Saving Grace

8

I dodged the first hit, wasn't so lucky with the second.

Russo's closed fist shattered against my eye socket, a terrible crunch ringing out from our broken bones. I fell backwards – vision blurring, blackening, spotting – and crushed Grace against the bar-top. With a deafening cry, she scurried backwards, falling onto the grass. I looked up.

"Grace?"

The second hit was worse – crushing my mouth and splitting open my bottom lip. Blood gushed from the swelling wound, filling the gaps in my teeth and spreading over my tongue like hot metal. My knees trembled, hitting the ground hard. Then, I heard her scream.

"Richie!"

Grace's voice, streaked in fear and chaos, rang all through the night. That fear is what caused my eyes to snap open, my limbs to steady, my vision to clear. I looked at Russo, trembling, as his attention to me drained and his violent eyes turned towards Grace. No, no. Not today.

My legs sprung, thin body pushing forward with all my might as I tackled him to the ground. We both hit the grass – my sharp, bony body landing atop of Russo's muscular one – and I managed to land a hit. It was by no means a good hit – barely touched his jawbone and my hand ended up hurting more than he did – but I kept going. Punch after punch, until my knuckles were collections of white marrow mush. Then, Russo regained his focus, and when he looked at me, I felt like I'd tried to kill a bear with a BB gun.

With an almost animalistic growl, Russo sneered and grabbed me by the throat, flipping us over and taking to my torso with his fists, carving a series of hairline fractures into my ribcage. I felt the air thicken in my lungs, the fire sear my ribs, the blood gush from my face and spill out into the damp earth. Somewhere, though, in all this anguish, I saw Grace. She was screaming, crying, her entire body shaking in the cool night air. And I felt this strange sense of relief – it's me here, right now, in pain. Not her. And just as quickly as the moment had arrived, it passed, and Russo was pried off of me.

Sebastian, the bartender, along with a handful of other young men had Russo pinned the ground while I bled out on the lawn. Grace scurried over to me – mascara smeared, body trembling, lips quivering.

"Richie?"

She touched my face, fingers sinking into my hair and down my cheeks, on my neck, along my collarbones. Even when her soft fingertips brushed along my swollen features, I felt no pain – just her hands: warm, tender, and scared. I took one of them in mine, looked up at her in awe.

"Are you okay?" I whispered.

Her eyes softened ever so slightly – genuine surprise, confusion, affection. She shook her head – not as an answer, but as an expression of sheer disbelief.

"Do you need an ambulance?"

The question came from Sebastian, voice deep and assertive. We both looked up at him as I turned onto my side and tried to push myself up.

"No," I said. "I'm f– "

A hot pain ripped through my torso, setting fire to my ribs.

"Fuck," I breathed, elbows falling out from under me.

"Richie?" Grace caught me with trembling arms.

"I'm alright," I insisted. "I just need to go upstairs; get cleaned up."

"Are you sure?" Sebastian asked.

I nodded, lungs burning.

"Please, just, get him out. Don't worry about me."

I found my knees and then my feet, stood hunched with an arm draped around Grace.

"You don't look so good, homie."