So Rare (Boys of South Chapel #3)

5. Hunter

Chapter 5

Hunter

NOW

A metallic smell infiltrates my senses when I bring my hand up to my face.

I knew I was bleeding.

There’s blood and everything hurts.

There’s always blood.

I’ve suffered from menstrual cramps, but without pain relievers or a heating pad, these are far worse than normal.

Or maybe the pain has been exacerbated by the hours I spent curled up in the back seat of a car.

Being strapped into an open-sided golf cart like this while it careens down a rocky path isn’t helping matters either. Clouds of dust erupt in our wake, making it that much harder to take in my surroundings or to even suck in fresh air.

Air.

I need air.

I haven’t taken a full breath in hours.

That, I’m realizing, is intentional and by design. Each time I’ve tried to sit up, she’s noticed and then offered me a drink.

Yet I’m still so thirsty, and my mouth feels as if it’s coated in sand and filled with cotton.

My tongue is so dry that its scratchy texture against the roof of my mouth is painful.

The lack of moisture makes it hard to swallow, and sometimes even breathe.

So every time she offers me a drink, I accept. It’s my only option. The only small mercy I’ve found comes during those few seconds when a bottle is brought to my lips and I impulsively suck down a mouthful of bitter liquid.

The flavor doesn’t matter at this point. I can’t even bring myself to care that what she’s giving me is likely the source of my lethargy and my inability to lift my head, suck in a breath, or take in my surroundings.

All I know is that for an instant, my mouth is no longer dry and I can almost inhale fully.

That is, until I’m out, and the cycle begins again.

I don’t know how long it lasts.

But it happens over and over.

Now, there’s a dull ache in my low back. It’s different from the cramps—more acute and centralized. My bladder hurts, I realize. I desperately need to pee.

As I clamp my legs together in response to the sensation, a familiar warmth gathers in my underwear. I reach down automatically and connect the dots. My menstrual disc needs to be emptied, if not replaced.

Lifting my hand in front of my face, I squint against the dust and the glimmer of the setting sun.

There’s blood on my hands.

Blood on the tips of my fingers.

I part my lips and slowly, carefully place my thumb on the tip of my tongue to peel it away from the roof of my mouth.

I’m not stealthy enough.

“Oh darling ,” my mother coos. “Here.”

A bottle is brought to my lips, the promise of relief sloshing against plastic.

I can’t help but drink.

One sip. I only allow myself one sip.

My brain is cloudy, my thoughts murky, but my gut screams at me, telling me that this isn’t good for me.

Even so, I can’t resist the temptation to take that single sip.

“You know what travel days are like,” she says, her voice distant, garbled.

Dust kicks up behind us, forming a billowy haze of debris as the golf cart continues along.

The scent of limestone and the earthy scent of the forest permeate my nose. When I lick my lips, still parched, I taste the hint of salt.

I should clamp my mouth shut to avoid inhaling the dust.

But when I do, I swear I can’t breathe.

There’s blood.

There’s blood on the beige leather seat.

There’s blood on the tips of my fingers.

I close my eyes and let my head hang, despite the ache in my neck. The occasional jolt from the golf cart keeps me conscious, but just.

When I close my eyes, there’s blood swirling down the shower.

There’s blood coating the tiles of Kabir’s water closet back in London.

There’s blood.

There’s blood.

There’s always blood.