Let Go of Love and Hate

For a moment I didn't know whether to be angry that she would use such a degrading way to threaten me, or more crushed that she knew Andrew Clark was deliberately tormenting me and still chose to indulge him. In the end it made no difference — it was all because of another man.

My fist clenched and then loosened. My throat was unbearably dry. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

This was the ninety-ninth time, Veronica Grey.

They had strapped me into a makeshift electric chair and Andrew had dialed the current up to the maximum. My bones felt as if someone had shattered them from the inside; the faint scent of something singed clung to my skin. I didn’t cry or scream. I only looked at Veronica.

She turned her head away and smoothed a stray lock of Andrew’s hair as if I were a stranger. Once, I had believed love could survive anything. Even if Veronica forgot me, I thought I could make her remember — the heart, I convinced myself, does not lie. Now she stood before me and ignored my pain. The face I had loved was becoming a blur.

Maybe it was time to give up.

I could barely stand when they released me from the chair. Veronica reflexively reached to steady me, but Andrew grabbed the urn of ashes and stepped between us.

“Vera, I’ll take Mr. Linwood to get looked at. He’s been through enough — I want to check on him,” Andrew said in a tone that made the claim sound sincere.

A maintenance worker hoisted the portable toilet nearby, planning to dump its contents into the public restroom. As he passed Andrew, he twisted his ankle and the lidless urn toppled — a sick, clattering fall — and the ashes spilled straight into the portable toilet.

“Oh my God, Mr. Linwood, I’m so sorry — it was an accident,” Andrew said with feigned remorse, catching my hand and leaning close enough for his breath to scrape my ear. “Want your precious ashes back? Dream on.”

“Andrew — I’ll kill you!” I roared, surprising even myself.

Where the strength came from I don’t know, but I grabbed at his hair and pulled him toward me. A knife pressed to Andrew’s belly.

“I told you — you and that animal have no right to my child. You brought this on yourself.” I raised the blade.

“Hey, you lost the bet, didn’t you? Why don’t you just give me your life instead?” he taunted.

My hand moved to stab, but a hand closed on my wrist, wrenching me hard and throwing me to the ground. Veronica cradled Andrew protectively, eyes cold as steel.

“Mike, if you make Andrew bleed, I’ll see to it you don’t live to regret it,” Veronica said, her body shielding him.

“He stole my person, desecrated my child’s ashes — he deserves to pay. I wish I’d killed him sooner; maybe then all this would be over,” she hissed. Her voice was hollow with long-nursed hatred.

“That’s enough. He didn’t mean it. Are you really going to throw your life away over someone else’s bastard?” someone said.

“Michael,” Veronica added, “we’ve fought for so many years and I never took you seriously. I was too soft. If you want to play with knives, play until you’re satisfied.”

She called to her bodyguard, Evan Cole. “Evan — he’s the best with blades. Mike just tried to stab Andrew. Give him ten cuts.”

“He needs to feel it all at once — until he’s scared. So he’ll never touch Andrew again,” she ordered, voice flat as a verdict.

I lifted my head suddenly. “Veronica, think about this. Ten cuts and there’s no future for us. We’re gone.”

A flicker of doubt crossed her face. She glanced at Andrew, whose expression was a perfect picture of wounded innocence, and then her resolve hardened.

“There never was a future for us anyway. Do it.”

Good. Perfect.

After ten cuts, I lay in a spreading pool of blood. When Veronica saw me drenched in red, she clutched at her chest and pain contorted her face. “What is happening to me? My heart — it hurts so much…”

“Vera, you’re worked up over Michael. Don’t look — it’ll only make you sick. I’m starving. Let’s go home and eat,” Andrew said, as if they were dismissing a nuisance.