It was on the fifth day in the bomb shelter when the fuse was lit. An innocent act on my part, really, but one that sent Satan over the edge—the result…nothing less than a wasteland.
I had been peering down at another message from my unknown messenger when Satan had ripped the phone out of my hand, then staring at its screen, he'd snarled, "Are you fucking kidding me? Are you really this dumb? What the hell are you thinking?”
A frown drew my eyebrows down, I shook my head. *What the hell was he going on about*?
I shrugged. “Thinking? They're freaking messages. No big deal. So, what's there to *think* about?”
Satan raised his head, his face riddled in shock. “Oh my God, you *are* this dumb!”
“Excuse me?” I hissed.
“YOU ARE *D-U-M-B*—dumb!” he snarled. “This…” his actions as he pointed toward my phone's screen reminded me of a mother scolding their child. “Is traceable! You probably just led the Proofers right to us!”
Slowly I shook my head. “But…they're just some meaningless messages,” I protested.
Satan snorted. “Hardly. I have seen more people killed because of this kind of irresponsible thinking than you can count. Smart, kitten, real fucking bright aren't you?”
Tears welled in my eyes and pain ripped harsh and debilitating through me, I'd had enough, all this crap from him in the name of protection—it was ridiculous! I was tired. Both mentally and physically, and it didn't help one goddamn bit that every fucking thing about Satan's looks reminded me of Torin; my heart wept because of it.
Somewhere along the line in the last four years, I had begun to mend, I had begun to stop bleeding every time my thoughts turned to Torin—but the smell of Satan ripped the band-aid off every time he neared me. His scent would weave its way through me, tantalizing me and I'd close my eyes, emotionally brought to my knees, silently begging when I reopened them, I'd find Torin. But it was always Satan, and I was beginning to fear I was developing Stockholm syndrome; I'd begun feeling things for him I didn't want to. For the most part, I was putting it down to the fact it was just the two of us in this place—it was human nature to develop *some* kind of feelings for the person you were trapped with for twenty-four hours a day. As well, I didn't know if, or when, we might get out from under the threat of the Proofers attacking the MC. Or for that matter, if we would even come out of it alive if we were attacked. However, I'd come to trust that Satan would do everything he could to insure we did—though he appeared more often than not to hate my guts—I had no doubt of that fact. Most times he was somewhat easy going, but none-the-less, I knew he was deadly, and I knew as well, he would do everything possible to keep me safe. I guess that's why his words hurt so much. I didn't want to look like a brainless, unthinking idiot to him.
With a deep breath, and not wanting him to see how his words had hurt, I turned and began hurrying across the room. Though he had forbid me to go out of the bomb shelter without him, I needed some fresh air and space. I felt as if I were suffocating. I had done exactly as he had instructed for over seventy-two hours now, trying to prevent doing anything he could find fault with. Until today, I had managed to do just that, but now, for all I knew, I had just sentenced us to death. Not my most happy moment, and before I had even made it to the door of the room, my face crumpled and a sob escaped. Feet taking flight, I began to run, a sudden sense of knowing what I needed to do washing through me. As I cleared the rooms that took up space between me and the outside, I wiped at the tears running down my cheeks, then reaching the doors to the outside, I shoved up the heavy bar that locked anyone outside from coming inside, and shoving at the heavy metal door, I made my escape. Heaven's tears met my own, as now outside the bomb shelter, I stood in the rain. My presence was what had brought this whole mess into existence for the Raven's MC in the first place, so the lack of my presence should end it, but, I realized, I had no idea of which way to go. I didn't see any type of a driveway, or noticable path that I could follow. Just trees and marshes. My clothes and hair had quickly become drenched in the downpour, and reaching up, I pushed the strands out of my face, indecision halting any progress. I sure as shit didn't want to get lost. The everglades didn't like giving back what it chose to keep. Heaving another breath, I walked over to a tree, and sitting down on the ground at its base, I leaned back against the rough bark. I was stuck. I had nowhere to go but deeper into the sloughs, and I really wasn't interested in being an alligator's meal. I had enough problems.
~SATAN/TORIN~
Dammit! I'd made Marlowe cry. Hearing the sob she'd uttered had hijacked my anger, and following her, I now stood in the entrance of our hideout, watching her as she gazed at the sloughs. “Don't do it,” I breathed, knowing what she was thinking. The marshes and wildlife out here were no joke. She most likely wouldn't make it half a mile before she'd become dinner for some predator, and I found myself letting out a relieved breath when she sat down at the base of a tree. Pulling her legs up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them, then laid her head on her knees. Shifting a little, I leaned against the door frame, waiting.
An hour passed, before rising, she began to make her way back toward the entrance. I didn't know if she had ever become aware I'd stood watching, but silently, I slipped back within the shadows inside the compound. I didn't want Marlowe feeling I was spying on her private moments, but in truth, I was. I couldn't help it though—I had missed her. Having her near, was torture, yet I basked in her nearness. Just the sight of her fed the part of me that had withered, curled up and had ceased to exist without her in my life. For four years, I had done as Dillon had requested, though I can't deny I'd had to place myself in the Marines so I wouldn't give into temptation. I had gone to the extreme to keep myself away, but I had come out with the self-control I’d needed, as well, a set of deadly skills and a job.
Early the next morning, I stood staring out the window, watching the sun paint the sky with the new day as it kissed the top of the trees’ canopy. I’d been up for hours, nightmares having plagued the little sleep I had gained, and jarring me awake, a silent scream on my lips. It had been a little over two years since I’d gone into the building with Jameison, neither of us had walked out. Death had knocked on our door, carrying Jamieson out in its wake, however, our men had carried me. I’d let my guard down, and I’d had the ground jerked out from beneath me because of it. The feel of the building collapsing beneath me during the explosion had stained my brain, and left me with more than just physical scars. Yes, time does heal, but sometimes… Sometimes scars remain behind in the wake of tragedy: sometimes, those scars are visible, sometimes they aren’t. In my case, they were the invisible kind, the kind others can't touch or feel, the kind, which allows you to cope and move forward… but never forget. The path to where I am now has been long, and I have too many reminders of that fact. I still see Jamieson in my nightmares, the blood, the scattered body parts—there had been little left worth sending to his family. I still bear the ache of bones that had been shattered. No matter what training I had gone through, how they had forced me to grow up, I had walked into that building still a child, but I had left, a man.
Feeling the ache in my right thigh, I reach down, rubbing at the pain. I live with it every day, but today, the pain is deep.
Massaging the area with my fingers, I try ridding myself of some of the ache, to bring it down to a more tolerable level, but today it wasn’t happening. Releasing a breath, I turn, and begin making my way to my bedroom where my pain pills set on my bedside table.