Scarlett Romero has spent her entire life as an ordinary citizen; going to school, getting a job and definitely not killing people in the middle of the woods on a Friday night.
Until one Friday night, she does.
All she can remember is acting out of...
Endings are also beginnings. There's hope in that.
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Chapter Forty-Two "The Naked End"
Scarlett's POV:
I don't how long Achilles runs for. Once I got used to the jostling, the sound of his steady panting and the dirt turning up under his paws, we could have been travelling for weeks and I wouldn't have realised.
Eventually Achilles thunders to a stop, behind an eroded stone building that smells of growing mould and stale piss. An old bathroom that obviously hasn't been used in years, I realise, peeping around the corner to see a freeway with so many potholes I'm not surprised the toilets have been abandoned.
"Scarlett?" Achilles rumbles, trying to meet my eyes. I don't look at him, gaze fixated on the fur on top of his head, each strand stained red, in the same place I saw the wound on Alexander. In a daze, I reach up and run my fingers through his fur, as if it'll help. At most, I just scrape some of the dried blood from my skin onto him.
He doesn't seem to care, more concerned than anything.
"Scarlett, can I see, please?"
Achilles loosely drags a claw over the makeshift bandage on my leg. I don't stop him from pulling off the fabric, letting it fall to the ground. The injury itself is sunken in, but the skin around it is pink and puckered, roughly burned closed. If I concentrate hard enough, I can still smell my own flesh charring.
"Will you let me heal it?" Achilles asks. I don't know why he's asking. If it saves us the trouble of trying to find a hospital that won't question a badly cauterised gunshot wound on a woman with no identification, then the decision is an obvious no-brainer.
I wave a hand in the air, not bothering to try a reassuring smile. I'd be lucky if I got out more than a frown. "Do what you have to do."
I don't miss his worried stare, but I pretend it doesn't exist. He stays silent, focusing all his attention on my thigh. Good. I don't know what I'd say if he asked how I was.
Achilles licks his paw until his fur is completely flattened, pressing it against my wound. I can't help flinching, the wet feeling a mild discomfort compared to the sting of my skin rapidly rearranging itself and stitching back together just as quickly.
"Almost over," Achilles murmurs, ears swizzling like he's listening to everything I think and everything I do. I don't reply. A big part of me wants the pain to keep going. Whether it's survivor's guilt or needing the physical hurt to let me know I can still feel, I'm not sure.
It doesn't matter, Achilles wouldn't take either option lightly.
I clench my jaw, digging my fingers into the dirt and leaning my head back against the wall. The sky is an array of different colours, a mixture of black and grey smoke, a darkening blue sky and little tufts of white clouds, like a bruise on the skin of Snow White.
