15. Blueblood.
Waking
up is a mixed bag. Because if today is real, if I get to shop the world’s most
pedigreed horses without a budget, then last night was real. And I almost
killed a man. The first thought makes me want to leap out of bed. The second makes
me want to jump out the window. I glance at the clock on my bedside table. Seven-thirty. Time to get moving. But the simple action of swinging my legs over the side takes everything I’ve got. I blink and John’s face is in front of mine again, smoke and beer on his breath. Another blink and all I see is red. Salty, warm, red that smells like rust and is every bit as corrosive, eating straight through my flesh and deep into my soul.
Even now I can feel the drops of blood that splattered my cheek the moment my fist made contact. I catch myself wiping at it, sure I’ll see stains on the back of my hand. But there’s nothing there. A man could be dead because of these hands but they don’t look any different. Shouldn’t they look different? They start to tremble all over again. I shake them at my sides, shake them until they hurt.
