Miles and Janey Kelly hosted him for Thanksgiving. Not three hours after the feast, he was trawling through the bag of goodies Janey had sent him home with. He was making himself a turkey sandwich, slicing it across when he miscalculated and cut himself.
He hated cutting himself. Even after all these years, the reaction to blood remained a visceral thing. Normally he’d work quickly to staunch and bandage a cut, averting his eyes to just the bare minimum of attention needed, but tonight, for some reason, he didn’t. He stood over the sink, bleeding quietly. And watching. He just let it flow. Thought about what was happening microscopically under his skin. The infantry charge of platelets. The ambulance corps of white blood cells. The endorphins coming in on the flank, so actually, no, it didn’t really hurt.
What was he so afraid of?
Miles’s panting words as they jogged: At some point you just gotta start living the truth of who you are and what you feel.
Kees’s encouraging voice at the bar: What are you waiting for? What’s the worst that could happen?
Melanie’s cry of rage as a plate smashed in pieces on the wall: You don’t fight for anything you love.
The minutes ticked by. He set down the knife and stared at his finger, at the blood now making small, watery rivulets in the sink. An empty white plate was on the counter, patiently awaiting its snack. He reached toward it, and with the red ink of his wounded finger he began to sketch the letters of his name.
She’s made you the man you are.
He looked at the Erik written on the plate. He reached his finger again and wrote, just above it, Byron.
You did to her what your father did to you.
He zig-zagged through the names until they were just streaks of blood.
All the major events of his life were marked by blood: the blood of gunshot wounds, the blood of Lucky’s lost baby, David’s blood spraying from under his fists. And one more. A last treasure lay buried back in the fortress of sexual memory. Whole, intact, preserved in golden amber: his name in red letters, written in blood on Daisy’s leg.
The night he slid into her body and sealed his fate.
The night he marked her in blood.
“I marked her,” he said. “But I didn’t fight for her.”
You don’t fight for anything.
When he fought David, there wasn’t a prize. It was punitive damage. He beat him up on principle, just to soothe his wounded pride. He fought for himself, not for Daisy. And then he left.
You chose to leave. Just sit there and own it.
You walk out, shut the door, shut it down and never look back.
You stubborn, vindictive, unforgiving ass.
You spineless victim.
You sulky infant.
“I’m too late,” he whispered. “It’s too late. It’s got to be too late.”
Rejection or regret, that’s what it comes down to.
What if it were Daisy with cancer?
What if she died?
He paced the kitchen, his heart pounding. What if Daisy were nowhere? He had toyed with the idea once, thinking it would make things easier. Now he dug into the image, played it out. Daisy dead. Gone from the earth, erased entirely from existence. A plaque on the wall or a stone in the earth. He saw it then—saw Marguerite Bianco chiseled into pink granite, a bouquet of daisies lying beside.
And she never knew you thought about her all these years.
He bandaged up his finger then switched on his PC, searching phone listings. It didn’t take long to find Joe and Francine were still in Bird-in-Hand.
He picked up the phone.
His chest felt flayed.
You’re a hero, not a victim.
He had left the lighting booth. When everyone ran away from the stage he left the booth and went toward it. When people screamed, he spoke calmly, calling James’s name. And when James held up a gun, Erik held up a penny.
He could do this.
You marked her. Go fight for her.
Because you can’t breathe without her.
Slowly he drew air into his aching lungs, distilled the strength from it, then let go what he didn't need back into world. He did it again, filling the reservoir, tossing the ballast overboard.
Going up is easy. Coming down is the hard part.
You’re a hero, not a victim.
He had this.