Uncharted(32)

I keep my hand steady as Beck holds Ian to the ground, counting the seconds until it’s over. But I know, deep down, it’ll never truly be over. Never expunged from my mind or memories. As long as I live, I’ll never forget the sound of his agonized screams ringing in my ears.

Eventually, Ian passes out from the pain, for which I’m eternally grateful. It makes it easier to keep the blade in place, those final seconds.

And then, somehow… it’s done.

Finished.

I let the knife drop to the sand and stare at the seared stump where Ian’s leg used to be. It’s red and blistered, uneven and ugly to look at… but it’s closed. It’s clean of dirt and infection. The bleeding has stopped. Most miraculous of all, the man attached to it is still breathing.

I can’t believe I just did that.

I can’t believe it worked.

I wrap a clean piece of gauze around the wound, leaving crimson prints on the white fabric as my fingers tie it off, then position a log beneath his thigh to keep it elevated. My hands are stained scarlet. There’s a mosaic of blood spattered down the front of my dress.

“Violet…”

I glance up at Beck, where he sits by Ian’s shoulders. He looks pale and thoroughly shaken by what he’s just seen. By what I just did. He’s staring at me like he doesn’t even recognize me.

Hell, I hardly recognize myself.

I don’t speak to him as I stagger to my feet and flee from our small camp down the beach to the water’s edge. There, ankle-deep in the shallows, I bend at the waist and dry heave until every ounce of water and bile has vacated my stomach. Until my throat is burning, my eyes are streaming, and my head is pounding.

The physical pain I feel is a flicker next to what I’ve just put Ian through. And it’s nothing at all, compared to the ache in my heart as I stare at my bloody hands and wonder what the hell I’ve done.

Who the hell I’ve become.



Beck gives me space for a few hours.

I sit at the water’s edge, staring out at the waves, mind still ringing with the sound of Ian’s screams. The expanse of water seems to stretch out endlessly in all directions. I’m farther from home than I’ve ever been, not just in distance. I wonder, if a rescue boat appeared on that far-reaching horizon, plucked me from this nightmare, and landed me back in my childhood bedroom, whether I’d even fit there anymore

I’ve always heard that phrase you can’t go home again and dismissed it outright. But sitting here, I think I finally understand. The things I’ve lived through in the span of a few short days have changed me forever. The people I’ve lost have shaken my ever-optimistic view of the world around me. And… the man still with me, standing at my side through all of this, has left an impression I fear I’ll never be able to wipe clean.

Three days.

What will happen in three weeks? Three months? Three years?

I press my palms to my eye sockets, wishing I could summon tears. Crying might release some of these emotions raging inside my head. Might make this burden of horror and heartache inside my chest slightly easier to carry around.

It’s mid-afternoon and the shadows have begun to lengthen when I finally feel his presence at my back. I glance over my shoulder and find him sitting in the sand a few feet away, careful not to encroach on my personal space. His eyes scan my face.

He’s as guarded as he’s ever been, but I’ve learned to read him better — the tiny furrow of his brow when he’s concerned, the slight clenching of his jaw when he’s trying to keep himself in check, the infinitesimal narrowing of his eyes when he’s overcome with rage. The way his left brow quirks up when he’s surprised, and his lips twist at one side when he’s fighting back amusement.

Beck’s face speaks a whole language, if you take the time to learn it.

“You’re red as a beet,” he says finally, breaking the silence.

I glance down at my arms. Sure enough, they’re sunburned.

“I’ll live.”

His brows lift at the apathy in my tone. “What you did earlier…”

“I know.” I cut him off. “It was awful. Reckless. Bloody and messy and worse than I could’ve ever imagined. I know. You don’t have to lecture me.”

There’s a marked pause. “If you’re finished beating yourself up… that wasn’t what I was going to say at all.”

My heart skips. “It… it wasn’t?”

“No. I was going to tell you that, bloody and messy and awful as it was… it was also the bravest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do in the thirty years I’ve been on this planet. And I spent three years in the deserts of Afghanistan and Iraq, taking photos of war zones.”

Suddenly, there are tears in my eyes. I don’t fight them. I let them roll down my cheeks as his words roll around inside my aching chest cavity. There’s something almost unbearable about Beck — gruff, grumpy, curmudgeonly Beck — speaking to me with kindness that shatters the last shred of resolve I’ve been clinging to since I washed the worst of the blood stains from my skin.

This is a man who does not do false praise or fake ego-stroking. He doesn’t do flattery. He barely does basic human decency.

The bravest thing I’ve ever seen.

I recognize these words as a rare gift and feel some warmth creep back into my soul.