There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet)

I lay on the ground, my entire body throbbing, burning, slashed, and bruised. Some of the hurts flare up in acute agony—my jaw is particularly painful from its collision with the ground. The rest of me feels so heavy that I might as well be trapped inside a cement suit. I’m weighed down, compressed by it. For the first time in my life, I understand why it might be a relief to allow the soul to slip from the body. Pain overrides my fear.

I know I’m bleeding from my wrists, but I can hardly feel it, and that scares me worse than anything.

I’m getting colder and colder.

I hear footsteps coming up the path and I stiffen, thinking that this fucking psychopath has returned. He pretended to leave just to fuck with me.

But there’s something different in the stride.

The man who brought me here walked heavily. These steps are so light, so subtle, that for a moment I think I’m imagining them. Hope flutters up in my chest, thinking it might be someone else, maybe even a woman . . .

Then I turn and I see death himself come to claim me.

The man is tall, slim, and dark.

He’s wearing a black suit, flawlessly tailored, incongruous in this barren place. It stands out starkly against the pale flesh of his throat and hands. His black hair, thick and lustrous, frames the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.

An artist is always looking at ratios and proportions.

His dark, almond-shaped eyes, the straight slashes of his brows, the line of his nose, the high cheekbones and razor-fine jaw, all relieved by the flawless curve of his lips—I’ve never seen such perfect balance.

It’s so surreal, I think I must be hallucinating.

Especially once he stops and stands over me, looking down.

I’ve never seen such coldness in a human face.

His eyes roam over me, taking in every detail.

His features are motionless. No flicker of sympathy.

Still, the most desperate part of me, the part that refuses to believe what’s happening, makes me whimper behind the tape, begging for mercy, pleading for him to help.

I don’t know if this is the man who brought me here or not. It seems impossible that two separate strangers could be walking this deserted stretch of woods, but I’m confused by the way he examines me.

If this is someone else, why doesn’t he help me?

I scream behind the tape, my throat raw, the sound echoing in my mouth.

I glare up at him, confused, furious.

He just fucking stares.

Then he steps over me like I’m a loose bag of trash lying in the road. And he walks the fuck away.

I howl after him, strangled, enraged.

This is the moment I almost give up.

My brain can’t understand what’s happening and my body is exhausted, draining out on the frigid ground. I’m so fucking tired. My eyelids are impossibly heavy, my thoughts swirling and breaking apart like punctured yolk.

I shake my head hard, jolting myself awake with the pain in my jaw.

I’m not fucking dying here.

I can’t feel my hands anymore, but I know they’re covered in blood.

Blood is slippery.

I start twisting my wrists, tugging and pulling, trying to slip my hands free of the plastic ties.

The slashes on my wrist fire up in agony, raw and burning. I start bleeding harder, which is both good and very, very bad. My head is swimming, I’m getting weaker by the moment. On the plus side, I can feel the warmth on my hands, I can feel my right wrist turning, the joint of the thumb compressing as my hand begins to slip free.

I yank ruthlessly, my shoulder screaming at me, and my thumb too.

I’ve always been skinny, small-boned. My hand is barely bigger than my wrist. Slowly, agonizingly, the right hand pulls free.

I sob with relief behind the tape.

Now I can use my right hand to help with the left.

This tie is tighter. It takes even longer than the first—so much yanking and digging with numb fingers that I’m crying long before it’s done.

The relief of pulling both hands loose, of straightening my back from its horrible arched position, is nearly overwhelming. The little blood I have left rushes down through my arms, making my hands heavier and duller than ever, as sharp, electric pulses jolt through my fingertips.

I pull the tape off my face, gasping the crisp night air, cold as water in my mouth.

I want to scream with all my might, but I try to shut the fuck up instead. Who knows where my abductor is now—he could still be close. He could be watching me.

I look around wildly, paranoid that I’m going to see that massive frame hurtling toward me once more.

I see nothing. Only bare ground and the tree line behind me.

I need to get my feet free.

I yank off the stupid stripper shoes, then I look around for a rock with a sharp edge. I try to hack the ties around my ankles, but the rock is slippery in my hand, and I only succeed in hitting my shin, taking out a chunk of flesh.

Gritting my teeth, I retrieve the hateful duct tape and use it to wrap my left wrist, which is bleeding hardest.

Fuck, I don’t know how much time I have left. My vision tilts every time I move my head.

I wipe my palms off on my bare thighs, leaving dark streaks, then I try again. This time I saw through the ties. Pushing off from the dirt, I try to stand.

My legs are completely asleep, as numb as if they were made of putty. I collapse and fall hard to the ground, agonizing sparks shooting up and down my limbs.

Sobbing quietly, I massage the life back into my legs.

I’m not dying here. I’m not fucking doing it.

When I can feel my feet once more, at least a little, I push myself up. Wobbling like a newborn giraffe, I manage to stand.

Then I start to run.

I’m stumbling and lurching, the rough ground cutting the swollen soles of my feet.

The ground pitches beneath me like the deck of a ship.

Every step jolts my body, jolts my jaw, rattles my brain around inside my skull. Blood patters down from my right wrist. I clamp my filthy hand over the wound as I run.

I don’t know how far I’ll have to go.

A cold voice in my head whispers, If it’s more than a mile, you won’t make it. You might not make it another hundred feet. You’re going to pass out any second.

“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter out loud. “I’ll run all night if I have to.”

Rationally, I know that’s impossible. I’m literally at death’s door. Black spots bloom in front of my eyes, disappearing only when I press hard on my own wrist, relying on pain to jolt me awake over and over.

Twice I fall, and the second time I almost don’t get up. The ground feels soft and pillowy, my jaw no longer aching. A warm drowsiness tranquilizes me. It whispers, Stay here and rest awhile. You can get up again after you sleep.

Sleeping means dying. That’s the one thing I know for certain.

With a strangled sob, I force myself up again.

I’ve gotten turned around in the fall. I’m not sure which direction is forward, and which is the way I came.

I take two steps, reeling and confused, almost missing a dark splotch on the side of the path. Blood. My blood. I left a trail like Hansel and Gretel, marking the way I came. Only I have no intention of following it back.

Giggling hysterically, I turn around, striking out fresh once more.

This time, the voice that speaks to me is crystal clear on the night air, as alive as if she were speaking directly into my ear.

I told you this would happen.

I stop and vomit next to the path. I don’t have much in my stomach—what comes out is thin and yellowish, burning like acid.

My mother often has that effect on me.

You go out dressed like that, what did you think was going to happen?

I slap myself in the face, hard enough to make my ears ring.

“Seriously,” I mutter. “Fuck off.”

There’s a pleasant interlude in which I hear only my own ragged breath and the night breeze rustling the trees.

Then, in that sickly-soft tone, always so reasonable even as the words coming out of her mouth are the very definition of insanity, she says, It’s probably for the best. It was only a matter of time for a girl like you . . .

“FUCK OFF!” I roar, startling a bird so it rockets up out of an aspen tree, disappearing into the dark sky, flapping like a bat.

My heart batters painfully against my chest. The beats are not steady. It clenches hard three times and then seems to skip several beats while I gasp and reel in place.

The black spots are everywhere now. They don’t disappear while I blink.

She’s right—I dress like a whore. I’ve never taken care of myself. I probably will come to a bad end.

But there’s another thing my mother always said about me:

I’m a stubborn motherfucker.

And I don’t take advice from anybody, least of all her.

For the last time, I start to run.

The sound I hear next is faint but unmistakable: a swift rushing that swells and recedes at sixty miles an hour. A car on the road ahead.

The path widens out, sloping steeply down. I can no longer feel anything beneath my feet. I can barely tell when the path connects with an actual highway.

I come out on the smooth black tarmac, striped down the middle with a single yellow line.

I stand on that line, watching for headlights coming from either direction.

I’m panting and reeling, my heart now skipping every second beat. Each time it does, I feel a pressure on my chest, the black dots swelling and expanding across my vision.

I hear a distant engine. A white light rushes toward me, gradually separating into two headlights.

I stand right in front of the car, waving my arms, praying to god that it stops before it hits me.