The Bone Cutter

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Two

The interview was a disaster, just as expected. Though if one were to ask Inanis, he would call it more-so a success.  

The three of us sat in front of the camera, Inanis on the right, me in the middle, and Vice President Kurt Chavez on the left. He was holding his four-fingered hand in his other, his face as white as a sheet. They managed to bandage his hand and give him an ice pack to keep on it. I saw that they had also put his finger in a cup of ice until the interview was over. 

I felt terrible for him, as I was sure he wouldn't make it through the interview.

He did.

It wasn't of much importance, the interview, that is. Full of questions regarding his future presidency, and how he will make America right, damning all the wrong doers as they deserve.

I didn't fail to notice he looked at Inanis when he said that. Poor man still thinks he can deduct the Bone Cutter as America's capital punishment. He is stupid, and Inanis will only prove to him how stupid he is again, if that is what he feels he must do.

When the interview is over, and Kurt is rushed to the hospital. Inanis and I get a few hours to wait before the party tonight. Since it would be suicide to walk downtown with the public so hyped up, he and I are stuck in my dressing room; a tiny room to be more specific, alone, with my husband. My husband who can't sit still.

"This is almost worse than the party itself." He says, leaning back in his chair.

I'm sitting in front of the mirror, my eyes watching the clock's reflection. "Then leave, I never asked you to sit here with me."

He lifted his head, "You're still mad."

"I'm not mad."

"You're a little mad."

"I'm going to be if you don't drop it."

"That's such a mad thing to say."

I don't reply to him because I know that's what he wants. Instead I glare at him through the mirror, and he stares right back. I see how he tries to focus on me, but he gets distracted and looks at something else. In seconds he's up and digging through some of the boxes my stylist has left.

"Those things aren't yours." I tell him, my eyes drifting back to the clock. It was moving so damn slow.

"I don't know what you mean." He responds and pulls out a jewelry box.

"I mean they don't belong to you, so stop touching them."

He frowns, "I'm not a fan of restrictions."

My eyes flicker to him, "If that were true, I'd be pregnant right now."

I almost gasp when he suddenly drops the jewelry box by accident due to the unintended surprise of my words. We both wince as rings and earrings go scattering everywhere across the floor.

I quickly stand, careful not to step on anything that wasn't hardwood floor, "You idiot, look what you've done."

"It wasn't my intent." He defends himself, "It slipped." He nudges the broken jewelry box with his foot, "It was ugly anyway."

"I told you not to fucking touch it."

"I wasn't expecting you to mention motherhood." He whispered the word 'motherhood' as though it were a bad word, "That was unfair."

He's being extra obnoxious today, and I'm not sure if it's the vodka he had in his coffee this morning, or if he's so bored that he's making fun wherever he can. I assume the latter.