"Hey. My name's Dean. It's okay, it's alright. Me and Sammy ain't going to hurt you."
"Dean, I don't think she's really hearing you."
...
"Yeah, she is. You hear me, don't you? Just haven't decided to trust me yet. We're gonna work on that."
Soft words spoken from a hard face. Not ugly, far from it. Not old, but older than me. Soothing comfort coming from a man who moments ago stabbed another man through the heart. He stabbed that man. . . that thing . . . that not-man thing. Stabbed it dead. Killed it so I could live. Then he knelt in front of me, full of danger and grace. More grace than I could have expected.
"She's in shock."
"I know, Sammy. And she's really hurt, too. Is all this her blood?"
"Call an ambulance?"
"Nah. We'll take her."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really. Did you see how she fought that thing? Girl deserves some respect. She fought like a hunter, Sammy. We can treat her like one."
He leans closer from his crouched position and whispers, "I'm gonna pick you up now. Only way you're gonna move, sweetheart. You ready?"
Sticky, sweaty, itchy, I want nothing more than to be lifted from the muck into which I'd been thrown. But he stabbed that not-man thing. The one behind him comes closer and he's so big and he's holding a gun and I can't, I can't.
"Move back, Sam," the graceful one says, commands.
"What? Why?"
"She is not liking you looming over her, you Sasquatch. Back up."
The one with the gun is gone and it's just me and the one who stabbed but has the gentle ways. He killed but he saved me. Does one redeem the other? I see him grin. My eyes are blown wide. I feel how dry they are but I can't close them so I see how he's asking for trust. Or faith. I manage a nod. I think I do, I must have done.
"Okay. Up we go."
So much pain. White hot, white out, white noise pain. It's everywhere. Is there a part of me that isn't broken? Certainly my mind is collapsed to have seen what I just saw. Surely my heart is sqeezed tight by this contradiction in whose arms I rest.
"What...?" It's all I can manage to ask. The questions are too many and too hard to fully form.
"Don't talk before we can patch you up. You're making the cut in your lip bigger." Spoken as if spoken before, not new, not horrible.
My eyes, still open but heavy, so heavy, so much heavier, roll to the side, seeking, searching behind him.
"We'll talk about it. I'll tell you. I promise." He means it. I think he does.
The tall one who has a gun brushes by us and I tense, pain flaring, fear tightening. I see him drag the dead not-man thing behind a dumpster. Gripping tight to flannel cloth, clutching to the one who holds me without any clear intent of malice, shrinking away from a sight that is just a macabre continuation of the horror I've been through this day.
"She's afraid of me," the giant clean-up man with a gun says, a look that could be sadness on his face.
"No, she's not. Are you? You aren't scared of Sammy! He's a puppy. You just haven't been given the puppy dog eyes yet. He's good. He's my brother. It's okay." Soothing, gentle, smoothing over the danger.
Into the warm, soft, leather interior of a large car. Nestled, safe, away from the not-man thing. The graceful one behind the wheel, the big one with the gun, gun put away at last, in the seat beside him. Riding along, driving away, into what?
"Where?" I ask with mouth mostly closed, needing to now have an idea of where safety will be, if it's safety at all.
"We have a room not far from here. There are enough medical supplies to clean you up and see how much damage that thing did." I bore a whole into the back of the tall one's head. I wasn't talking to him and he knows it but answered anyway. I latch onto the words, though, and realize that they mean to try to take care of me. Why? Why is it up to them? But I am moving beyond caring. Moving into blackness in the warm, soft leather car that's taking me away.
"Dean. Hey, she's coming around."
Soft but scratchy, more give than the car, lying down looking at a dirty ceiling. I must be in their room. I hear only the giant but he's called to the gentle one. Please be here. Please be here, Dean.
"Welcome back," he grins as he enters my field of vision, my eyes not so blown, not so dry. "You've been out for a while, but that's a good thing. Sammy had to stitch up your lip and a cut on your head. Hey, now, don't cut your eyes at him like that. He helped you, you know. Same as me."
Disappointing him is not something I want to do. He's been a lifeline.
"Thank you," I say, rasp, whisper to Sam. He smiles, not just his face, mouth, but his eyes, his whole body. He nods. And it's done.
"What's your name, sleepyhead?"
"Grace."
"Pretty name for a beautiful girl," said like it is not the first time, not new, not special for me.
"Safe?"
"Yes, Grace. You're safe. It's gone. We killed it."
"You're safe? Okay?"
He grins again, more humor, "Oh, yeah. I'm fine. No sweat."
"So dangerous out there."
Real laughter. "Danger is my middle name."
I smile, I think I do, I must have done because he smiles too and helps me sit up, holding the bandages to my side. "What was it? You said you'd tell me."
"Well, I think you already know. Everything is real . . ."