Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

15. Scars

Author's Note: This chapter contains strong themes that may be troubling for some readers. Please proceed with caution.

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Striker didn't answer me. We rode in silence to a local marketplace and quickly picked up some food before heading out again. We reached the edge of town and continued onward after the last dirt road ended. I wanted to ask Striker where we were going this time, but before I could speak, he smacked the head of his tail on Bombproof's rear to send him into a full gallop. The sudden change in speed caught me off guard, and I began to lose my balance on Bombproof's back. My body shifted to the left, and I frantically grabbed the saddle's pommel to hang on for dear life — or dear death, I guess.

I felt an arm wrap around my waist and center me back in the saddle. It held onto me long after I had been secured back into the saddle, keeping a firm grasp on me, its open hand pressed to the side of my ribcage. Striker's touch erased any coherent thought from my brain — I couldn't even remember what I was going to say before Bombproof took off running.

Bombproof eventually slowed back down to a trot when we were far from town, but Striker still had his hold on my torso. Slowly, I lifted my hand to place it over Striker's, which remained on my ribs.

"I'll tell you what," I said quietly. "I ask you a question, and then you ask me one, and so on until we get tired. That fair?"

He didn't respond immediately. A few moments passed before he finally spoke: "They're not all from it, but most of my scars are from my jobs over the years."

I turned my head, looking back at him out of the corner of my eye.

"I'm a hitman — usually, anyway. Naturally, a lot of my targets didn't wanna go down without a fight. Some more than others."

He spoke in quick, terse sentences, pausing for a few seconds every now and again. There was a pause; the only sound was the tump tump of Bombproof's hooves on the hard barren ground.

"Of course, there's more, but that's all you need to know." His voice was low and detached, as if he were trying to block out the thoughts that came with the mention of his scars.

"Okay," I said with a small nod. "Now . . . your turn, if you want."

A twinge of apprehension struck me as I waited for his response — and it morphed into a sickening wave of dread when he asked:

"Why'd you do it?"

My stomach clenched. I knew exactly what he meant. I had sensed the curiosity brewing in his head the night before, after I'd confessed to him the method of my death.

A lump formed in my throat. I stared forward at the dry plains of the Bad Man Lands, using all my power to stifle the emotions welling up in my chest. My breath shook slightly as I thought of an answer I could actually bear telling him.

"There's . . . There's not just a single reason — there's never just one reason why someone does it. It's a combination of everything that happens to you, everything you think and feel about yourself and your place in the world, everything anyone ever does to you. All of it just builds up over time until. . ."

Striker remained quiet, waiting for me to finish my explanation. My body became stiff, my grip on his hand tightening slightly.

"I thought — " I started, my voice beginning to fail me. "I thought it would end my pain. My suffering." A rough, humorless laugh escaped my throat. "Imagine my disappointment when I woke up down here. Having to do it all over again . . . except this time, it'd be for all of eternity. . ."