MASEN
Chapter 9.
I'm running and running, my body slick with sweat underneath my uniform, my socks so wet I slide in my boots, toes hitting the steel tip. Constantly.
A cloud of smoke mixed with sand makes it hard to see but I'm alive even though flames seem to lash at me from the inside out.
It's boiling hot and I'm out of water, the heat only getting worse with every breath I take. I feel like they unleashed an angry dragon within me, and I can't outrun the blistering agony but a safe haven is within my reach.
I can't stop. It'll kill me if I do.
A loud bang brings me to my knees, legs wobbling as my eardrums seem to shatter, the unsettling ringing in my ear telling me to get the fuck up before there's nothing but dirt, before I am nothing but dirt, fragments in the desert.
I run, keep running as if I'm possessed, until I can't breathe anymore and the fire seems to suffocate me.
Sweat drips down my face, my eyes stinging as I flee and a pair of strong arms curl around me.
I'm alive.
I'm alive.
As Whitlock stares at me, blue eyes surrounded by dusty streaks I feel like the last man standing, and crumble into pieces.
"Hey," he soothes as I try and escape from his embrace. He doesn't let me, arms braced around me and locked into place as tears replace the sweat, and an animalistic, raw sob rumbles from my chest.
"It's just me," I rattle, voice breaking before I taste the bile rising in my throat.
Whitlock lets go as my knees give out and he crouches in front of me, grabbing my face in between dirty palms, telling me to breathe.
"It's just me," I repeat.
Every breath I take feels like my insides are filled with sand, tearing open my esophagus when I try to swallow.
"That's enough," General says.
His metal flask feels cold to the touch, whispered gratitude spilling from my lips as I down the entire thing, my thirst unquenchable.
"It's just me," I keep saying. Again and again, as if those words are the only ones I'm able to get out.
"You can't save everyone, Masen," Whitlock says.
I shouldn't have to. I shouldn't even try it, or even fucking think about attempting it.
Then again, I'm here to fucking serve, here to protect. I've always done this, always been in this position where people rely on me. Even though they don't ask anything from you. They always expect it, always want it. Everybody has a Disney princess complex whether they want to admit it or not.
Everybody wants to be saved in one way or another.
I call it the Damsel Disease.
Mrs. Anderson? Oh, I've diagnosed her right here and now, even from my seat in the back of the salon, even when she's staring at her neck in the mirror, her eyes huge and panicky.
I hadn't noticed before now, before she sat under bright beauty lights that get rid of every unwanted shadow.
But it's there, the marks shaped like fingertips, wrapped around her delicate throat, morphing into faint bruising, the redness matching the rims of her eyes, the flush that dusts her cheeks, intensifying as her hairdresser inspects and remarks.
I can't believe I didn't notice.
And I don't believe a single syllable of the lie she just told the eccentric woman staring back at her in the mirror.
I also can't believe what I'm doing next. Instead of calling her out on the untruth, I step in.
I help her lie.
I serve and protect.
I don't even know if Mrs. Anderson has a fucking stylist but she's even a fraction like the party girl who used to be my client, if she's accustomed to the type of wardrobe the Mayor set me up with? Then she'll definitely have a person like that in her life.
Black lashes flutter against her cheekbones as she sews her mask back into place, the cracks in her facade erased, replaced by that fake, well-rehearsed smile.
Shit, she's got to step up her game if I'm able to see through this already. It hasn't even been a full fucking day and I've noticed something's off.
Way off.
Mrs. Anderson might not really talk about it, might not even talk much to me but I refuse to let it be just her. I don't want anyone to ever have to live a half-life.
I go buy cigarettes while this never-ending appointment continues in another room. The clerk stares at my suit, her eyes roaming over me like a hungry lioness.
God, this is fucking awful.
I walk back, the breath nearly knocked out of me when I stare at my client. Her hair is darker, flirting the lines between brunette and black as night. It's pin-straight, coiffed to perfection.
"That wasn't there when I picked you up this morning."
She knows what I'm referring to, desperately trying to have her long hair cover up the bruises.
I've stolen the words right out of her mouth, confronting her like this. But she doesn't take the bait, turns on her heels and walks over to where I've parked the car.
This woman has an iron will set in place with lead, covered with a veil of lies.
I catch up with her quickly, stepping in between her and the car, my fingers curled around the handle. Her big, bottomless eyes go back and forth. She watches my hand, my face, frowning.
"Do not ignore me, Mrs. Anderson." I try to keep my tone neutral, but I'm angry at the princess who's desperately trying to return to her bell tower.
"Your husband did that to you, didn't he?" It's an easy guess because she hasn't seen anyone else since I brought her back.
"I told Rose what happened," she starts. "Since you were eavesdropping, I bet you heard as well."
"What I heard was a load of bullshit with a fucking ribbon wrapped around it." I sigh.
She tries moving past me, but I don't budge. There's no way she can make me move, either.
"Tell me the truth, Mrs. Anderson…"
"You're on his payroll. Don't you think I know that? You literally work for my husband. Is this some kind of ploy? Trying to find dirt on him for his opponent in the elections?"
That actually makes me chuckle.
"You think I'm a fucking spy? Come on…"
"I don't know. I mean suddenly you were here watching my every move."
"Obviously, since I'm hired to do your security. And because of that, I need to know what happened."
"What's it to you?" she asks angrily, eyes spitting venom.
"Because no war can be fought alone."