Chapter One:
Corey
Cutter comes home at half past seven—which is later than usual. As his pick-up rumbles over the overgrown, pot-holed driveway, I make my way down the stairs and wait for him in the kitchen. He comes in whistling to himself and looking the same as always—beat-up work boots, dusty jeans, worn leather jacket, lanky hair tucked under a sweat-stained 49ers hat.
As he turns to put a six-pack of beer on the counter, I peak into the brown grocery bag he left on the chrome-rimmed kitchen table. "What did you bring me? Any snacks?"
Investigation proves that there is nothing for me in the bag.
With a pout I step back, letting him drag the bag off of the table and onto the counter. He begins stacking cans of refried beans and tuna in the mostly empty cabinet—clack, clack, clack.
Sulking, I lean against the counter and stare at the cracked floor tiles. "You never bring me anything," I mutter. "You don't think of me when you're out, do you?"
He doesn't answer. I don't expect him to. Cutter never answers. And I'm not sure he ever thinks of me...even when he's home.
Wanting to get his attention, I saunter over to the six-pack and give it a little push. A glance over the shoulder proves I've got it. "Oh," I say, annoyed that a six-pack is more important to him than I am, "you're listening now, aren't you?" With all my might, I shove the bottles off of the counter and onto the floor, shattering all but two which roll across the floor and clank into the stove.
"Jesus fuck!" Cutter screams, practically jumping onto the counter—as if I were a mouse and getting higher than me would do anything.
Delilah starts up barking.
A moment later, Cutter comes to his senses and, scowling, lowers his feet and stomps over to the basement door. He yanks it open and bellows at the hound below. "Shut the hell up!"
Delilah yelps like she's been kicked in the ribs, abruptly going silent.
Cutter turns back to the kitchen, closing the door with his weight. "Pain in the ass mutt." His eyes trail across the floor, taking in the frothing puddle of beer, then back to where I'm standing.
I try to look innocent, although I can't help my Cheshire Cat grin. "Oh come on, Cutter, you and I both know that drinking doesn't do anything to improve your mood."
Still leaning against the basement door, he rubs at his eyes. "God damned nuts."
"Nuts?" I reply. "Good idea, I'd love to know what you did with mine."
Cutter turns his back on me and gropes for one of the undamaged beer bottles. He shakes the condensation off of it and snaps it open on the edge of the counter. "Just gotta get back into yourself," he's saying.
"I doubt I'd like what I found."
He turns and walks away from me. "...gotta feel alive again."
There's no hope of that. But I don't think he's talking to me. Frowning to myself, I follow him. "And just what does that mean?"
He stops inside the dimly-lit hall, his bloodshot brown eyes caressing a closet door. Uncertain, I stare with him as he continues mumbling to himself. "...gotta make your mark on the world. Gotta show them who's in charge." He takes a swig, his eyes never leaving the paint-cracked door.
I cross my arms. "You're insane. Has anyone ever told you that?"
His hand comes up, tugs the 49ers cap backward and traces fingers through thin mud-colored hair, then he puts the cap back on and nods once. "Yeah. 'Bout time, old friend."
Mirroring his nod, I say, "I hear admitting it is the first step to recovery."
He plops the beer bottle down on the table with the telephone and his blunt fingers find the doorknob.
A moment later, I'm staring over his shoulder as he begins digging behind boxes, work shirts, and coats that smell like mothballs and mildew. He's still mutter-grunting to himself, but I can't hear what he's saying with his face shoved against Carhartt.
"What are you doing?" I demand.
A pleased noise escapes him and he draws back, bringing with him a very familiar black bag. Instinct kicks in, screaming for escape, and I'm staggering backwards before I realize that, really, there's nothing to be afraid of. Despite that, I remain pasted—back against the yellowing wallpaper. I know that bag. That bag is bad.
Grinning, Cutter grabs at the bottle with his free hand and swings back toward the kitchen, shutting the door with his foot as he goes. I follow, mute and horrified yet unable to turn away, as he crunches over the broken glass from the other beer bottles.
First the beer goes down on the table clack and then the black bag thunk. Smiling ear to ear, Cutter strokes the cracked leather with callused hands. "Did you miss me, baby?"
I wrinkle my nose. "Get a room." His little eccentricities have always grossed me out and, for some reason, joking about his creepy relationship with that bag and its contents makes me feel better.
His fingers find the clasps and before I can properly prepare for the horror, the bag is opened and I'm greeted with things I had hoped I'd never see again.
The Blade Sisters. That's what he calls his little collection. Each one has a name. He made certain that I learned every single one intimately. I know every name, every serrated tooth, every finely honed edge, every possible pain that The Sisters can produce.
A shudder skitters down my spine, sending goose bumps to forgotten flesh. I glance down at my arm and a desperate laugh fights its way into my throat. If this were another time and place, I would be cowering in fear. I swallow the sick humor and glare back at Cutter. I don't have anything to fear anymore. There's nothing Cutter or The Sisters can do to me that they haven't already done.
They've already broken me. Already bled me dry. Already changed me beyond recognition and left me for dead. Already chained me to them in a way that I can't break.
And now they've moved on, leaving me with the memories and the scars and the inability to break away.
I wish I could leave them; wish I could just walk away. But walk away to what? I can't go back to being the Corey Rossi I once was. My own parents wouldn't even know me now.
I have to stay here. There is nowhere else to go.
He lifts Ethel and turns her so that she glints in the light. She's cleaner than the last time I saw her, but she's still a little rusty around the edges. Cutter holds her intimately close to his broad chest and whispers, "You hungry, baby?" Lifting a finger, he tests it against her blade then draws back with a wince and examines his thumb.
A crescent of bright blood wells on the dry pad. He sucks it for a moment, then grins like the Mad Hatter. "Good girl. I like it when you've got a little fight. I like it when you're hungry."
The way he talks to her like he'd make hot, passionate love to her if he could makes my skin crawl.
Uneasy, I glance between him and Ethel. "W-What are you planning?" My voice is shaking. Am I scared?
Yes. Even now, when I know he won't hurt me anymore, I'm terrified of Cutter when he has a blade in his hand.
Humming to himself, Cutter packs Ethel back with her sisters and shushes them as if hearing silent cries for attention. With one last stroke to the black bag, he shuts it tight. "Soon, pretty girls." His fingers pat the leather. "Soon."
I narrow my eyes at him. "Cutter." I draw it out in wobbly admonishment, like how mom used to sound when she knew I was hiding something. I think I know what he's thinking and it makes my stomach churn.
I can't let him do it.
Not again. Not to someone else. Never.
Cutter picks up the beer, chugs it, then slaps the bottle down on the table with a loud "Ahhh."
I step in front of him and hold out my stupid, useless hands. "Cutter. Let's think about this. Let's be logical," I begin, but he's not listening. He never is. He turns away from me and grabs the keys for the van off of the hook.
"Damn it, Cutter, listen to me." Desperate, I lunge at him, trying to knock him over, trying to steal away the keys. Nothing. It's like I'm not even a gust of wind to him.
I hammer and punch at him as he makes his way toward the door, scream and plea as he wades through the tall grass toward the van—which he hasn't touched in months.
I pummel the grimy window as he starts it up and run after it as he accelerates down the driveway and out onto the back road.
He doesn't hear me.
He doesn't feel me.
He doesn't even see me.
And I hate him all the more for it because he should. I'm here because of him, aren't I?
I follow the car out to the main road and stand there, staring after it. Cars pass me, but no one bothers to notice the kid in the dark blue jeans and red Henley standing in the median. My heart is pounding and I'm breathing hard...even though I don't have to. I'm even shaking, despite the hot summer air. I'm afraid. Even now, I'm afraid. I know this kind of reaction is normal for an eighteen-year-old boy, but I'm not a normal eighteen-year-old boy.
Not any more.
At this point, I should be invincible. Nothing should faze me. But this does. Cutter does. The Sisters do. What they do together does. It makes me want to both cry and punch something. I hate that feeling.
Balling my fists, I scowl at the red glare of the van's lights disappearing in the distance. "I won't let you do it, Cutter!" I scream after him. "Not again! Over my dead body!"
And then a desperate laugh breaks free and I can't stop myself.