#killrusso

     funny how much taller those stairs look when she’s breathing through a couple of cracked ribs.  she’s been contemplating her ascent for an hour now  —  at least,  she thinks it was an hour;  maybe it was six  —  and the whole thing seems on the same level of difficulty as summiting everest.  breathing is touch and go.  she can get in small sips only,  like her lungs don’t know how to inflate any further.  part of that’s the pain,  white hot,  every time she tries.  her lip is split in two places and she has a jackhammer of a headache.

     had it been anyone else to come through that door,  she would have gone straight for her knife.  but she knows the tread of those boots.  she knows what frank’s footsteps sound like.  he drops down into a crouch in front of where she’s leaning,  half - slumped against the wall,  and what he’s asking is almost too much to process.  almost makes her want to hush him because it’s doing nothing for the throbbing behind her eyes.

     “i’m workin’ up to it,”  she says,  through clenched teeth.  “quit fussin’.”

     his second question goes unanswered,  and she’d have better luck convincing water to flow uphill than convincing him not to worry.  a sharp breath is pushed out in a near - hiss,  her fists balled so tightly that her knuckles are white.

     “loretta  —”

     “—  ‘m fine.”  it’s an old lie.  he never falls for it.  that’s when she reaches for him with one hand,  the other braced on the floor beside her.  “you gonna keep gawkin’,  or help me up?  there’s a bottle’a bourbon upstairs with my name on it.”

     "no shit.” there’s a lot more built up behind those two words, and she can feel its pressure climbing her throat to kick at the backs of her teeth. her chest hurts, like it’s full of rocks, because she knows her options and she hates every single one of them.

    frank had called the guy a friend. that’s the only reason she isn’t arguing as much as she could be. a friend, someone he trusts, somewhere she can hole up for a few days until he straightens this out for her. she gets it; that doesn’t mean she likes it. her composure cracks like old clay and she wants to tell him no and i can handle this and i don’t need anybody’s damn help and she never quite gets the words out. she wants to ask why she can’t just crash at karen’s place instead.

     what comes is a demanding, “why can’t i just stay with you?”

     he’s sitting adjacent to her on the couch, fixing her with that infuriating, unyielding stare. “because it’s not safe, that’s why.”

     “’n what, this curtis guy’s got bulletproof walls? hidden arsenal behind the bookcase?”

     “c’mon, don’t start that shit —”

     “nowhere’s safe. don’t start that shit.”

     she folds her arms and draws her knees up, already knowing she’ll be at curtis’ this time tomorrow no matter what else she says today. he doesn’t say anything for a while. prompts her with a hey when he finally does, and when she looks at him, ready to be disappointed, he says, “i’m gonna come back for you, you know that, right?”

     yeah, she knows that. like he knows it’s exactly the right thing to tell her. she considers trying to push this over the cliff’s edge anyway, because that wasn’t a fair play, but ultimately decides against it.

     “fine,” it’s a grouse and a sigh rolled into one, but that’s mostly for show. he’ll come back. he always does. “guess i can play nice for a couple days, if it’ll stop you gettin’ all ornery on me again. that’s the best i got. you satisfied?”

       their whole group’s been a melting pot brought to a steady boil for days.  supplies are scarce;  the nearest weapons cache,  one of frank’s,  allegedly one of many he’s got scattered across the country,  had been cleaned out.  coming to blows was an inevitability.  it’s the lack of a build - up that has him chasing the impulse to draw while his hand flexes at his side.

       he can take a punch.  learned that a long time ago,  way back in middle school the first time somebody squared up on the playground.  he’s lost count,  since then.  but frank doesn’t hit like a kid or a pissed off perp or rick or jenna  —  frank hits like a damn tank.  must’ve held back a little,  shane thinks,  otherwise his jaw would’ve cracked under the pressure and he would be doing more than spitting blood and what looks like a molar onto the dirt.  that’s still an ache he’ll be feeling for days.

       “—  so that’s how it is,  huh?”

       he spits again,  wipes his mouth with his palm.  everything’s red.  his hand,  the ground,  the whole world painted crimson.  the rise and fall of his chest is heavy.  anger,  exertion.  it takes everything not to return the favor.

       if there’s an explanation,  frank doesn’t offer it.  just stares him down with the same look he’s probably given dozens,  hundreds,  of others before now.  hundreds of others who’d flinch,  maybe put their hands up in surrender,  start to beg,  whatever else.  all shane does is stare him down right back.

       “look,  man,  you do what you gotta do.  feel like y’ wanna take another swing,  beat my ass int’ the ground,  that about right?  least gimme a reason for it,  see,  ‘cause last i checked,  you ‘n me  —  we’re on the same side.”

     he’s amazingly calm for somebody who’d killed a man,  pulled a kid out of a car trunk,  and taken an elbow to the face,  all within the last forty - five minutes.  in contrast,  she’s like a feral cat  —  skittish,  bristling,  tucked into the corner of the room’s only chair.  it’s a wonder she’s not hissing with bared teeth.  regardless,  he keeps his distance.  kept it the whole walk back,  before and after she’d told him,  point blank,  i know who you are.  as if the skull decal isn’t enough of a tip off.  she watches the news.  what he’s doing all the way down in the ass - end of kentucky,  she still doesn’t know.

     no hospitals.  she’d made that clear.  she isn’t hurt,  not really;  a bruise or two,  marks on her wrists.  nothing serious,  nothing she can’t handle.  how ‘no hospitals’ turned into this,  she doesn’t know either.  holing up in a shitty motel room with the goddamned  punisher  isn’t quite the turn she’d pictured her night would take,  but then again,  neither was the car trunk.

     five or ten minutes ago,  he’d asked if she wanted to go home.  she told him there wasn’t much of one to go back to so there was no sense in hurrying.  why rush,  she’d said.

     “for starters,  you’re alive.”  that’s what he came back with.  that’s why she’s looking at him strangely,  like the sentiment is somehow lost on her.  she has a matched set of crescent - shaped shadows beneath eyes rimmed with pale red,  mouth a little swollen,  hair forming a halo of frizz at her temples and the crown of her head.  you’re alive.  she doesn’t know what to do with that.  how to make it fit in her mouth when her tongue feels too big.

     “that s’posed t’ mean somethin’?  prompt a catharsis,  moment’a clarity  —  gimme a new lease on life?”

     don’t misunderstand;  she’s grateful.  there was only one solid ending to all this before he showed up,  and it didn’t involve a motel.  or,  maybe it did.  maybe they would’ve found her body in a room just like this one,  only it wouldn’t have been a  room,  it would’ve been a crime scene.  maybe they wouldn’t have found her body at all.  she’s accustomed to the smell of dirt and grit,  and that earthy,  rotten darkness drifting up from the bottom of a mine shaft.  she’s kissed death on the mouth twice before this,  and that’s twice too many times for someone who’s barely pushing sixteen.  so,  she’s alive.  so  —  ?  so what?

     there’s something in his eyes like understanding,  like  i get it  without the pity.  she hates pity.  she got enough of that after her mama died,  and then her daddy,  and it makes her want to swing.  but he isn’t giving her that.  he’s giving her something genuine,  stripped clean of any bullshit.

     it unsettles her,  only because it’s unfamiliar.

     she squirms,  repositions,  draws the sleeves of her flannel down over her hands.  the loud bray of her heartbeat reiterates what he said.  you’re alive,  you’re alive.

     “…  whatever.”  swallowing,  glass and grave dirt,  she drops her gaze.  “y’ don’t have t’ do that.  talk me through it  like that.  this ain’t the first time some asshole tried punchin’ my ticket,  it comes with the territory.”  so much of that is wrong,  on an intrinsic level.  so much of her life up ‘til this point has been one long line of wrong.  part of her wants to tell him,  how she was fourteen the first time and she went quietly because they had a gun on her daddy,  and she was scared,  and she’s still scared,  and she thinks she’ll go through the rest of her life scared,  but she doesn’t.  it’d be easy to tell him,  and that unsettles her,  too.

     instead,  she looks at him again.  her throat’s as dry as her tone,  but her tone doesn’t shake like her hands.  “—  reckon your timing was on point,  though.  thanks for that.”