When we eventually all got back to hell, it would be the end of us.
We might not be able to die, but we could be made to suffer for all of eternity for that kind of fuck-up.
I had no intentions of having that be my future.
I didn't feel bad.
I had to heal Red.
Even if that meant sacrificing this human.
Chapter Two
Jo
I really didn't like my hair.
It was a silly thing to be harping on so much, but in between tasks all day at work, it was what I defaulted back to.
See, I had done it.
The thing we all say—when we are of sound mind and strong of heart—we will never do again.
I'd been tiptoeing that not-so-healthy mental line for a while, and after I subjected myself to a movie about a woman who "found herself" after taking off to a foreign country and falling in love, I had taken my wine-tipsy self to the bathroom with a pair of somewhat sharp shears and the belief that a new hairstyle would somehow shake me out of the funk I'd been in for months now.
I'd loved it as I stood there right after, adrenaline—and let's not forget the aforementioned wine—still coursing through my system.
But after a halfway decent night of sleep, a shower, and some fresh eyes, I had different feelings. Namely, ones that almost made me late for work because I was frantically trying to find a way to wear it that I liked.
You didn't exactly have a lot of options when you took your once waist-length blonde hair and cut it into a long bob that just barely brushed your shoulders.
I'd once heard that shorter hair made you look older, but it somehow had an adverse reaction for me. I felt like I looked like a child. Which was not what I was going for during my first month at my new job where everyone was already struggling to get to know me and gauge my skills.
I had this particularly tough head nurse who, for some reason or another, decided on sight that she wasn't my biggest fan. All I could think of as I made my way to work that day was her giving me that now legendary side-eye that managed to make me feel very small for any little infraction.
She'd already shown massive displeasure in my tendency to hum a little bit to myself while filling out charts. She also thought I was a pen thief (I am not). And I'd heard her talking to one of the other nurses complaining that I'd brought a magazine with me to flip through during my break instead of socializing.
It took a lot of self-control not to turn the corner and inform her that if maybe she were more welcoming, I would have happily spent my break talking to some of them.
As it was, I felt like an outsider.
So even changing my hair felt like it was bringing unnecessary attention to me that was getting me more hard looks whenever it was mentioned.
I was never so glad to be done with a shift as I gathered my things, wondering if I had enough time to stop off at the store to grab some hair accessories that might help me tame this much shorter hair into some sort of style, so it wasn't such a reminder of my stupid mistake as I let it grow back in.
That was what was on my mind as I walked out of the hospital.
There was a bite in the air that shook off the lingering exhaustion that started to cling to me on my third twelve-hour shift in a row. I liked to stack them when I could, giving me a longer span off in between. I always found I decompressed better when I had time and space for it. So a day off in the middle of long shifts usually left me feeling frazzled and irritable.
I had one more shift in me this week, though. Someone else had called out, and after moving to a new area, a whole new state, in fact, I felt like I couldn't turn down the money from an extra shift after I'd used most of my savings to cover the move.
But then I was free for a few days. I had grand plans in store, let me tell you. Like re-grouting my bathtub and painting my moldings. Maybe squeezing in a trip to Ikea for some cute, but budget-friendly, pieces of furniture to add to my very bare space.
You see, when you break up with someone in a blind rage and storm out of the house you shared for three years, you didn't think to tell him that you'd be back for the eight-hundred-dollar couch you bought or all the various knick-knacks that he never even noticed existed.
I don't know about you, but I had always had too much pride to go back after a full-on rage-out like that.