‘I really am thirsty, Shepherd.’
‘Okay,’ I sigh, and get out of bed.
When I start to pull on my briefs, she sits up. ‘Please don't put them on yet. I like you better without them.’
I drop them and look at her curiously. The blue light under the bed illuminates me from below, gilds my muscles, makes me god-like in that mundane act of getting ready to go into the kitchen for a glass of water.
For an instant, her gaze comes to rest on the scar on my lower torso. She quickly glances away, but she knows she’s been caught. I rest my knee on the bed and tilt her face towards me.
Ruined just like that.
I take her hand and hold it to the old wound. I press her palm tightly between my hand and the scar, the scar that reminds me of who I am.
‘You know me,’ I say. ‘You're the only person who knows me. The only one who ever has. I trust you with that. You understand?’
It’s a confession. An apology for all the bad I’ve done to her. A declaration of love.
She nods her answer.
When I let her hand go and turn towards the kitchen, she says, ‘Wait. Where's your penknife?’
I frown, but pick my trousers up off the floor. Pulling the knife from my Monster Catcher keychain, I offer it to her, handle first. My T-shirt lies crumpled at the foot of the bed and she takes it in her other hand. She turns it over until she finds the hem. When she cuts into it, rips it, I hiss, ‘Hey. What’re you doing? That’s my one good shirt.’
‘You'll see. Give me your hand. The left one.’
I look at her with suspicion, but I give it to her.
From the raw edge of the shirt, she teases out a loose thread and pulls several feet of it free.
The hell?
Before I can say something, she wraps it around my wrist and ties it. Unravelling more of the shirt, she gives me some slack. I can go as far as there is thread to play out, but I’m tethered to the other end in her hands.
‘What's this for?’ I say.
‘To help you find your way back so you don't get lost.’
‘Just going to the kitchen, baby. I think I'll be okay.’ I tug at the thread.
‘To remind you. I know you won't always come back to me in this happy moment. Plenty of times you're going to come back to a bad place and bring your monsters with you. I accept that. I always have and always will. I love you more for it.’
‘Amylocks . . . you’re like nothing else.’
She looks into my eyes and sees that human thing. Capable of being wounded, capable of being cured, exposed, defenceless. I can see it frightens her, knowing how much I hate that feeling, but she forces herself to finish.
‘That's why I need you to come back to me right here. Not some other place. I know how many dark corridors there are inside you, places for you to get lost in. I don't want you to come back through one of them.’
‘What do you know about my dark places?’
‘I’ve got dark places too, Shepherd. I see your soul naked and raw. I see it from the inside.’
I don’t close myself up. I look into her eyes for so fucking long.
‘Pretty black in there?’ I say, feeling some kind of shame.
‘Not as completely black as you think. You've got a few good places in there. Always come back to me in one of them.’
Spent my whole life living lies . . . found someone I can be my honest self with.
‘You’ve got me twisted around your little finger, Amy.’ I hold my bound hand out to her. ‘Twist tighter, Amylocks. Make sure it doesn't break.’
I'm standing in the kitchen getting Amy her glass of water, thinking about Amy’s tits. I've wasted a whole lotta hours of the day doing that.
I love how she looks when she comes, at least as much, maybe even more than I love how she looks when I tell her I love her. She frowns so hard, she looks like she's trying to do complicated maths, right before her eyes go as starry as the inside of my head.
And the completely vicious way she twists her hips when she convulses on my cock, like the only reason I have one, is to get her off. I think about that until I realise the water is running over the edge of the glass and over my hand.
When I reach to turn off the tap, I see the string around my wrist. She says she’s seen inside my soul, and I don't doubt that. I see it in her eyes all the time. So if she says she's gonna guide me out of the black places, I believe her.
As I pour off some of the water, I feel this little tug on the thread. In a hopeful little voice, Amy calls out, ‘Would you really make a sandwich for me, if I wanted one?’
‘Sure, Amylocks. Peanut butter?’ I say.
‘Yes please. With jam?’
I look down at my sketchpad on the kitchen table. I’m designing a new tattoo. A lion’s head with a tribal pattern circling it. Amylocks, Max, Baby Viola, and Violet — these names will scale the corners in scripture. It will cover the left side of my chest, guarding my heart.
My little tribe.
When I move to the fridge, she unravels some more thread to make sure I can come back to her.
EPILOGUE II
YOU
THIS LOVE ISN’T fixing
