My Maddie (Hades Hangmen 8)

It was worth it.

It was necessary.

Suddenly, Flame’s hand twitched. I glanced down. His finger moved again. I quickly removed my hand from his, as a soft groan slipped from his mouth. My heart seemed to stop beating as his eyes began to flutter open. He no longer had the IV. I knew Flame would fall into a mad panic if he woke a needle in him. He would visualize himself thrust into the past when he had been admitted into hospital and tied to the bed. I wanted him to be calm and free from any unnecessary triggers when he finally opened his eyes.

Flame took a deep breath, his shoulders in sync with his inhale. I felt my hands trembling, but I did not move my head from the pillow. I stayed exactly where I was. Even if he did not know me, I knew he would not hurt me. Not Flame. Not me, his Maddie. Even lost in the tornado that was his mind, I knew he would detect the light I brought, and bring me no harm.

Flame exhaled softly, and then slowly opened his eyes. I stilled, waiting for the fog to clear in his mind and for him to see me. His black gaze roved around the room, adjusting to the dim light… then they fixed on me. I felt as though my heart stilled in anticipation. Flame’s gaze bore into mine. I did not know what it meant. I did not know if it was in relief or panic about who was before him.

I studied him so closely that, unexpectedly, I saw tears begin to build in his eyes. Heavy teardrops filled his beautifully dark eyes, then spilled over and tracked down his cheeks. Flame did not move. His face did not so much as twitch. His head did not rise from the pillow. Flame stayed exactly as he had been in sleep, except for the torrent of tears now racing down his pale face. Then—

“Maddie…” His deep voice was raw. It rasped as he whispered my name, as if I was the answer to his prayers.

“Flame,” I whispered back, my eyes blurring with hot tears of relief.

Flame knew me. He knew my name. My husband, the reason that I breathed, knew me. Within the fog and the darkness that had dragged him down… he recognized me. Flame had found me.

The sheets beneath Flame were damp with his fallen tears. I inched closer, just a fraction. Just enough so that I could feel the warmth of his skin, smell the scent that was uniquely him. I did not dare speak. I desperately needed Flame to come to me. However, I did not want him to feel pressured. I did not want to confuse him.

His tears were relentless. As silent minutes rolled by, the relief I had so fleetingly treasured turned into foreboding. My stomach sank farther and farther into a swirl of panic. Flame’s expression was blank. He did not make any attempt to move. I listened to his rough breathing. For a moment, I worried something was physically wrong with him. I was seconds from leaving the bed to call Rider, when Flame whispered, “I can’t do it anymore…”

Those words and their broken tone of delivery hurt me more than any physical weapon could do. I gasped quietly at the depth of defeat in his voice, a voice that normally sounded like a symphony to my ears. I had missed not hearing my husband’s voice, often praying I would hear it once again. But I had not prayed for these words. I had not prayed for the sadness laced in each softly spoken broken syllable.

“Flame,” I hushed out, and then edged closer. His eyes followed me, pleading for relief, pleading for the pain behind his eyes to cease… for good.

“I’m tired,” he said. I knew he was. I also knew he was not referring to a lack of sleep. “I… I’m tired, Maddie. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t breathe anymore. I can’t keep feeling the flames anymore…”

I did not want him to see me break. I knew I should have been strong, but it was impossible. My face crumpled, my heart caved, and I felt my protective walls begin to crumble—one by one, bricks tumbled to the ground. I could do nothing to stop them. Seeing Flame so disheartened, so defeated, was the very worst thing I had experienced in life. I thought back to Brother Moses. To all the times he hurt me, raped me, abused me, beat me, starved me—the list went on… yet this, seeing the person I loved most so broken, so devoid of hope, made the horrors of my past seem easy. Hearing Flame tell me in so few words that he no longer wanted to be here in this life, no longer wanted to fight his very own unyielding internal war, was my very, very worst nightmare made real.

Not knowing how it would be received, I reached out my hand and softly wrapped my fingers around his. When Flame made no move to brush my hand away or to tell me he would hurt me simply by his touch, and how he was no good for me, I felt a part of me die too. Flame had always fought to keep me safe from his perceived flames and dangerous touch. Yet here he lay, his swollen and wet gaze locking on to our hands, making no sound or move to break free.

I pulled myself close until I was merely an inch from his face. He kept his eyes on our hands. I gently squeezed. I needed him to know I was here for him. Through my panic, I struggled with what to say. I did not know how to make him believe that he harbored no flames in his blood. That he was not devil-tainted. That snakes bit him because that was what snakes did. They were not agents of the devil seeking out the damned. Flame had spent a lifetime fixated on the lies his father had cemented in his fragile mind.

Finally, Flame looked up and met my eyes. He was lost, so very lost. I held back the sob that was fighting to break free. I felt the tears on my cheeks too. I had no idea if Flame would acknowledge that I was upset on his behalf, that my soul cried out for him to find peace.

“Why do you stay with me?” My lungs seized as he asked this simple question. I had no words left my mouth. I squeezed my hands tighter around his, and then brought them to my forehead. I closed my eyes at the sweet feel of my husband’s precious touch. I longed for the days when his lips would kiss mine, when he would hold me to his chest… and when we would make love, reassuring each other that we were safe and that we had found redemption and solace in each other’s embrace. “Why, Maddie?” he croaked. “Why are you still here?”

When my eyes found his, I felt the panic subside and a growing sense of knowing in my heart. I knew this man. I knew the tenderness and fragility of his heart. I knew there was no other soul on earth who could love me like he did. And I knew there was no other who would love him like me. The answer left my mouth before I had even brought my thoughts to my mind. Kissing his fingers and cherishing his warmth, I whispered, “Because I have found the one whom my soul loves.” My favorite piece of scripture poured so naturally from my mouth.

Flame’s lips parted and he released a quick breath. His nostrils flared. I prayed that he understood what I meant, and the magnitude of the sentiment I was trying to convey. “Maddie…” he rasped so soft and quiet and tender I felt a fissure echo through my heart at its sound. He had to know it was true. He had to know that there was no other for me. If I did not have Flame, I could never love again. Our love was not typical and certainly not easy, but it was soul-deep and destined, written in heaven in stone.

“In The Order, our bibles were doctored,” I told him. Flame hung on to every word I said. “The passages and gospels were scrambled and misplaced. Much of The Word was hidden from us. If it did not suit Prophet David’s lustful ways or intent for his people, he simply discarded it.”

I closed my eyes and recalled the past few days. Lilah had always told me there was more to the Bible than we had been taught. That there was good and conviction. That certain phrases and books spoke directly to one’s soul. I still had not read it, until now. Until I realized that my husband’s father mirrored Prophet David in his treatment to his flock. Flame’s poppa had told his son that he was evil. He used the bible and snakes and his twisted faith to trick his vulnerable son into never doubting his word.

I kissed Flame’s hand. For the first time since he had woken up, I saw a glimmer of hope stir in his dark stare. “What I just said to you, it was from the Bible, baby,” I said, and kissed his wedding ring. “There is good in the Bible too. Just like there is good inside you. You are not evil. You are not condemned to hell. You are my heart. You are the reason why I breathe.” I placed my hand on my

growing bump. I saw the panic quickly set in Flame’s expression—drawn eyebrows and fast erratic breathing. “Our baby is good, Flame. Our individual pasts may not have been, but our future will be.” I smiled, believing every single word I was saying. “And so will our child.”

Flame’s eyes squeezed shut. His head began to shake. “I saw Isaiah in the woods, Maddie. I was with my poppa and Pastor Hughes. They used snakes on me.” He choked back a sob. “Did you see them, Maddie? They hurt us. I thought Isaiah was good. But the snakes bit him too.”

I cupped his cheek. “Flame, Isaiah is gone. It was not him tied to the tree beside you. The men who tied you up… they were not your poppa or Pastor Hughes; they are dead too.” I combed my fingers through Flame’s black hair. It was soft after I had washed it, the longer strands falling over his forehead. It made him appear so young. He studied my face as I touched him. I saw only confusion in his expression. Flame was still lost. He was so, so lost. Flame clung on too tightly to his past. Even now, years later, he found it very difficult to let go of the people who shaped him, the people who brainwashed him to believe he was nothing.

I let my hand drift from his hair, down his neck, to his arms. My fingers were careful not to touch his knife wounds or snake-bitten skin. His arms began to twitch. I realized he was feeling the flames wake from their slumber. He hissed, confirming my assumption. The scars… the flames and the scars and his poppa’s wicked voice.

“Baby?” I queried, knowing Flame still watched me. I was blessed. For a man who could not maintain eye contact, with me, he devoured my gaze. It was confirmation of his love. He did not know how to directly express his love, but it was the little things he did that showed me, beyond measure, how I belonged in his heart—the way he kissed me, soft and searching, a far cry from his formidable size and what most people saw. How he held me when we slept. How he always held my hand. And how he watched me, always watching me. Not with malice or dark intent, but as though he could not fathom how we had found one another, and he dared not look away for fear it was an apparition that might dissipate and transform into a dream.

I knew this because I felt it too.

“Why do you cut yourself?” I traced the outline of some of his old scars.

“To make the flames go away.”

“Why do the flames come?” I asked gently. His eyebrows pulled down, showing his confusion. I knew he could not reason the significance of this question. Edging closer, so close that I could feel the hairs of his beard caress the back of my hand, I asked, “Where is the pain? Where does it start? When the flames come, where do they begin?”

Flame looked as though I had asked him an impossible question to answer. I knew, to him, I probably had. I ran my fingertips over his arms, gently so as to not hurt his new wounds. Flame’s breathing increased and his nostrils flared. His lips trembled as if my whispered touch was his manna from heaven. “Where, baby?”

Moving his free hand from beside him, Flame took my hand with a timidity and gentleness that was almost my undoing. His hand trembled as he guided my hand over his arms. He moved so slowly, frown lines forming on his forehead. I wondered if he worried the flames would burn me or affect me somehow. Or maybe he was cherishing my touch, the touch of his wife denied for so long to him. I became breathless as his hand guided mine across his shoulders and down the center of his chest. Then our hands stopped. They stopped, clutching over his heart.

“There,” he answered, gripping my hand tightly, like he feared I would vanish if he did not. He was answering my question about the flames. They started in his heart. I closed my eyes and tried to not break. His heart. Flame struggled to express his emotions and feelings, struggled to understand them like most people could. But the flames came from his heart. Bending down, I met his eyes. Painstakingly slowly, I lowered my head and moved our joined hands aside. Flame became breathless as he watched my lips meet the skin of his chest. His chest raised and fell at the contact. And then I pressed a single butterfly kiss over his heart, over the place that both begat and imprisoned his pain.

Flame groaned, as though the action pained him. I lifted my head, not wishing to cause him any distress. Tears tumbled down his cheeks like twin waterfalls of agony. “Flame,” I whispered, feeling immediately guilty for upsetting him. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

Flame did not seem to hear my apology. Pushing his hand against my cheek, his fingers wrapped in my long hair. My eyelids fluttered shut at the movement of his rough palm against my skin. When I opened my eyes, his gaze was searching mine. “You could burn,” he stated, his voice gaining strength—graveled tone replacing a whisper.

“Burn?” I sought clarification, leaning further into his touch, unwilling to lose the connection I so badly craved.

Flame’s attention was pulled to the bedroom door. I followed his gaze to the flames of the fire in our living room. His eyes were so dark I could see orange and yellow flames dancing in his enraptured stare. Flame’s hand trembled on my cheek. “He told me I was in the fire.” As he spoke, Flame’s voice lost its recently gained strength. The ‘he’ was his father, I knew this. He was the man responsible for all this pain. Flame’s voice always changed in tone when he talked about his poppa. It lost its gravel tone and adopted that of the little boy begging for the love of his father. It was always heart breaking.

Turning my head, I kissed Flame’s palm, a kiss to give him strength. Flame’s breath hitched, but he continued. His eyes remained fixed on the fire. The rhythm of the dancing flames and crackling wood seemed to give Flame’s confession the fuel it needed to be set free. “He said that the flames lived inside and they would burn anyone who got close.” Flame looked straight at me. “That’s why no one can touch me. Why I hurt everyone whoever gets close.” Flame’s eyes strayed to my swollen stomach. “I will hurt you, Maddie. I have hurt you already.” His body jerked, his face morphing into agony as he remembered something. “The fire. You were already in the fire.”

The panic in his eyes was my undoing. I held on tightly to his hand when he tried to pull away. I would not let him go. I was never going to let him go. “And yet I did not burn.” Flame held his breath, lines of confusion around his eyes expressing to me his disbelief. Pressing my hand over his heart, I asserted, “You rescued me, Flame.” I smiled a small smile, pressing my hand to my stomach. “You saved us both.”

Flame’s eyes widened. “Next time…” He shook his head. “You might burn. I don’t want the flames to get you. I don’t want to be in the fire anymore. I don’t want to be in the fire.”

“Flame,” I placed my hand on the side of his cheek. “If you are in the fire, then I shall be in the fire beside you. I am holding your hand. I am sharing the flames that live in your blood, sharing your burden. And if you burn, we shall burn together.”

“I… I don’t wanna burn anymore.”

“Then we shall survive,” I added. “No, we will thrive.”

“I can feel them now,” he uttered, panic setting on his beautiful features. His muscles began to twitch. I knew he would next reach for his knife. His eyes glistened with fear. “I feel them, Maddie. I can feel them.”

Keeping my heartache hidden, I moved from the bed, my bare feet landing on the cold floor. “Come with me,” I said and steered Flame away from the bed. He was weak when he stood up. I knew he was exhausted, all fight drained from his limbs. But he followed me slowly, and without question. He followed me to the bathroom where I kept hold of his hand. I turned on the bath’s faucet and pressed in the plug. Water began to fill the tub. Flame’s feet began to move, his legs urging him to pace. The fingers on his free hand twitched. I knew he wanted to scratch his skin.

Turning to face him, I placed my hand on his cheek. “Do you trust me?” Flame nodded without delay. I smiled when I heard his quick inhale of breath. He squeezed me tighter. Flame was frightened and bruised and so out of his depth. The water was lukewarm, thankfully the room was warmed by the fire in the adjoining r

oom.

Releasing Flame’s hand, my knees almost buckled when he tried to hold on. I stayed close, leaning in to kiss above his heart once again. Flame’s fingers threaded through my hair. And I would never forget how he looked at me—like I was his everything, his why. I began to untie the drawstring of his pants. Flame hissed as I gently pulled them down his waist. The pants fell to the floor. Flame’s dark stare was fixed on mine. I witnessed the fear he held inside, the belief that he would hurt me. With his hand still softly placed in my long black hair, I edged up my nightdress inch by inch until I moved his hand briefly to pull the garment over my head.

“Maddie,” Flame rasped when the nightdress fell to the floor. I stood naked before him. Flame’s eyes inspected me, but my heart broke a little when he averted his gaze from my baby bump. I understood everything in life was overwhelming him right now. I had to heal him first, then bring him back from his desolation. I would fight for Flame as a father, to show him he was capable of love and that he could embrace our baby. I turned off the water and linked my fingers through Flame’s. I climbed into the large tub and Flame followed. I guided him to sit down. He did so without question. Flame’s eyes were wide as he watched me intently. Taking a washcloth, I dipped it into the water and brought it to his chest.

“Maddie,” Flame warned as I wiped it down his chest, the lukewarm water trickling down his wounds. Flame’s eyes closed, obviously feeling the water soothe his skin. He had told me the pain of his flames began in his heart. Rider had sought out a friend, someone who worked with people like Flame. Rider told me that Flame cut his arms to draw the pain from somewhere else…

His heart.

My husband’s heart was broken. His father shattered it years ago and now I knew it had not fully healed. According to Rider, it may never fully heal. There was always the danger that Flame might break again. I knew that to be true. Flame had broken when Isaiah died. He had broken when he had seen a child almost killed… and this recent decent began when I told him I was pregnant.