Page 29 of Love You To Pieces

I take a breath.

I take another breath.

Then, for good measure, I take a third. Holding it in my lungs, I count to ten in my head as the uncomfortable feeling spreads, my body telling me I need to let it out and suck in another chestful of oxygen.

Or I could just…not. Sure, that’s unrealistic, but there’s a dangerous allure in just not taking another breath so I don’t have to face any of what’s outside.

I could just⁠—

No.

The thought is immediate, and my body’s visceral reaction is to violently expel the air in my lungs through my nose and mouth. I drag in another breath and shove my hair back from my face, eyes open to glare at my feet. My toes curl against the porcelain of the tub, and I watch the last remnants of blood swirl down the drain.

No.

I’ve done too much, and come way too fucking far, to let myself die here that easily. If I can escape an auto shop with only a chainsaw and a dog, I can escape Fox and Deacon Shaw.

Or at least die trying, rather than drowning myself in the shower.

That thought propels me to my feet, and I take a few last moments to appreciate the relaxing joy of the hot water. It’s probably the hardest thing in the world, harder even than launching a ship into orbit, to reach out and turn off the water. But agonizingly, I manage to do just that.

Somehow.

The bathroom feels too silent, almost oppressively so, without the hot water pounding against my skin. I’m half relieved that the mirror is too fogged up to see my reflection, though I wipe my hand across it to catch sight of my face in the half-clear glass before the steam takes over again.

I don’t look much better, is my final consensus. With the blood gone and the grossness finally out of my hair, it even looks normal, instead of a rusty color and caked together. It’s still tangled, but I don’t see a brush in here.

But my face?

I look exhausted. Hollow.

Haunted, if I’m being honest. There’s something in my eyes that wasn’t there a few days ago, and a big part of me worries it’ll never go away. That I’ll always be this wretched, terrified thing who stares into mirrors like a Victorian child’s ghost haunting some asylum.

Just to be sure of things, and because I can’t leave well enough alone, I wipe the mirror again.

Yep.

There she is.

Still there, still haunted, still dark-eyed with lips that aren’t usually so pale and looking more hollow-cheeked than I ever have before. The mirror fogs back over a little slower this time, and by some trick of coincidence, my eyes are the last thing I see before it’s all clouded up with steam.

I decide I don’t need to look again. Not until I figure out how to escape this place and this current look I’ve got going for me.

Once I’m dry and my hair is damp rather than dripping water onto the floor, I examine the clothes Fox left for me. The grey t-shirt smells like him, and it’s soft like it’s seen the washing machine more than a few times. The flannel is just as soft and warm; its smell is just as heady to my lungs when I inhale. On the other hand, the navy sweatpants feel a little more pressed, a little more taken care of, like they were meticulously folded and kept in a drawer to preserve their form. Still, they’re soft enough that my raw, bruised knees don’t complain, and by the time I open the door, I’ve even scrubbed my shoes clean-ish.

Well, at least cleaner.

But not clean enough, judging by the way Fox looks at them with a wrinkled nose and narrowed eyes. I can almost see the pure insult in his gaze as he takes them from me, being careful not to touch the still-stained fabric of the tongue and toes. “We’re going to keep these, uh, by the back door. Or at least not on any carpeted surface.” He drops them back to the bathroom floor, and before I can protest, his fingers slide around my wrist to pull me out into the hallway with him.

“Where are we going?” I stumble after him across the hardwood that’s smooth beneath my bare feet.

He doesn’t answer, only hums that stupid song I know I’ve never heard before in my life. But he doesn’t need to when he opens a door halfway down the upstairs hallway to reveal the room I was locked in earlier.

It’s better than the dog kennel.

“Your hair is a mess,” Fox informs me almost gently, turning to run his fingers through a few strands near my face. “Let me help you?”

Somehow, it doesn’t really feel like a question, no matter how it’s phrased. I’m too reluctant to do anything that may seem disagreeable, given the circumstances. But I don’t expect him to pull me over to the bed before sitting down behind me, my back pressed to his leg that’s folded in front of him.