If You Leave (Beautifully Broken 2)

“Gabe,” I rasp. “Gabe! It’s only me. Wake up.”

But the look in his dark eyes is dull, he’s not awake. And he clearly thinks I’m someone else.

“Fuck you!” he screams at me, his face contorted in anger. “Why did you do it? She was just a girl. You’re a fucking murderer!”

He clenches his grip tighter and I can no longer breathe at all. I push at him as hard as I can until my vision begins to tunnel and the edges turn fuzzy.

“Gabe,” I gasp desperately.

My chest feels hot from lack of oxygen and my fingers and legs go numb. I can’t feel my hands enough to push at him anymore. My eyelids are too heavy to hold open and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if I close them, I might not ever open them again. “Gabriel, please…”

I can’t speak anymore. Gabe’s grip on my throat is too tight.

I can’t move. He’s fifty times stronger than I am.

And I can’t breathe.

As I close my eyes and everything goes black, I realize that this is what it’s like to die.

Chapter Sixteen

Gabriel

Smoke curls around me, making it impossible to see and just as impossible to breathe. I duck my head closer to the ground as I drag myself by my elbows. The lower I get, the cleaner the air is. The smell of gasoline and burning rubber is almost suffocating and I try to take small breaths.

“Brand!” I hiss, as quietly as I can. I don’t know who else is hiding in the shadows, who else is watching us, waiting to attack. “Brand!”

I still can’t see, but I hear a moan, low and ragged, and I keep crawling to find it.

The darkness makes it impossible to see and the crackling fire from the burning Humvee makes it almost impossible to hear.

“Fuck,” I mutter as a jagged piece of metal cuts into my thigh and wedges in deep. I reach down to pull it out, and my hand comes back bloody. I know I’m in shock because I don’t feel anything, not a thing, even though I am covered in blood. I can taste it, the metallic rusty taste, dripping down my throat. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to stay conscious because my vision keeps blurring in and out.

It makes me nervous that I can only hear one person. The blast was bad. And if something happened to Brand, I’ll never forgive myself. I should have seen this coming. I should have acted faster. If only that little girl hadn’t looked so fucking scared.

“Not Brand,” I tell God. “Not him. Please.”

I keep crawling through the dirt and finally the smoke breaks and the moon shines brightly enough that I can see the situation a little better. I can see Mad Dog’s still form, lying a few paces away. His legs are no longer attached to his body, his intestines are hanging out of his torso. His blood seems as black as the night as it pools around him.

Fuck.

He’s dead and it’s my fucking fault. But I can’t help him right now. I need to find Brand.

I spin to the right, hunting for him. I see nothing. I peer into the distance as far as I can see, and I’m relieved to see a slow movement from up ahead. A leg. A combat boot, army-issued. It moves again.

Brand.

Thank fuck.

I am trying to get to him when I come across the girl.

Her eyes are glassy and open.

And her head is detached from her body.

I know I pass out, because when I next open my eyes, a man is standing over me. Dressed in traditional Afghan garb, he stares down at me wordlessly and I know instinctively who he is. He sent the girl to attack us. He’s not real, though. He’s not real because he wasn’t there that night. My mind is making him up.

But real or not real, I want to kill him for what he did.

I lunge to my feet, regardless of my pain, regardless of anything except the rage that is coursing through me. I wrap my hands around his throat.

“You motherfucker,” I hiss. “She was a child. You’re a fucking murderer. She didn’t have to die for your fucking misguided beliefs. You’re insane.”

I squeeze tighter when he tries to speak.

“Fuck you!” I scream at him. I can see that my hand is covered in blood. “She was just a girl. You’re a fucking murderer!”

I want to snap his neck. And I’m going to do it. But first I want him to suffer.

He needs to suffer for what he did.

I squeeze tighter, enjoying the way the life drains from his eyes, the way the breath squeezes from his helpless lungs. He deserves pain. He deserves all of it.

“Gabriel, please,” he begs in a forced whisper.

I squeeze tighter and the man finally goes limp in my hands.

It’s only then that I realize something.

He shouldn’t have known my name.

I open my eyes to find Madison’s slender neck in my hands, her eyes closed, her body limp. Shock slams into me hard and fast, and I can hardly breathe from the realization of what I’ve done.

Jesus Christ, I’ve killed Madison.

Chapter Seventeen

Madison

I’m in the dark. Floating in a pond. Or I’m at the end of a dark tunnel. Or maybe at the beginning of one. To be honest, I don’t actually know where I’m at. But everything’s cloudy and warm and soft and I never want to leave.

Nothing can hurt me here.

I know that. I can feel it.

But then someone shakes me, grabbing my shoulders, their fingers digging into my arms. There’s harsh breathing in my ear and mumbling.

“Holyfuckholyfuckholyfuck.” The words run together, panicky and fast. And I know that voice.

I’m balanced on a precipice. Because it’s Gabe and he just tried to kill me. He was crazy after all.

If I open my eyes I’ll be back with him. I’ll have to fight for my life. And do I really want to? It’s so comfortable here. It didn’t hurt. It’s all done.

But if I stay here, it’s all done.

I’ll never be anything.

My arms are limp and my body numb as I do the only thing I can do.

I open my eyes.

Chapter Eighteen

Gabriel

“Holyfuckholyfuckholyfuck.”

Madison is limp in my arms, not moving.

“Maddy, wake up,” I beg her, my fingers digging into her shoulder. “Wake up. God, please… wake up.”

Please.

God.

She’s limp, pale and fragile. Her eyes are closed, her lashes pressed against her cheek. She’s too quiet, too still. Because God doesn’t listen to me anymore.

I bend my head, listening for breath, feeling for a heartbeat.

Nothing.

But wait.

Yes, it’s there, but barely.

“Maddy,” I beg, one last time before I completely lose my shit. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I press my lips to her forehead, saying her name against her skin. “God, please.” I beg one more time for her.

And just like that, she opens her eyes and stares into mine.

“Gabe?” she asks groggily, her hands cupping her throat as though the effort to speak is too much.

I drag her to my chest, holding her tightly there, clutching her as my heart races, as I try to make myself believe that I didn’t kill her.

Is this real? Because I never know anymore. Not at night. Not while I’m sleeping.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her raggedly, breathing into her hair. “Jesus, I’m so sorry.”

It takes me a minute to realize that she’s struggling to get away, her hands fumbling against my chest. Startled, I release her and she scoots away from me, like a cornered animal.

“What the fuck, Gabe?” she asks wildly, her hands still gripping her throat. “What was that?”

As I stare into her wild eyes, I see the worst possible thing I can see. Not anger, not hate, not blame.

But fear.

Of me.

And with that, I know this is real. All of this is real. Everything.

My gut clenches into a vise grip and I swallow hard, my jaw clenching, then unclenching. I can’t even answer her.

She stares at me, still panicked. “Get out!” she screeches. “Just get out.”

I’m stunned, frozen in place, so she moves instead, scrambling to her feet, rushing for the bedroom door. I watch her run away and I do the only thing I can do because I can’t let her leave like this.

Not when she doesn’t understand.

She needs to understand.

I lunge across the room and grab her, holding her to me, preventing her from leaving. It’s the only thing I can think of to do.

She struggles, spinning in my arms, hitting at my chest, kicking and clawing.

“Let go!” she screams, her fingernails raking across my face. “Let go!”

“Maddy, stop,” I plead quickly, ignoring the burning slashes across my cheek. “Just stop. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to explain. I swear to God I’m not going to hurt you.”

She stops and stares up at me uncertainly.

“Let. Go,” she demands again. “If you let go, I’ll listen.”

I immediately let go and she stands dead still in front of me.

“See?” I ask. “I promise you. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to explain. God, please, Maddy.”

Her eyes are hard, but they soften just slightly as I speak.

“What the fuck was that?” she demands. “Tell me right now.”

“Maddy.” But my voice breaks and I have to try again. “Maddy, that was… it’s the part that I haven’t told you. That was the bad thing. It caught me and no matter how much I try to get away from it, I can’t. I’ll never get away from it because I’m the bad thing now.”

I’m babbling, nonsensical. But I don’t know how to fix that because all I want is for her to hear me. To know what I am.

Maddy’s face shudders, her eyes close, then open. “The bad thing?”

Skeptical.

Doubtful.

I try to take a breath as I nod.

“A woman in Afghanistan… afterward. She told me the bad thing had caught me. But she was wrong. I’m the bad thing, Maddy. And I shouldn’t be anywhere near you. I tried to tell you. And now you know. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Jesus Christ, I didn’t mean to hurt you. This is why I wouldn’t sleep with you. It happens when I sleep… the night terrors. They’re so real and I’m not myself. I’m not myself.”

I close my eyes, hating the red burning that is behind my eyelids, hating the pressure in my throat, on my heart. Hating that I can’t breathe. Hating this fucking weakness.

Hating myself.

But Maddy’s cool hands are on me now and they shake as her fingers brush against my face, caressing my forehead. She ducks her head and whispers into my hair.

“It’s OK, Gabe. I understand. You didn’t mean to hurt me. I see that now.” I know she’s afraid, I can see it in the way her body is shaking, the way her eyes are hooded and guarded, the way she’s ever so slightly curved away from me, like she’s ready to bolt at a moment’s notice if need be.

But even still, in spite of her fear, she’s here.

Comforting me.

“You’re OK,” she says again, and I’m not completely sure if she’s reassuring me or herself.

“But you’re not,” I tell her in anguish, eyeing the already purple marks on her throat. They’re in the perfect shape of my hands. “Jesus Christ.”