. “Yes?”
“Could you come with me for a moment? I’d like to show you the contents of each medical kit and how to use them. Our patients don’t always follow instructions once they leave, especially when it comes to their after-care—” There’s a flinty edge to her voice, like she’s speaking from experience. “And these boys in particular like to skip steps.”
Ah, so she is.
I don’t remember her name, but she must remember ours to keep up with our charts and medical history. Briefly, I wonder what they say about us. Negligent with wound care, orders too many refills, misses his checkups—the possibilities are endless, really, when you consider how anal Rage is about protocol and how lax Rebel is with procedure. It’s almost enough to make me smile.
But what really works is the feel of Celia’s lips gently pressing a kiss to my scarred cheek. My chapped lips quirk up into a crooked smile. She spares me a quick glance and smile of her own before slipping away to follow the nurse across the room, and all three of us watch her go. I press my fingertips to my cheek, expecting the tingle from her touch to disappear. I’m grateful when it doesn’t.
“You’re blushing,” Rebel teases, pointing what’s left of the blunt at my face. “Damn, bro, she’s got you good. ” He snickers and stubs the roach against his cargo pants. Both of my brothers have dressed, neither of them in their usual attire, leaving me the odd man out wrapped in little else than gauze and tape.
Rage stares intently at me. “How are you feeling?”
It takes me a moment to piece together the right words. “Like I’m floating.” I stare at Celia as she sifts through the contents of each of our medical packs. I’m not sure if it’s the medicine or the pot or the woman standing in front of me, but for at least this one moment, I’m okay.
Maybe better than okay.
I take a deep breath, awaiting the tightness inside my lungs, for the moment the pain burrows deep and latches onto my organs, but whatever feeling persists is a dull ache rather than a roar. I can live with that.
“Are you sure?” Rage narrows his eyes as he scans my body. I know he’s not looking for injuries on the outside—he’s trying to glimpse what could be hidden within. Trauma exists in more than the physical plane—its scars the brain, too.
But as long as I don’t think about?—
I cut off the violent crackle of flames inside my head with the sound of Celia’s voice, listening intently as she asks the medic questions. “I’m fine,” I tell Rage, knowing that he won’t believe me but saying it anyway. I have to be fine, or he won’t let me leave The Box. Thankfully, however, Rage’s need to win against our father makes quick work of any hesitation he has.
Admitting that I’m hurt means that Dad won. Pretending that I’m fine—that all of us are fine—is how we take our next steps… away from the flames… and toward the woman holding the brightest possible future for our family in her hands.