Lola
I count the seconds since the screams stopped. Maybe it’s minutes. My perception of time is gone, trapped in this windowless box, the stink of piss and bleach, my own sweat turning cold on my skin.
My hands are shaking so hard I dig my nails into my thigh just to anchor myself. There’s a camera in one corner, a red light blinking. I stare at it and dare someone to come through the door.
I want it to end. I want to get out. I want to die, maybe, or kill someone with my bare hands if it means I can walk free.
The world tilts. The lights above me flicker, then surge on, harsher than before. I hear footsteps coming at a crashing pace. A body slams against the other side of my cell door.
Brody.
Blood is all over him, splashed up into his hair. His chest heaves, ribs visible even beneath layers of black. His eyes—fuck, his eyes—burn through the room. Unhinged, savage and alive.
For a second, I don’t think he recognizes me. His hands are curled into claws at his sides. His lips are peeled back from his teeth like an animal about to sink them in. The look on his face. Terror and violence, violence and violence, and then—
He sees me. All at once, the rage flickers out, replaced by something hungrier: pure possession, worship, heat. He’s crossing the distance before I can draw breath like a hurricane intent on swallowing me.
He grabs me, pulls me up off the cot, and crushes me to his chest. His arms lock around me so tight I can’t move. Bone against bone, blood against skin.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m suffocating on the shock of him, on the drumming of his heart against mine. He’s real. He’s really here. I’m not hallucinating, not this time.
I choke on his name. “Brody—” It comes out a whimper, a gasp, part sob, part prayer. His body shakes against mine. “You’re here.”
He shakes his head, presses his cheek to my hair.
Warm breath fans my ear. “Baby, you can’t get rid of me that easily.
” Every word is shredded, heavy with emotion.
“I came back for you. I came back to kill these fuckers and save you. And to tell you I’m sorry.
I’m so fucking sorry for all the pain I caused you. I should’ve fucking listened.”
My legs go soft. I sag into his arms, pulse roaring so loud it drowns out the world. I’m dizzy with relief, with horror, with whatever acid is running through my veins right now.
I try to speak, but all that comes out is, “Thank you—oh my god, thank you—” I want to ask how, I want to ask if it’s over, if he’s hurt, if he even knows what he looks like right now.
The blood, the bruises, his lip split open, the wild light in his eyes like he’s been resurrected just to tear this building apart for me.
His hand comes up, thumb stroking my cheek. It’s gentle. Unbelievably gentle. The pad of his thumb smears away something wet from my skin. Blood, I realize, not mine.
He cradles my face in his palm, studies me like I’m a miracle. Then he shakes his head again. “No time, Bambi. We have to go.” His voice is fierce, a growl spat between clenched teeth.
He yanks me through the open door. Hell waits on the other side.
The hallway is lathered with blood, a river pooling down the walls and across the tile floor.
Bodies everywhere. It's impossible to tell how many. Men are draped over each other, faces caved in, throats opened up from ear to ear. Eyes wide and glassy if their heads are still in one piece. Some of them leak red foam from between their teeth. Some are missing pieces. Black holes in their guts, exposed rope of something gray and pulsing, bone shards splintered through skin. Some skulls are so crushed in, they don’t even look human anymore.
The stink. Rot and copper so sour it makes me gag. Vomit crawls up my throat; I choke it down.
Brody keeps me close, one arm banded around my waist, body shielding me from god knows what else. Every inch of him is vibrating with tension. I feel the heat rolling off his skin.
“Don’t look,” he says. Voice flat, lethal, barely above a whisper. “Just stay with me.”
But I see everything. I can’t not see. It’s everywhere.
My shoes slide in blood, my foot almost skidding on a chunk of meat. I don’t want to know what it was. Brody’s grip tightens, steadying me, moving us forward. He never hesitates. Never sidesteps the bodies. He walks straight through the horror, taking me with him.
Another corner. Something moves, a guard, gun raised, hand shaking. He’s yelling, but I can’t hear the words. It’s all static in my skull.
Brody lunges, faster than the gun. He tackles the man, drives his knife into the guy’s stomach, over and over. The guard screams, then gargles. Brody’s blade slices up, then across the throat. Blood explodes, spattering my shirt, my arms, flecking my lips. Warm and viscous.
I stagger back, bile scorching my tongue. My hands tremble in Brody’s.
Another guard tries to run, yelling for help. Brody draws a pistol and puts a bullet in him. The man drops, twitching. Brody’s boot comes down on his skull, hard enough to split it open. Wet crack, then nothing. Bits of hair and bone spatter the floor.
I want to scream, to hide from Brody, from all of this, but I meet his eyes and there’s nothing but love in them. Something obsessive and consuming. The kind that kills. The kind that would set the world on fire just to make space for me.
Every corpse on the ground—every torn throat, caved-in eye socket, gut leaking filth—he did that for me. For me.
My knees lock. My stomach caves in. I can barely breathe, but I don’t let go of his hand.
He leads me through the next checkpoint, where another man waits, gun leveled. Brody grabs him by the back of the head, shoves his face into the concrete wall so hard the skull cracks, like stepping on a rotten melon. The man goes limp, leaving a smear of blood and hair behind.
Brody turns to me, eyes black and shining, “Nobody will ever touch you again. I swear to you. I’ll kill anyone who tries.”
Something in me shudders. I believe him.
Brody’s already dragging me faster, down another hall, through a steel door that opens up into the freezing dark.
The air hits me like a shock. Brody doesn’t slow down. He keeps me tucked under his arm, hauling me through a wreckage of corpses, trailing footprints and blood all the way out. My mind is static. All I see is red.
We reach a parking lot. Vans line up like blank-faced sentries.
Every one probably belongs to the men who wanted to keep me locked away and broken.
Brody fishes a ring of keys from his pocket, could be off one of the dead.
He picks a van, wrenches open the door, and shoves me into the passenger seat.
He’s breathing hard, shaking. Blood is everywhere. All over him, all over me. His hands tremble when they touch the wheel.
He looks at me—one split second—and it’s worship, it’s hunger, it’s everything at once. “We’re almost out. Just a little further.”
The engine throbs to life. Behind us, the nightmare blares and howls, alarms etched into the bone of this place forever.
In front of us: night. Cold. Freedom, maybe, if we can make it.
As we peel away from the scene, my mind stutters and trips. I glance down at my blood-soaked shirt, the smear on my arm, the mutilated bodies sprawled behind us.
I glance at Brody, at the monster—the angel—who ripped the world apart just to reach me.
This is love. This is violence. This is what it means to matter to a man with nothing left to lose. I don’t know if I want to cry, or kiss him, or jump out of the moving car.
Instead I just grip the edge of the seat until my knuckles turn white, and let him drive us into the dark.
Blood dries sticky on my skin. Brody’s hand never leaves mine; I stare at our tangled fingers. I will never be the same. I am grateful, and horrified, and I don’t know how to let go of either. Brody saved me. He killed for me. He loves me so much it could burn me alive.
I sit in the freezing van, the engine roaring, my heart a dead thing and a new thing in my chest, and I wonder if this is what it means to finally belong to someone.
Not sure if I hate it. Not sure if I love it. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s always been both. Or maybe it’s my body being in shock from all the trauma, and reality hasn’t caught up to me yet.