In answer, I pull out the 9mm, eject the clip, pull the slide to eject the shell in the chamber, hand it all to him. I push past him.
He grabs my arm, spins me around, shoves me backward, and then decks me with a wicked right hook. It levels me. I topple backward to the ground, blood dribbling from the corner of my lip. I stay on the ground, shocked. Split tosses the gun, clip, and shell onto the backseat of his car, and moves to kneel in front of me.
He grabs the front of my shirt. "I've had it, Colt. You can't puss out on me. I ain't gonna let you." He stands up, hauling me to my feet.
He lunges at me, hits me again. I let him. I take it on the cheekbone. He hits me yet again, a right to the gut. I double over, then straighten up. I deserve this. Again, and again, he punches me, and I do nothing but take it.
"Fight back, goddamn it!"
I can't. I won't.
He stops, breathing hard, staring at me in fury. "You gonna give up like this, then...you didn't deserve her. You never deserved her."
That cuts. Deep.
I stagger from the pain of his words. It's a real, physical agony, the knowledge that I don't deserve her. That I never did. And the pain from Split's hard, accurate punches makes it all the more real.
I like the pain. It's something to hold on to.
"Thought you were my boy, my brother." Split is cracking. Anger and agony are a maelstrom in his eyes. He shoves me, hard. "You ain't. You ain't nothin'."
I can't argue with that.
But the slicing pain of knowing he's right drops me to my knees. And Split is there, grabbing me by the hair. "Get angry, Colt. At me. At yourself. At the assholes who caused all this. I took care'a them, you know? Made sure they paid. They paid. Now, you gotta get up and show who you are. India wouldn't love a pussy. A pathetic piece of shit who would just give up like this. Just walk away. From me, from Callie, from Maya, from Cleo, from the Bishops. That ain't you. You gotta find you again, Colt."
He hauls me to my feet by my hair. Shoves me. Watches for a moment, waiting for a reaction. I say nothing, do nothing. I have nothing, I am nothing. I'm not the man India loved. He died when she did.
Split spits on the ground at my feet, gets in his car and drives away. But he only goes a few yards before screeching to a halt. Stalks angrily toward me, grabs me by the shirt and hauls me to his car. Shoves me in, closes the door after me. Gets in and starts driving. I don't ask where. It doesn't matter.
Split drives a few blocks, to the hospital, and parks in the general parking lot. "C'mon. Mo's in here, got hurt bad in all that bullshit. You owe it to him to at least pay him a visit."
Fuck, I gotta visit Mo. He's a good dude, a little crazy, but good. So I haul my ass up to the ninth floor and check on Mo. He took one to the chest and made it to the doctors in time to get patched up. He's hooked up to all sorts of machines and monitors, looking pale and pissed. Bored. I'm there, and that's all that's necessary. He doesn't say anything to me about India, and I don't say anything at all.
Eventually, I have to get out of the room. I'm halfway to the elevator when I'm stopped by a pretty young girl with her hair in cornrows, wearing nurse's scrubs.
"Hey, you Colt?" she asks.
I nod.
"I was friends with India." She ducks her head, seems hesitant. Afraid. "Not sure if Maya's mom told you, but...um. India--she...when she died, she was--" A long, long pause, then. A tear trickles down her face. She finally looks up at me, eyes wet. "She was pregnant."
I think I collapse. I only remember cold tile under my face, and feeling cold inside. Then I become aware of hands lifting me, carrying me. I might have been crying, I don't know. It's all a blur, a haze, darkness.
I'm on a couch at some point and realize I am at Split and Callie's apartment.
I feel hunger, and thirst, but I ignore it.
Split forces me to eat, and I do it just to get him off my back. I'm empty, for I don't even know how long.
*
I'm on Split's couch.
I'm seeing India.
I'm seeing her bleed onto my legs and onto the grass.
I'm hearing Maya tell me it's my fault but that she forgives me.
I don't forgive me; all I deserve is pain.
The only thought I have is that I need to feel pain.
Late one night, something--I don't know what--propels me to get up off the couch and tiptoe into the kitchen. I open a drawer and pull out a steak knife. I don't know what drives me to stand over the sink and drag the blade across my wrist. It stings, but not enough. I'm shirtless, and something dark and black and thirsty whispers to me, telling me to pull the blade across my chest. Directly under my left nipple, a long slow slice.
The pain is sharp and sweet. While I bleed, I can breathe. But it fades all too soon. So I pull the blade across my chest on the other side. I press hard so the blade cuts deep. I flex and the blood flows. I breathe, sucking in a breath.
But when the pain dulls, the anchor pressing on my chest is back.
I'm about to cut my chest again when the door to Split and Callie's bedroom opens. Callie comes out, wearing one of Split's shirts and looking sleepy. She doesn't see me at first as she grabs a glass from the cabinet and moves to the sink to fill it with water. Then she sees me.
"Shit, sorry, didn't see you." She blinks up at me, still bleary-eyed. And then her gaze fixes on my chest; the thin trickles of blood trailing down my chest. She sees the long deep slices in my skin, in the muscle. Sees the knife in my hand, the blade red. "Colt? What the fuck are you doing?"
I just stand there. I have no words, no explanation.
She shakes her head in disgust. "Man, you need help. That's fucked up." She gets her water and goes back to bed.
I hear her talking to Split in low murmurs, and after a minute he comes out, wearing a pair of low-riding shorts. His gaze rakes across my cuts, then goes to the knife.
"I gotta worry about finding you dead in my kitchen?" he demands.
I have to think about that. Eventually, I can shake my head in the negative. It's not about seeking death. It's about finding pain so I can breathe. Even if I could speak, I couldn't explain it.
Split takes the knife from me. "Don't be an idiot, man. This ain't the way." He washes the knife carefully, dries it, and puts it away. I just watch. When he's done, he faces me. "Colt, I don't need this shit. You want to cut yourself to pieces, do it somewhere else. Not in my house. Not around my woman. She's been through enough. I know you're hurt, but doing that ain't gonna fix it. I won't sit by and watch you do that shit."
He's right. She's right. They're both right. It's fucked up and it doesn't fix anything.
But I can breathe when I bleed. I can breathe when the pain is sharp and fresh. I can't breathe without India and I don't deserve to.
So I cut, but I do it when I'm alone, where they can't see, and I don't ever let them know.
I find a razor blade and keep it in my wallet. I walk the streets at night when the streetlights buzz and hum and the streets are empty and the playgrounds are still. Sometimes I sit on the swings and think of India, and think about flirting, living, falling in love with a girl.
I lift my shirt and slide the razor across my chest, then down my bicep. I watch the blood and breathe while it flows.
Split knows I'm still doing this, but I keep my promise, and I never cut around him, or Callie.
I never thought I'd be a cutter.
Just like I never thought I'd be homeless, or a member of a gang, or an underground fighter.
I'm all those things, and none of them are worth a damn.
*
A couple months later, I go back to fighting. Every night there's a fight, and I fight as many times as Ruiz will let me. The fights are the only times I feel alive. I fight like a wounded tiger. Night after night, week after week. My face takes a battering. My nose is permanently crooked. I bank my money, save it all. I don't even bother to count it, I just stuff it into a duffel bag and stash it at Split's place.
> I fight.
I cut.
And I walk.
I barely sleep.
I try, but I can't.
When I'm alone in the apartment I listen to music and I sing to myself. It started out as nonsense, but it turns into...something. I write a song to sing to myself and, in the process, find a way to push away the emptiness, to push away the need to cut: Quiet your crying voice, lost child.
Let no plea for comfort pass your lips.
You're okay, now.
You're okay, now.
Don't cry anymore, dry your eyes.
Roll the pain away, put it down on the ground and leave it for the birds.
Suffer no more, lost child.
Stand and take the road, move on and seal the hurt behind the miles.
It's not all right, it's not okay.
I know, I know.
The night is long, it's dark and cruel.
I know, I know.
You're not alone. You're not alone.
You are loved. You are held.
Quiet your crying voice, lost child.
You're okay, now.
You're okay, now.
Just hold on, one more day.
Just hold on, one more hour.
Someone will come for you.
Someone will hold you close.
I know, I know.
It's not okay, it's not all right.
But if you just hold on,
One more day, one more hour.
It will be. It will be.
The song is for me. It's for India. It's for the little life she had inside. And I think, in sadness, maybe she didn't even know about it herself. I hum to myself, my little tune, with its childish-lullaby words. I sing to myself, under my breath, and finally I can sleep.
*
One day, after hours of aimless walking, I find myself walking past a garage. I glance inside at the bays and see cars up on lifts, mechanics in coveralls underneath, tinkering and doing oil changes and whatever else. I can't help but stop and watch. This simple scene has fired my imagination like nothing else for the past few weeks. I light a smoke and lean against a wall that offers a good view. A scruffy kid in too-big coveralls is working on a pickup truck jacked upon a hydraulic lift, and I can tell from here that the kid is fucking up some poor dude's exhaust system. The kid has no idea what he's doing, and no one is supervising him.
Whether it's frustration, or the simple fact that I can't bear to watch him struggle any longer, I walk over to the service bay, shove the kid aside and take the wrench from him.
"Hey, man, what the hell?" he protests and tries to push me out of the way, at the same time trying to take the wrench back.
One glare from me has him backing down. "You're fucking it up. Let me help before you fuck it up so bad it can't be fixed."
He steps back, watches as I undo his mistakes, paying attention as I dismantle the entire exhaust system, go over it piece by piece and put it back together the right way.
When I'm done, my hands are covered in grease, and there's something alive in my chest. The load weighing me down has lifted, a little bit.
A burly guy in coveralls with the upper half tied around his waist approaches me and the kid, and the late-model Ram 1500 I just fixed. "What's going on, Ricky?" he asks, coffee in hand.
The kid, Ricky, gestures at me. "I don't know, Carl. He just showed up. Took the wrench, redid everything I was working on."
"And you just let him?"
Ricky gestures at me again. "You see him?"
Carl, obviously the owner of the garage, examines the exhaust system. "It's good work. What's your name?"
I've barely spoken in the last few months but suddenly...I feel alive again. Maybe with a bit of grease under my nails and a wrench in my hand, I can find a way to breathe other than cutting.
So I clear my throat. "Colt."
"You know cars, Colt?"
I nod. "Yeah, I do."
Carl points at a Camry up on a lift. "Have a look at that one."
I toss the wrench back to Ricky and duck under the Camry. The brakes need replacing, and there's oil leaking from somewhere. The leak is probably why it was brought in here in the first place. I sniff out the cause of the leak in a few minutes.
"Found the leak," I say, emerging from underneath the car.
Carl nods at me and then glances at Ricky, "Sorry kid. You've just been replaced."
"Aw, c'mon, Carl. I just started! And Aunt Linda said--"
"My sister doesn't run my shop. You don't know shit about cars and I don't have time to teach you. You can work the counter."
"This is bullshit," Ricky says, but it's under his breath and he's already heading into the front of the shop.
Carl extends his hand. "I need full-time. I got work orders coming out my asshole, and my one skilled employee quit on me last month."
"I'll work till I drop. You won't be disappointed." I shake his hand.
"Start you at fifteen an hour. Keep your nose clean and don't fuck anything up, and I'll add to it."
"Sounds good."
And just like that, I have a job. A real job. A legitimate, legal job doing the one thing I've ever gotten any enjoyment from. It feels odd, filling out W2 information, and signing my name. I realize I'll need a bank account to deposit my pay checks. I smile wryly to myself--going legit means no more cash, it means putting money in the bank like everybody else. Somehow this thought makes me feel good.
I step into a pair of coveralls, zip them up and get to work.
It feels like the barren, fallow soil of my soul has suddenly sprouted a seedling.
Perhaps hope has somewhere to grow.
I start work that day, right then. I work on the Camry and fix the leak and replace the brakes. The next challenge is an old as fuck Volvo, which I manage to breathe enough life into to see the owner through another summer. After a lunch break, I change the oil and fix a faulty starter on a Focus. I forget everything as I work. Everything. Time, myself, India, Split, the past, everything. Nothing exists but the tool in my hand and the mechanical problem that needs fixing.
I've got my head under the hood of a sweet-ass restored Charger, tinkering with the spark plugs. I'm aware of a presence behind me and then feel a tap on the shoulder. Instinct has me spinning around, and lunging forward. Tool in hand, I raise my arm, ready to strike. Suddenly I come to my senses. I realize I've got Carl by the throat and I'm about to bash his head in.
Immediately I let him go and drop the tool onto the engine block. "Shit. Shit. Sorry." I back up. Blink hard, wipe at my face. "Sorry. I'm sorry."
Carl swallows, straightens. "Jumpy much? Jesus."
"I don't do well being snuck up on."
"No shit." He rubs his throat. "Do I gotta worry about you?"
I shrug. "Nobody's gonna come after me."
"Not what I mean. You gonna snap? You almost brained me just now, and all I did was walk up behind you."
"Just...I was just surprised is all. I didn't hear you."
He nods, and then pauses before he says, "Okay. Just...keep that shit in check, man. Customers will sue me if you pull that shit on them." He taps his wrist. "It's after ten at night, time to knock off."
I gesture at the Charger. "I'm almost done here. I don't mind staying to finish up."
Carl shakes his head. "I'm going home. And, no offense meant, but I don't trust you here by yourself just yet. So. Time to knock off."
"Got it."
"How do you spell your name? I wanna make sure your name tag is right."
"C-O-L-T."
He locks up, turns the lights off, and closes the bay doors. We stand in a bright pool of light from a floodlight on a wire overhead. Cars pass in ones and twos in both directions.
"I'll have your name tag for you tomorrow. My wife does embroidery. Be here at nine." He extends his hand to me.
Tentatively, hesitantly, I shake it. I have a boss, and he's a decent guy, it seems. Not everyone would be willing to overloo
k my jumpy, street-attuned instincts. "See you tomorrow, Carl."
I walk back to Split and Callie's place. They're on the couch together, Callie is watching Split play Xbox and they're sharing a bottle of booze, her head resting on his lap. They're comfortable together. It's easy and quiet and peaceful for them.
Split hears me come in and pauses his game. "Where you been, dog?" Not expecting a reply. But then he turns to look at me, sees the coveralls, the grease on my hands. "No shit! You got a job?"
I risk a very rusty smile, and I shrug. "Yeah."
Split claps a hand to his heart, a comedically overdramatic gesture. "He speaks! Lawd be praised!"
"Shut up." I duck my head, embarrassed. Mainly because I feel like a person again. It's odd and painful and refreshing.
"For real, though. I'm happy for you, Colt. Where at?"
"Carl's Auto Garage. Few miles north of here."
"You done fighting?" It's a loaded question. He's also asking if I'm done cutting.
I shrug. "I think so. I'm going to try."
I sit on the far side of the couch, Callie's feet on my knees, watching Split shoot zombies. It feels good to sit down. I take a drink from the bottle and pass it back.
The past is still there. The misery. The grief. The guilt.
But...
But I realize it's not all there is, somehow. If I can work on cars, I might survive this. It's what India would have wanted.
"India would be proud of you," Callie says.
"That's what I was just thinking," I tell her.
It's hard to look at her because she's always glancing at my chest, looking for blood where it sticks to my shirt after I've cut. She's always looking at me as if she sees India.
But now, I look at Callie, and she just sees me. We share a smile full of meaning.
I just might survive this.
Chapter 12: Learning to Play
Time heals. That's what they say anyway. I've got the healed scars on my chest to prove it. Inside I still hurt, still hate myself for what happened. I haven't been able to forgive myself yet, but I'm getting there.
My life has become pretty simple: I work for Carl, fixing cars. I save my money, keep my head down, my nose clean, and try to just make it, one day at a time. I don't fight anymore and I have to admit that feels good.
One day, not long after I started working for Carl, Split and I are sitting on the steps outside their apartment building, smoking a joint.