Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Cross,” I hiss, “I’m sorry.”
I can’t think straight enough to remember what for, but with the hand that’s not chained to the statue, I grasp around for him, finding something I think is his shirt and holding on.
“Merri…I’ve got to get your hand out of this thing.” I feel him tugging on my bruised and bleeding hand, the one clasped in the cuff, and I can’t help but whimper.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
And then my hand is ripped apart. I’m screaming, screaming, screaming. Then I’m floating through the flames.
Cross
I BREAK MERRI’S hand—on purpose. Before she even gets a scream out, her body goes limp.
I throw her over my agonized right shoulder, holding onto her by her legs as I move through smoke and flames. I try to remember which hand it was: the left or right? Was it her dominant hand? Did I break it in a way that spares her three middle fingers, or will the whole hand be fucked up—like mine?
I’m so dizzy, the problem of her hand is magnified, so it seems more tragic than the fact that we’re midway down the stairs and fire is everywhere. There’s no way we can pass through that. No fucking way.
I can barely tell which direction is up, but I can feel the stair rail with my left hip, and that’s how I get us back up to the second floor—by pressing my hip against rail as I struggle up the stairs. When the smoke is too thick for me to breathe, I lean against the railing, praying to God and the Virgin that it doesn’t crumple underneath the weight of us. The prayer must have worked, because I make it back upstairs with Merri still over my shoulder. I can hear her groaning, talking nonsense, but I ignore her.
I need to think.
I find a window—big and vertical—but it’s covered with a film of smoke so I can’t see how far it is to the backyard. I turn a circle, but all I see down the hall on either side is flames.
I lean my left shoulder against the wall, worrying about the smoke Merri is breathing, and then there’s a boom from somewhere and the floor shakes. The ceiling to our right, above the hall that way, has caved in, and fire is rushing toward us like a tidal wave.
I need to do something, but all of a sudden I’m paralyzed because I’m about to die. And it never seemed right, it never seemed real before, because it seemed like it would be too much. That I’d be cheated out of too much. But now I’ve met Merri. I have Merri with me, and I’m pulling her down my chest so I can feel her face in the crook of my arm, and I’m damn near crying because I wanted something better for us both.
Merri says, “Cross…” and something else, but I can’t tell what. Her eyes close. I look around me one more time, but it’s an inferno. The only way out is this big, smutty window. I rub a circle on one of the panes and use my limp left hand to make a haphazard cross before I look outside. And when I do, I see the glittering green-blue water of a lit-up swimming pool.
RIGHT BEFORE WE jumped out, I heard gunfire. Turns out it was Marchant. After running through the building, trying to get all the staff out, he split off from the EMTs and firefighters in the front of the building—where evacuees had gathered—and ran around to the back, where he used his burned hands to push back a thin slab of concrete below which a pool was hiding. He said he thought it would prevent the fire from spreading, at least behind the building.
Usually the concrete was pulled back via remote, but somehow he got the thing to slide, so of the 100-someodd feet of rectangular swimming pool in the deck behind the brothel, I had about thirty to jump into.
Lucky for Merri and me, the Carlsons have always had a pool, and more than once in high school, Lizzy and I jumped out the second-story window of the pool house into the deep end. I knew I needed to get a running start and overshoot it some. I hardly remember doing it, but I know I considered throwing Merri down first, and I discarded that idea because I was worried that she couldn’t swim. Her body was limp, so I jumped with her.
I remember being worried we would hit cement or yard instead, and I remember that at first I thought we had. That’s how bad the impact hurt my burned skin. I remember thrusting Merri up toward the surface as I choked on chlorinated water.
And that’s it. That’s where our story ends, at least in my memory.