Chapter Twenty-Six
Madelyn
The first swallow burned all the way down. But by the time I take a third, my throat just feels numb.
Much like my heart.
My head tingles from the alcohol, another new sensation. The only other type of drink I've tried is those flavored coolers from the local gas station. But this vodka is hitting fast... and hard. Something it has in common with Jackson.
Jackson. The conniving asshole. All that he does, he does with calculation.
Right down to this. But him stitching me up doesn't make sense.
Jackson has left me before, a crying ugly mess, complete with minor cuts and scrapes.
Never once did he stay. Never once did he care too.
My heart rate increases, either from the vodka or my own lucid thoughts.
.. and yet here he is, not running away.
Still…another thought squeezes into my subconscious. I’ve tried everything to get Jackson to spare my life except downright begging and pleading or mentioning his family. That is something I am terrified of doing. Would it be enough to tip Jackson over the edge? Maybe. But should I risk it?
Jackson slips a glance my way before continuing his preparations. With needle in hand, he situates the thread and sutures, ever so carefully. I've never seen him be this gentle about anything. I force myself to swallow.
“You’re ready”, he states without confirming. “Stay still while I do this.” He brings the needle up to my chest, and I fight against my automatic response to shut my eyes.
I want to see this. See him. In this light. Just in case it never happens again.
“One…two…three...” Jackson inserts the needle into my skin. His fingers are still and precise, but that is not enough to avoid the sting.
I hold my breath as he completes the first stitch and prepares for the second. Pain radiates down my chest and side, causing new tears to form.
Jackson pauses, “You need to breathe, little fire.”
I know.
But somehow, I can't.
Maybe it's the alcohol. Or that I am truly facing my own mortality tomorrow.
My body has had enough. It refuses to listen to my request for air.
I shake my head to convey that I am struggling.
Panic sets in just as Jackson puts the tools down.
His hands take hold of my nape and pull me so close our foreheads are touching.
“Listen to me,” he whispers, eyes locked into mine.
Heat rises within them. My lungs burn with effort, and I manage a quick breath. “It's almost over. Only a couple more.”
I nod, trying to let him know I understand. He puts space between us and waits until I take another breath. Satisfied, Jackson gets back to work and completes one more stitch while I focus on not falling completely apart.
“That’s good,” he praises while rubbing his finger along the side of my cheek.
Goosebumps form where he touched, all the way down my arm.
With just one touch, my breathing slows.
“Last one,” he says before poking the needle back through to finish the job.
This time, I only feel a dull throbbing sensation. Maybe the vodka is finally kicking in.
I glance from my wound to his face and am surprised to find sweat forming across his brow. With jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, Jackson stays focused on the task at hand.
I feel a pull from my wound and look down to see Jackson cutting what’s left of the thread. It’s over. And it only hurt a little bit. Jackson slides back, admiring his work, which I have to admit doesn’t look bad.
“You were gentle,” I murmur, feeling the words sticking to my tongue.
I expect him to take offense, but instead he just shrugs. “I guess I can be.” His fingers tap against the mattress.
“You seem surprised by that?”
His eyes flicker to mine before moving toward the door. “The word gentle has not been used to describe me in a very long time.”
I debate on holding his hand to help with his obvious discomfort, but instead I busy myself with putting the supplies back into the first aid kit. “It's not a bad thing,” I say.
Jackson, clearly lost in thought, takes a moment to register my words. “What is? “
“Being gentle. Being good,” I say. “Surely that part of you is still in there.”
“Not anymore.”
I debate about pushing him further. There's still a possibility that I can reason with him.
To show him he doesn't have to take my life.
That he can turn his actions around and find justice another way.
My head swims at the thought of bringing it up.
The alcohol running through my veins doesn't help.
I brace myself. The worst thing that could happen is what he's promised tomorrow. It's worth the risk.
“I understand your desire for vengeance,” I say while placing my hand on his knee. “I really do. Your parents deserved better. But going after your brother won't bring them back.”
Jackson's focus snaps back to me. “What did you just say?” His voice echoing with anger.
My breath catches. Not out of fear, but really at the reality of how quickly his demeanor can change. “Sam,” I whisper. “She told me.” My hand squeezes his knee.
Jackson throws my hand off. “I'll kill that bitch!” he roars. The mask that was once down has now slipped back into place. His presence is nothing now. Like the type of darkness that dwells at the bottom of the sea. Cold and so deep that no light can penetrate it. His face looms over me. His eyes burn into mine, showing teary eyes. “Don’t talk about them.”