This fic marks my first trip into writing Twilight fanfiction! This will be a multi-chapter fic, although I don't know how many chapters it will be right now. It's all human, and this chapter is written from Jasper's POV, although chapter two will be Alice. I really, really hope you enjoy this—please drop me a review and let me know!
(Note: this is a repost. I took this fic down last year when I quit fanfiction, but I actually really want to continue it and so am reposting it!)
The comes from Frank Turner's song Redemption, and all of the characters belong to Meyer.
Hope for Redemption
jasper/alice, au
I wake in a damp tee-shirt and a blaze of pain, the memories of another nightmare still wrapped around my bones. It hurts to drag air into my lungs, it hurts even more to move, but I still stumble from the warm cocoon of blankets and drag the sweaty tee-shirt away from my body. The only sound in the night is the sound of my bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor and the gasping sound I'm making as I try to breathe. Panic threatens, unfurling itself in my stomach to creep through me like a poison. I pause; wait.
Underneath the artificial sounds of myself, there is more. I lean against the cool plaster of my wall with my eyes closed, trying to ignore the white-hot throbbing of my chest as I listen. There is the most predominant sound of all, the one I have had to become accustomed to, and that is the sound of the heavy rain that lashes off the windows of my small apartment on its descent to the sidewalk. The force of it rattles the slightly loose windowpane in the bedroom and I can almost hear the glass shivering in its wooden frame. I've never lived anywhere with so much rain, a phenomenon which I did occur in Houston but never to this extent, and the idea of icy, sleeting rain in Afghanistan is strange. The sound of rainfall is accompanied by tyres splashing through the puddles that line the sodden roadside, the cry of some kind of owl in the distance, and the dull hum of music from the club down the road. America is all around me—wet, civilised, and filled with other people.
The terror that threatens dissipates and my hands unclench from the fists I hadn't meant to furl them into. I am in my apartment, the one that I allowed my twin to decorate for reasons unknown even to myself, and I am safe. I count to ten and open my eyes to see the hulking shadow of my wardrobe, the outline of my rumpled bed, and the shady figures of my books that are stacked haphazardly around the room. Even with the familiar possessions dotted around me in organised chaos, I still can't shake the smell of dust, death, and gunpowder that seem to have become real during the course of the nightmare.
Snap out of it.
I turn slowly with the stiff movements of an old man, removing my pyjamas and leaving them in a heap on the floor as I head towards the bathroom, my bare feet whispering against the floorboards. I don't want to think, to remember, and so I fall into a routine. Routine, control, and order prevent me from tumbling down the slippery slope to insanity, so I cling to them.
The shower seems too loud in the quiet as I twist the taps, causing water to sputter from the shower head. My chest is still a whirl of pain and I look, without thinking, in the mirror that hangs in the bathroom. My breath catches in my throat as my hand hovers three inches from the uneven skin of my torso. For the first five months that I lived here, following the sudden move from Texas, there had been no mirror. I had left it in the box it had travelled in, swaddled as tightly as a newborn in layers of bubble wrap and cardboard, as I avoided any and all reflective surfaces, too scared that I would see a monster staring back at me. A month ago I had hung this mirror in here without looking in it—a failed attempt to convince my parents I was fine when they visited—but kept my back firmly to it whenever I entered. But tonight, without a conscious thought, I have looked in it and I don't recognise myself.
The stranger, like I used to, has a tangle of blonde hair and dark eyes. But his hair is almost like a mane around his head, from a very restless night, and his eyes are overshadowed by the smudgy bruises beneath them, clearly demonstrating how tired he is. His skin is pale, making his eyebrows stand out more than they should, two dark gold slashes of colour. But his body is the worst, so badly marred that I feel myself shudder at the same time the man in the mirror does. A few faded scars can be seen on the underside of his jaw but the base of his neck is where the real damage starts, threads of white and red twisting down into a clutter of scars that look healed but I know burn at touch. They are pink around the edges—all of them, no matter how thin or thick they are—and so little of his skin seems normal that my knees seem unable to support me.
I can feel the heat from the shower, warm against my back as it ghosts across my skin. I want to be sick, to heave until I'm empty of everything—not just food, but the emotions that I can feel rolling through me. I am drowning in the self-loathing and hatred, the repulsion of the man in the mirror. The man in the mirror, who is me.
Six months since I've looked in a mirror. Six months, half a year, one hundred and eighty-two days. Shit. One more mistake that I've made, one more error that has made me hate myself that much more. I hate who I am, I hate who those scars make me be, I hate how those scars make me feel. I want to scream, shout, roar. I want to cry until I have bled myself dry of tears but I fall back into the auto-pilot mode that got me through most of the dark days following my release from hospital.
I am on my feet and in the shower without really realising I have moved, the water striking my skin with the force of blunt needles and I tip my head as far back as it can go so that any loose, escaping tears are rushed away. I knew I was scarred. The Doctors had told me and I had seen the bloodstained bandages following numerous surgeries that the nurses had hustled away, the red staining the virgin white. The tops of them, the major scars, begin just above my tee-shirt line but they don't look as bad, just the narrow ends that disappear beneath cotton and are hidden away. But seeing it, seeing how my body had been reduced to a mass of mauled flesh, horrifies me to the extent I want to curl into a ball and take myself away from it so that I know nothing but the calm of complete, utter blackness. And with this horror comes understanding as incidents over the past months gain new meaning, like the pieces of a puzzle finally slotting together to show the bigger picture—Rosalie's tears as she found me in the bathtub, hunched over my knees with my shirt a tattered ribbon of blue on the floor from where I had torn it off as it snagged the still-tender skin around my ribs. My automatic flinch as anyone's hand neared my front—my body and mind protecting itself without any knowledge on my part. I hadn't known how badly wounded I was, but everyone else had.
A shudder runs through me as I reach for shampoo, careful to avoid looking down. Six months on and now I know what a monster I am.
"Oh, God."
Initially, I don't recognise my own voice. It sounds like it has been spoken by someone far away and underwater but I can hear the jagged sound of agony to the words; hear the desperation that colours the tone. And then I'm on my knees as the bathtub encloses me, the water still raining down as I lie in the porcelain world whilst sobs wrack my body, the sound closer to that of an animal than a man.
Six months on and, despite what I've told people, I'm not okay. I'm not okay at all.
It has reached the point that I look and act as exhausted as I feel, the bruises smudging the skin beneath my eyes, so dark they could be ink, proclaiming to the world that I survive on a diet of caffeine and sugary foods to stop myself from completely shutting down. I sleep so little that I can't remember what it feels like to be rested, the hours of the night haunted by phantoms of my past that return in the form of nightmares that leave me to wake in a cold sweat with my heart stuttering in the cage of my ribs. The scars have faded ever so slightly but I can still see them, creeping out of the top of my collar like ivy on a wall, standing out against my skin.
Three more months have passed since I looked in the mirror that night and now I have forced myself to stand before the glass every day so that I know the route every single scar takes. I could trace them onto a blank page blind folded; I can feel them when I lie still. They still hurt to touch—maybe it's something in my mind, or maybe the scars are just etched so deeply into my skin that they'll always hurt. But no one is allowed to touch them and I exist in a state of splendid isolation with the logic that if I don't let people in, I won't be hurt any more than I am.
I sigh as I press a blue towel to my face, my eyelids feeling like they are weighing my entire body down as I smooth droplets of water from the planes of my face. Another day, another nine hour day to get through before I can come home and collapse into an uneasy sleep. Another nine hour day I need to prepare myself for, to try and make it look like I'm not half-dead.
The phone rings at eight o'clock precisely, when I have just given up on trying to make myself look like I've slept and am trying to tame my hair into some kind of submission before I leave. I jump at first, my back snapping to attention as I tense up into defensive mode the way loud, unexpected noises make me do, upturning an empty coffee mug and knocking a stack of papers to the floor. I need a few seconds to come back to myself, to the small bathroom of my apartment, but I only fully calm when I see Rosalie's name flash up on the screen, managing to let my lungs relax as I breathe out and answer the call with fumbling thumbs.
"Rose."
I sound crude and curt as I speak but my twin sister either doesn't care or doesn't notice as I try to swallow the tension that I feel lingering around me. As I straighten the mug, now bearing a ugly jagged crack down the side, I notice that my hand is trembling like a leaf in the breeze.
"Jasper, thank God," Rosalie gasps down the phone line sounding frantic, an emotion which I have never associated with my sister. I hear the way her breath catches as she speaks and how she lets out a hiss of exasperation at something in her kitchen. "I thought you might have left and I need a favour."
I tug my fingers through my blonde hair one last time before turning away from the mirror and scuffing the toe of my boot over one piece of crumpled A4 bearing a page of notes in my own slanting handwriting. I am already preparing myself to soothe Rosalie's worries away, something I have been doing since childhood when she would creep into my bed to tell me her problems as we lay back to back under my checked quilt, her hand seeking mine as we'd lie in the warmth. I always imagine that is how we lay in the womb—spine to spine, bonding us for a lifetime together.
"Do you have a suit? A tuxedo kind of thing?" Rose demands as I pull my jacket off the hanger and still, wondering where this is going but not daring to ask. Rosalie's voice has risen steadily higher in the thirty seconds that we've been on the phone and I'm not entirely sure that I'm prepared for questioning her when she's wound up as tightly as a coil, ready to snap.
"Yes," I say haltingly, glancing towards the closed door to my bedroom and thinking about the tuxedo our Mom had forced me to wear for a distant cousin's wedding. "But Emmett won't fit in that, Rose, the size difference between us is—"
Rosalie cuts me off, sounding a little closer to the irritable sister I know and I understand immediately that relief over something has brought her down from the edge of nuclear eruption; we're only in danger of a melt-down now. Hysteria still clings to Rosalie's voice like a child to its mother but she is closer to manageable, and talking full speed at me. I glance out of the window to see the rolling grey clouds and a fine sheet of rain that washes down the street, cleaning away the grime of where I live.
"It's not for Emmett, stupid, I want you to wear it," she is saying and I can hear the sounds of normality from her end of the phone—the clang of cutlery, the rush of water, the radio turned on low so that it's little more than a static-backed mutter. "Emmett's coaching tonight, and the Cullens are hosting a party, so he's leaving me dateless because he's an inconsiderate assh—anyway, I need you to come with me. Please?"
I want to say no. Every weary bone in my body is pleading with me to refuse my sister, unable to consider the prospect of surviving a night of rubbing shoulders with society's elite and pretending to enjoy the stilted conversation. But the knowledge of how, since my move to Seattle, Rosalie has bent over backwards to help me out, to make sure I'm okay and that I'm coping comes to haunt me and, combined with the fact she came all the way home to Texas to see me in hospital with her football player boyfriend in tow, I can't bring myself to refuse her. A sigh whistles from my lips before I can stop it as I stand very still in the middle of my apartment, one hand still caught in the knots of my hair.
"What time shall I pick you up?" I ask her, hearing the squeal of delight that tells me I have done a good thing, the right thing, which has made Rosalie incandescently happy. And then she's off, reeling off times and places, instructing me to wear a red tie and to make sure I bring the Aston Martin. I refrain from asking what other car I'd bring, considering I only have one that our parents bought for me and which is far too expensive, but I simply close my eyes, shut down internally and try to get her off the phone as quickly and painlessly as possible. Real life beckons from the other side of my chipped white door and it's an unwelcome prospect, but one that I must attend to.
Work passes in a haze of coffee and headache pills and, far too soon for my liking, I have slid into the black suit and am driving towards Rosalie's apartment with a grim feeling lodged in my chest. Every idea crossing through my mind suggests escape, turning the car around in the middle of the traffic and driving very quickly in the other direction, but the duty that has been ingrained deeply into me, so deep that I think that you will find it in the hollows and curves of my very bones, keeps me driving onwards, to my sister. She's waiting for me when I pull up outside, every movement she makes clearly emphasizing her wealth, her beauty, and her status. Even I have to admire the vibrant red of the high necked dress she has chosen, which calls attention to the honey tones in her hair and the creamy colour of her skin. Pride mixes with the irritation that is prickling me, although it doesn't stop the frustration from nudging my mood from pleasantly dark to black. The urge to run is stronger than ever, the idea of an introduction to the society my sister is part of causes nausea to swirl in the pit of my stomach, but then Rosalie is in the car, overwhelming me with the smell of hairspray and perfume.
"Esme Cullen is lovely," Rosalie announces as she slides in, crossing her legs and clicking her seatbelt into place before I can remind her. "She's excited about meeting you, and if you desperately need some male company to bang chests and grunt with or whatever, her son, Edward, is close to our age even if he's unbelievably pretentious. She's got two kids but you can't tell—she has got a figure to die for—and her house is gorgeous, all open and glass. I don't know why we're going to a hotel tonight because—"
I know her chatter has the aim of putting me at ease about tonight, and that this is the kind of thing she will do for me alone. I do appreciate the gesture, even if she has told me all of this kind of information on numerous occasions. Her sympathy is clear and has been from the minute she slipped into the leather interior of my car and so I drown her out by starting the engine again. I feel the comforting purr and grasp the smooth steering wheel, the sense of control massaging the worry from me. I am vaguely aware of Rosalie checking her make-up whilst keeping up a steady stream of chatter that is tangled with the hidden gestures that show her gratitude—a gentle smile, the brush of her elbow against mine. Subtle, but Rosalie has never been one to expressly say things. She knows what she has asked of me and she knows that by accepting I have brought an end to the private bubble I have survived in for the last nine months.
The hotel comes into sight, the lights bright against the dark backdrop of the night sky. I indicate and follow the long stream of cars that are idly making their way towards this event—I think it's to raise money for a charity but I'm not one hundred percent sure—and I clench the gearstick tightly as nerves prickle me. I am suddenly aware of Rose's hand as she brushes her littlest finger against my neck. I pull into the car park of the Fairmont Olympic, my knuckles white from her touch that is so close to the marred disorder of my torso, the disorder that I have taken such care to hide. I can't stop the brief twitch and following flinch, however, as her hand moves down ever so slightly to hover briefly above my collarbone, where the mass of scars begin to creep their messy way down my body.
"I'm sorry, Jasper," she says quietly as she notices the sign of discomfort, hiding her movement as best she can by brushing imaginary dust away and correcting my collar, "I was just thinking about how handsome you look in that."
I try not to shudder at the words, knowing they're meant with kindness and any kind of interest from someone as self-absorbed as my sister is praise, but I can't stop it and I have to look away before I can respond. I know what she means, too, but it doesn't stop the venomous feeling of self-loathing, the same that had run through me three months ago, from blossoming in the region of my heart and creeping throughout me via the highways and intersections of my arteries. I watch a women trip from a limo—how ostentatious, really—and stumble as soon as she has taken a step, landing on the concrete ground. I see a smudge of rust at her knee as she laughs giddily, pressing a palm to the graze. I watch her, this stupid woman with fiery curls and no care in the world apart from the man in the grey suit who is at her side, and focus on breathing in and out, keeping myself together as I feel my shaky calm façade quake and crack.
"You mean normal," I say darkly before I can stop myself and I hear Rose's breath catch before her hands are at my shoulders, carefully and easily avoiding the spots she knows she can no longer touch. Her palms are warm through the fabric and I have to hand it to my twin; she knows me, she knows what I need. She knows where she can place her hands when she hugs me without triggering a spasm of agony from the still-raw scars or from my ravaged mind, a feat my mother has never managed to master, and she knows when I crave touch and when I shy from it as though it is fire that will lick at my bare skin. I don't even have to open my mouth as she attempts to absolve her early mistake of straying too close to my chest.
I won't tell her, but in this instance, she knew what I needed before I did myself and I lean into her arms, my own hands pressing against the silken fabric of her dress. From when we were little, we have always just fitted together like this, perfectly aligned, our blonde hair meshing easily and the only clue that we are individual people is the number of limbs involved. With Rose, this is easy. With other people, not so much.
"I didn't mean that, Jasper, you know that," she whispers against the expensive fabric of my suit, her words coated with regret and apology even though she's done nothing wrong. "You're not abnormal. Not one bit."
The smell of her rose body lotion is familiar and calming, washing over me as easily as water and after a few minutes of complete silence following her statement, I pull back with a shaky smile. It's my way of telling her that I'm over it, we can move on. One of the things I love best about Rosalie is that we can communicate by saying very little and she understands that she has stabilised my momentary wobble.
"It's fine. C'mon," I tell her, allowing the easy Texan twang to slip back into my speech, a feature she has dropped but I have somehow retained on occasions, "Let's go and meet this Mrs. Cullen."
Rosalie offers me the beaming smile that she gives those she needs to impress, prospective employers, and the kind of people who frequent these gatherings. In that moment, she's transformed from my twin into a complete stranger but, oddly enough, I'm okay with that. I climb from the car and hold her door open, assisting her out and offering her an arm to lean on like a gentleman I was raised to be, and the kind who come to these things. I want to ask how long I have to wait before I can leave, but I decide it's best not to. Rose is in a very good mood considering Emmett's failure to be here and I really don't want to push it.
There are crowds and crowds of people here. When Rosalie told me lots of people had been coming, I had failed to understand how many that was and I find myself tightening my grip on her, unwilling to be separated from my shard of familiarity in this hubbub. Women dressed in the dark colours of this season mill around, leaning on the arms of cold, aloof men who look down at me as though they know that I don't belong here. I tug my collar higher, lest they notice the twisted marks I bear and oust me from this elite group I have been dragged into. If Rosalie notices my actions, she chooses not to comment as we duck between couples to enter the grand entrance hall of the hotel.
Our coats are removed and stored in minutes and I am thrust into the hall with a glass of champagne in my hand and Rose in my other. Rosalie seems completely at ease as people stop and strike up conversations, shouts of recognition mingling with the undercurrent of chatter that laps uncomfortably around me I simply look on, wondering how my sister has acquired the skill to say all the right things.
"Jasper," she says suddenly, turning to me with a brilliant grin that makes her even more beautiful than she already is, as though someone has lit a candle inside her that makes her shine. "This is Dr and Mrs. Cullen. This is my twin brother, Jasper."
I offer the couple in front of us a small, stiff bow, taking them in as surreptitiously as I can. Mrs. Cullen is petite with masses of caramel hair; Dr Cullen is tall and blonde with an easy smile. They seem normal, like Rosalie and myself, even if they appear slightly too young to be parents of teenagers. I remind myself to breathe, assure myself it will be okay an open my mouth.
"It's a pleasure, Sir," I say, wincing at the sound of my elongated Southern drawl that seems terribly out of place in this hall before turning to the little woman before me. "Ma'am. Thank you for allowing me to accompany Rosalie."
Dr Cullen clasps my hand in his own, cool grip and offers me a smile before releasing me to place my lips briefly against the back of his wife's hand. She laughs, wrapping her free arm around the waist of the Doctor with a happy smile in his direction.
"The pleasure is all ours, Jasper," she says brightly to me as the Doctor's hand runs lightly down the top of her arm. "And please, call us Carlisle and Esme."
I offer them a tight smile that feels a little strained after so long and Rosalie easily engages them in conversation. There is the sound of gentle piano music in the background as waiters in smart three piece suits circle the room with a seemingly endless supply of champagne to keep the masses satisfied. I feel a little like I have stepped out of my body and am surveying the room from an abstract perspective until Rosalie's hand on my wrist brings me back, like my twin is the anchor to my body.
"You should get Edward to play something," Rose is saying to Esme and Carlisle. "He always brings so much with his performances."
Esme looks delighted at her praise and I have to hide the amusement I feel. Rosalie hates Edward, and I know it. The first time she had met him, she had rung me and complained down the phone for ten minutes straight. She had concluded by telling me that he had irritated her from the moment he opened his mouth. I can remember hearing Emmett's rumbling chuckle in the background at her fury over this stranger as I had stood in the Texan sunlight listening to her, still whole and undamaged.
The calm lull is shattered by laughter that causes several heads to turn, all of them seeking out the potential source of the scandal. I see Esme and Carlisle exchange a significant glance before resuming their part in the conversation, as though nothing has happened. Rosalie follows their lead but I am intrigued, I admit it.
As soon as I can, I glance across the room to seek out the source of the laughter and see a tall boy with unusual bronze hair that flops into his eyes and a tiny girl who is wearing a shimmering dress of silver that accents every gentle dip and curve of her body. The light catches, practically shimmering off her alabaster skin and I can see that her small mouth is curved up in a generous smile that I wouldn't have expected to see on someone like her. This girl is the kind that Rose has aspired to be from childhood and, despite her ability to fit in with these people, will never be, simply because she wasn't born into it. This girl has it all—she is half sewn into silver silk that will cost more than my entire wardrobe, she obviously has access to unlimited money, so unlike Rosalie who, before breaking into the model industry, would scrabble desperately for enough to get by and despite the fact this girl is clearly underage, she has a delicate fluted champagne glass in one hand and no one seems to mind, the way they would if she were poorer. But these thoughts melt away as she turns her head, her tiny pointed chin lifted ever so slightly, to meet my gaze across the room.
She stares at me, unabashed, as I feel an aching knot form in my stomach and she simply stares some more. I want to look away but I can't quite bring myself to look at anything but her and so we just hold each other's gaze for a long, long moment before the boy with her touches her arm and she breaks the connection. I can see her incline her head, her long neck bending with a kind of ease that looks practised but I get the feeling it isn't. Girls like her only serve to remind me of what—no, I won't go there tonight. I take a long drag of my champagne, feeling the cool taste of it soothe the blistering sensation at the back of my throat.
"Excuse us," I hear Rosalie saying as I regretfully allow myself to return to the group I'm with, "I should probably introduce Jasper to a few more people."
"It was lovely to meet you," I add, sensing what Rosalie wants me to do before she can even send me a signal in the form of a nudge at the ankle.
Esme beams at me and Carlisle clasps my hand again before Rosalie is leading me off into the madness of her world. I meet so many people that I can't remember anyone's name and the glass in my hand is refilled and refilled to the point I know that I am in no state to drive home. The glass ceiling of the hotel reflects the scene below so that the entire ballroom is visible and I am entranced by it as someone new takes over the piano. I turn to watch the laughing boy from earlier, now serious, sliding onto the stool.
From then, the rest of the night blurs into snapshots of laughter, alcohol, and managing to waltz Rosalie around the room several times without falling over my feet in the shiny dress shoes. At some point Emmett appears, apparently finished with coaching and in need of sex, leading to Rosalie kissing me on the cheek before she leaves, extracting a promise from me not to drive home.
I'm not too sure what the time is when I leave the hotel, following several glasses of water to regain my senses and a good ten minutes spent thanking Esme and Carlisle for such a wonderful party, because I know Rosalie would be horrified if I didn't. Whilst it wasn't as bad as I had expected—I haven't formed any acquaintances that I have to keep, leaving me free to return to the emptiness of my apartment, free from the reminders of the kind of life I can no longer live—I am pleased to feel the sharp chill of the night air spiking in my lungs and whispering around my cheeks. I glance morosely at my car, wishing I didn't have to leave it, before walking down the damp sidewalk, my feet sliding slightly against the paving stones as a burning desire to return home and pretend to sleep awakens and unfurls itself in my chest.
It's because of this desire that I cut down an alleyway, my hands tucked into my pockets as I duck between the towering bricked walls that loom over me like ugly, battered giants. I've always hated cities at night, something about the emotions in them setting my teeth on edge and making my skin crawl because someone always loses their life in the darkness. This alley seems to emphasize those feelings, to blow them up and make me unable to think of anything else. Something isn't right. I've never had any kind of sixth sense but in the Army I learnt to spot danger and danger has seeped into the every crevice of this alleyway, in every lingering shadow. I don't like it.
I've taken three steps when I'm aware of the fact someone else is down here and a further five when I see the man. Like me, he is dressed in formal wear with a suit in a shade of charcoal grey that looks almost cheap in this light, and his light brown hair is pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of his neck. I am ready to call out to him when my voice dies in my throat, the words sticking in a way that I have never experienced before. Fear is almost alive, so thick I feel like I am wading through it as I freeze in the middle of the alley, unable to help myself.
The man, who I think may have been at the party, has someone pinned against the wall. I can only see the dusky, delicate sweep of their waist and a flash of silver, the rest of them hidden behind the bold outline of the man. But I hear a feminine sob and I know that something is terribly wrong. My throat un-sticks itself I am speaking before I can stop myself or think of what will happen next, of what kind of reaction my words will cause. I am running on instinct alone, unable to shake the memory that has suddenly surfaced, the one of Rose's beaten, bloody face as she sat in our kitchen in Texas following her attack on the way home from a friend's house.
"Oi!"
One word that has tumbled from my lips shatters the silence irreversibly. The man whips around, his lips pulled back so that he seems to be snarling at me, and the girl he had pinned against the jagged brickwork crumples to the ground with a cry of pain. I pay no attention to her initially, every military instinct I was trained to have returning with a vengeance I would never have expected it to have. It is like I am back in the blistering heat of Afghanistan with a gun weighting my belt.
The man lunges for me before I can say anything else, before I can think, heading straight for my stomach. I whirl out of the way, knocking into some garbage cans but remaining upright as he wheels around, panting as though his lone attack has taken it out of him. I wonder if he knows that he's fighting an ex-soldier, a man who is a literal death machine. I feel that I should warn him that I can kill him twenty-nine different ways right at this very moment in time without so much as breaking into a sweat but I can see the pile of limbs encased in a dress on the ground out of the corner of my eye and forget that idea as he comes for me again.
This time I am waiting, my feet apart and adrenaline coursing through me, drowning my blood and filling my muscles. For a moment I see the dusty Afghan terrain and the brilliant blue of the sky—I can practically smell the death and the blood—before the flashback has ended and I am back in the chill darkness of Seattle with this man—this disgusting, guilty man—lunging for me with what could possibly be a flick knife clutched in his meaty palm. And I can't even bring myself to be scared. What more damage is one scar going to do when there isn't an area of my chest that is unscathed?
My reflexes take over without any conscious effort on my part and it's almost beautiful to watch my hand, curled into a tight fist, arc through the air with a strange kind of grace. One blow has the man down on the ground and, before I can really register what is happening, I have delivered another punch to his face, his nose crunching between my fist. I feel his bone snap and pop beneath my hand and I draw back, the thick red blood smearing my knuckles. The man goes reeling backwards, colliding with the bins that line the alley and causing a din that sends some kind of wildlife shooting faster than a bullet from its spot. For a moment I wait, braced for a third attempt of fight, but nothing comes. The man is hurrying away, hunched forwards as he clutches his nose, and I want to follow but I turn instead to the lone figure on the cold, hard floor of the alleyway.
"Are you okay?" I ask as I approach, unsure of what else to do as I take in the girl on the floor. She is curled in on herself, her legs bleached white in contrast to the gritty black ground and her silver dress torn up the side to the extent I can see a whisper of black lace at her hip and the edge of a birthmark at her thigh. At the sound of my voice, the girl whimpers again and wraps her arms around her narrow frame, defending herself from me. My heart twists in my chest, making my next comment come out without me actually deciding to say anything. "I'm not going to hurt you."
The promise is delivered in a low voice accompanied by me squatting down to her level, placing a gentle hand at her cheek. I expect resistance, a cry, or just some kind of fight to get me off her but she just seems to deflate under my touch and she blinks up at me between damp lashes as her entire body trembles. I am reminded, hopelessly, of Rose and I in my car earlier and I find myself wishing for her ability to handle people right now because I want nothing more than to wrap this girl in my arms and make her feel better and take away her pain even if I don't know where this feeling has come from.
Surprise curls around me as I look down at the figure in front of me with more focus and recognise her as the pretty, elfin girl from the party, the one who had unflinchingly met my gaze from across the room. She had been on the arm of the boy with the bronze hair and green eyes, I remember, the one who had been playing the piano at some point during the course of the long evening. More snapshots are returning now, the alcohol fading fast from my blood and so I can remember these two with more clarity, a little like I have seen them and not just an image. The boy had played well, I remember; his fingers had danced across the keys as he coaxed music from the instrument with so little effort and I had wondered where he had learnt and if it were possible to achieve that without spending every daylight moment hunched over the piano. Even then, as I remember him sitting before the instrument, I can remember this girl in the background, standing to his left with one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Why had he suddenly left her, when he had kept her so close all evening? Why had he not protected her from the underworld of the city?
The girl lets out another mumble, her eyes fluttering closed whilst one small hand presses to her ribs, and I find myself leaning in further to examine the damage. Her face has escaped untouched—if I hadn't seen her dramatic collapse, I would have never guessed there was something wrong from the way her china-doll face is still so delicately made up using pale pinks and shimmering hues of gold. Even her short hair is still artistically styled and her dusty lavender nail polish un-chipped. She seems so out of place in this alley, so perfectly formed with her expensive dress glowing dimly beneath the harsh artificial light from the bulb in the streetlamp and, as she regains some kind of awareness, I can practically feel the fear rolling off her in thicker waves than before.
When her eyes open once more and she blinks up at me, I know that I can't leave her alone. I can't even walk her back to the hotel and drop her off because she's just held one hand out to me, grappling for my touch, and I have taken it, wrapping my rough palm around her smoother, undamaged one. I feel her relax at the warmth of me and I can see the relief play across her face; she's as easy to read as an open book.
"You've kept me waiting a long time," she mutters in a voice that is as sweet and delicate as cherry blossom as I push myself to my feet and bend to lift her, my mind already made up to save her from whatever danger that lurks in the night. She moves slightly in the cradle of my arms, her head dipping so that she is pressed against my chest and, for the first time, I realise that the touch of someone else hasn't brought a wave of pain. For a moment I remain immobile with shock but then I look down at her, her coal black lashes brushing her high cheekbones as she closes her eyes against the world. I can't blame her for not wanting to see any more of this night and I know I need to get her out of here.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am," I reply automatically in my gentlest tone, shifting her none-existent weight as I move purposefully towards the end of the alley and the road that will lead me home whilst I grapple desperately for something reassuring to say. "But I'm here now."
"I know," comes her weak answer, her voice muffled by my dress shirt as she grips the lapels of my jacket with her free hand. She lifts her head just slightly, opening her eyes once again so that I am met with her wide eyed stare. "Thank you."
She leans back into me, hopefully finding some kind of soothing rhythm to lull her into sleep from the steady gait of my steps. I speed up as my building comes into sight, the warmth beckoning me with the uncertainty of what to do next braided to it.
The girl in my arms whimpers.
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