Lisa
Roseanne sleeps next to me in the passenger seat, a blanket I stole from the hotel covering her body, her blonde hair swept over her swollen shoulder. Her bra strap holds an ice pack in place over the joint, and though I know it probably melted an hour ago, I haven't had the heart to replace it in case I wake her.
When I look at her, I can't seem to pry one emotion away from the others. They all intertwine when I think of Roseanne Park. Fear is fused with hope. Care with control, with envy, with sadness. It's fucking everything, all at once. Even the desire to turn this feeling off locks with the need to nurture it. The totality of it devours me.
And it only grows with every passing moment. Roseanne bleeds into every thought. When we're apart, her absence is an entity. I worry for her. I dream of her. And yesterday, I almost lost her. Killing bound us together, and it's a compulsion neither of us can live without. This need, and now this game between us, consumes me as much as she does.
My obsessions push me to a cliff I'm bound to fall over, and there might not be an end to the drop once I do.
Roseanne stirs and groans, and my fucking heart starts rioting. Maybe it hasn't stopped since that first day in the bayou when she walked out of that bathroom at Briscoe's, all wet hair and flushed, flawless skin and that Pink Floyd T-shirt tied at her waist. Every time I think of her, my heart reminds me I'm not as dead on the inside as I thought after all.
"Easy, Blackbird," I say as she groans again, more of a whimper this time that claws at my guts. I lay a hand on Roseanne's thigh, maybe to reassure myself as much as her. "Just a few more hours."
She shifts, every painful movement etching a crease on her skin until her eyes are squeezed shut. The blanket falls down to her waist when she finally makes it to a straighter position but she doesn't seem to notice, and when I pull it back up for her she gifts me with a faint, grateful smile. I pass her a bottle of water and a handful of pain meds before she has the chance to ask for them.
"I feel like hell," she says, her eyes drifting closed once more as she swallows the pills. When I only respond with a thoughtful hmm, she gives me a sidelong glance. "You can say it."
"Say what?"
"That I look like hell too."
I chuckle and her eyes narrow. "I'm not saying that. No fucking way." I look back to the road, saluting a magpie that flies overhead, trying to keep my attention on the horizon even though the weight of Roseanne's piercing stare on the side of my face is like a hot brand on my skin. "What? I think you're beautiful. Like some kind of vicious, battle-hardened goddess of vengeance."
Roseanne snorts. "Goddess of vengeance my ass." I glance over in time to catch one of her epic eye rolls. Before I can stop her, she's got the visor pulled down and flips up the cover for the mirror.
A shriek fills the little hatchback.
"Lisa-"
"It's not that bad, once you get used to it."
"Get used to it? There's a fucking boot print on my face." She leans closer to the tiny mirror, turning her head side to side as she inspects the bruises of distinct tread marks on her forehead and two black semi-circles beneath her lower lashes. When Roseanne turns to me, her eyes are glassy with unshed tears.
"Blackb-"
"Don't you Blackbird me. That can-can motherfucker stamped my fucking forehead. I can even see the Carhartt logo on it," she says, her voice taking on a watery quality as she draws closer to the mirror before turning back to me, a tear spilling over her lashes as she leans over the center console and points to the circle in the center of her forehead. "See? Right there. Carhartt. Why couldn't he have just punched me in the face like a normal person?"
