Beauty in the Broken

Damian stops. “You have what you wanted. Let her go.”

“Put the backpack on the ground. Gun too. And don’t bother to deny it. I know you have one.”

Damian slips the straps from his shoulders and lowers the backpack to the ground. “Gun’s in there.”

Yanking me by my arm, Harold flings me in Damian’s direction. “Open the bag, Lina.”

I stare up at Damian, hoping to God I can tell him everything I need to with my eyes. There’s an eternity of love in my heart, and only a second to show it.

“Now, Lina,” Harold says behind me.

Damian gives me a small nod. As I crouch down, his lips lift in a reassuring gesture. Even while being held at gunpoint, he offers me comfort.

My fingers shake on the buckle of the bag. It takes a few seconds to get it open.

“Kick it over,” Harold says.

Straightening, I nudge the bag with my shoe. It slides over the concrete to where Harold stands.

“Search him,” Harold says. “If you find a weapon on him, you throw it my way. Don’t even think about trying to use it. I’ll shoot him before you have time to cock a gun.”

Doing as I’m told, I pat Damian down.

“Anything?” Harold asks.

I shake my head.

“Must I come over there and check? If I find a weapon on him, I’ll shoot off his kneecap. Get my drift?”

I swallow and nod.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, keeping the gun trained on Damian, and flicks over the screen.

The wind ruffles Damian’s hair. He looks both eternal and destructible. The sun makes a halo around the needlepoint of the tower. If I squint a little, I can see the portrait of Mary and Jesus painted in a sudden appearance of clouds across the sky. My losses peel away as I see the face of another baby in Jesus’ place, and the man-boy Damian used to be returns to me. This very moment, right here, is how we would’ve been if Damian had stayed on the terrace with me instead of going to Harold’s study. It was love at first sight. We both knew. It was too big not to. We lost six years and forever, but when love is this great, even a moment is enough.

A satisfied smile spreads over Harold’s face. “Glad to see you kept your end of the bargain, Hart.” His trigger finger curls.

My shaking stops. My fear dissipates. Suddenly, it’s startling clear. All the events of my life led me to this moment. To this purpose. It only takes one step to put me into the path of the bullet.

Damian’s voice rings out with alarm. “Lina, no!”

The shot goes off. Pain explodes in my side. My knees give out. I fall forward, knocking Harold to the floor. The gun is sandwiched between us.

“Sniper, now!” Damian says. “Ambulance.”

My blood is wet and warm, soaking our clothes. I’m dead weight. Harold struggles to roll me over. He points the gun, but Damian is already there. Bones snap from the impact of Damian’s boot as he kicks the weapon from Harold’s hand. The gun flies over the edge of the terrace. Harold’s scream rises to the sky. Pressing a hand to my side, I try to stop the steady pump of blood that seeps through my fingers.

Damian is like a demon. Grabbing hold of Harold’s feet, he drags him to the rail.

“Damian, no,” I croak, reaching for him with one hand. “He’s not worth it.”

Damian will go back to prison, this time for murder, and they’ll never let him out again. My plea is for nothing. Damian hoists Harold head-down over the rail and shakes him over the abyss.

“Where is he?” Damian screams. “Talk, you bastard.”

My vision starts swimming. The scene goes in and out of focus. The noise of a helicopter rises from the distance. Another face appears above mine. Russell?

“Shit. Fuck. I’ve got you, Lina.” He rips off his jacket and presses it on my wound. It hurts. Badly. “A helicopter is on the way. You hold on, do you hear me?”

It’s Damian’s voice I try to hold on to, the same phrase repeating itself.

Where is he?

I fight to remain conscious. “Don’t let him kill Harold.”

Russell only shakes his head, as if it’s too late.

When I turn my gaze back to Damian, coldness envelopes me. He’s empty-handed. His arms are stretched out over the edge, fingers splayed as if he’s giving a blessing, and his eyes are trained below.

My breath catches. It hurts to swallow. It hurts to move and speak, but I grab Russell by his T-shirt, bringing him closer. “I killed him. I pushed Harold.”

He frowns as he seems to battle with my meaning, and then his face contorts with denial. “Lina—”

“I killed him.” I shake him as hard as my waning strength allows. “I killed him. Do you understand?”