Verboten

25.

The only adequate position that you can muster is curled into the fetal position on your left side, your eyelids blinking bitterly and your breath slow and prudent. Each time you exhale and empty your lungs, you can feel the twist of a knife in the very center of your chest and each time you inhale, the pain dulls gradually.

You woke up this morning and marked six days without your love, your peaceful memories of him slowly bleeding into violent speculations of his whereabouts or possible fate. His dazzling smile covered in blood, his angular jaw littered with contusions, his sparkling eyes drained of life.

It feels as though you've shed every tear that was stored inside of your body and now you're sucked dry and scooped hollow like a gourd, angry ravens squawking in your face each time you close your eyes to pray.

You crawl at a snail's pace from bed, trembling hands guiding your clothing onto your shrinking frame. You walk to your washstand and stare at your reflection in the mirror, pushing your hair back from your face and closing your eyes to splash water against your sallow skin. Your fingers toy with the fan on the small table, unfolding it meticulously and bringing it to your face to dry the drips of water slipping onto your neck.

Several rushed and frantic knocks rap against your door, frightening you out of your skin and pulling your eyebrows together into a frown as you saunter towards the sound and pull your door open in a weak brush. You know that it is not your father since he never knocks, but you hadn't considered the notion of the visitor being undesirable until you've already got the door halfway open.

The bartender pushes the wood aside the rest of the way in a hurry, stepping into your room and locking the door behind him before his hands land heavily on your shoulders. He is wild with revelation, his hair untidy and his eyes representing each of the four elements as he shouts in a whisper, "I've overheard something."

You can feel your heart contract before bursting into a bruising clip, "say it."

The bartender walks you farther into your bedroom so that no one in the hallway would have the chance of snooping on your conversation. He licks his lips and swallows, tripping over his words at first before finally smoothing them out, "your father has him. I don't know where. He plans to kill him."

Your vision turns both black and red with fear and anger, your sliver of relief overshadowed by the fact that he is alive but hidden, threatening to slip through your fingers at any given moment. You push away from the bartender and gather your weapons from underneath your mattress, tucking your pistol and knife into their special covert places in your clothing before glancing at him over your shoulder, "I need a horse."

The bartender's mouth is hung open in surprise at your multitude of steel and how quickly you sprung into action, his finger pointing timidly at the gun tucked underneath your skirt, "what-"

You shake your head and bump his shoulder as you pass, "I don't have time." You pause and regard him deeply, studying his horrified expression before nodding in gratitude and softening your voice to convey severity, "thank you."

You jog down the steps and waltz through the saloon, taking note of the small congregation of regular customers who typically begin their task of consuming alcohol right away in the mornings. Your father is absent and you curse under your breath, anxious that he may already be on his way to end Harry's life and you still have yet to locate him.

You peek out of the saloon doors and recognize a horse belonging to a young and inexperienced customer that you've known for years; one who continually comes into the saloon but is unable to afford women, choosing simply to observe and flirt whenever he has the opportunity. You swallow your pride and charge over to him, slowing your footsteps as you approach him from behind and running your fingertips over his shoulders.