I remember my eyes being so puffy they were almost shut. I’d tucked a strand of oily, sandy hair behind my ear and looked down at my hands. They were covered with a variety of facial fluids, too. Crusting up at this point. I still had the gun, too. Which was also coated in gross.
I’d dropped it onto the sand, and sucked in a ragged draw of air. Let it out in a long, shuddering sigh. Pinched the bridge of my nose as my tears threatened to refill.
“I wish I could do that,” Maddox had said.
I could barely see him. My vision was veiled with moisture. “...w-what..?”
“Cry. I've never cried. Not really.”
He stood up, shook the sand off the blanket, and draped it around my shoulders. Knelt beside me, and looked out over the ocean.
“N-not even for Josh?”
“Especially not for Josh. I mean, sure, I sniveled when I was a kid. A skinned knee, or I didn't get the ice cream flavor I wanted, the important shit, you know? But, I don't know, it was at his funeral when,” he shut his eyes for a second, pursed his lips to the side, and grimaced. Like he was chewing a lemon. He looked over to me, then back to the waves. “It was like some switch got flipped. I should have been sobbing my eyes out, like you were just doing, right? And, I… couldn't.”
I wiped my arm beneath my nose. “That's because you're a dick.”
“Yep.”
A lightning bolt of pain shot from my hip and down to the ankle, setting my leg on fire. I grabbed the closest thing – his wrist.
He didn't flinch. Just asked, “What's your favorite flavor? Of ice cream?”
I clenched my teeth and bit my tongue. I couldn't take it. Every nerve in my body was lit like a fuse and I was going to explode.
“Mine's mint chocolate chip. What's yours?”
“R-rum raisin,” I hissed.
“Oh, come on. Tell me you're kidding.”
My grip on him increased, just like the agony in my leg. Crawling up to my gut. “I-I'm not… kidding. It's good.”
“Nah. Raisins are questionable to begin with, but in ice cream? They're an abomination. There's nothing redeeming about rum raisin ice cream. Nothing.”
“I. I was. Wrong,” I stammered.
“Shit yeah you are. Rum raisin sucks. I never met anyone who – ”
“It's broken,” I wanted to tear it off. Pop it out of the joint and throw it into the ocean. Fuck my leg. The sharks could have it. I didn't want it anymore. It hurt too much. “Make it stop,” I said.
“I can't,” he replied, and put his arm around me.
I buried my face against his chest. His skin was gritty, smelled like musk and salt, and was so very soft. Like a pillow. I wanted my pillow. I wanted to be back home, in bed, curled under the covers after binging on rum raisin ice cream.
His heartbeat was rhythmic. Funny, that. Who knew he had one? A heart, that is. And I tried to focus on nothing but its cadence. I drifted in and out of consciousness at that point, and every time I came back around the pain was still there. Magnified, as if it was pissed off that I'd fallen asleep and it was getting back at me. But Maddox's heartbeat was there, too, and it gave me a strange, merciful distraction. I honestly thought – almost wished – that the next time I'd fade away, that would be it. Ironic, as for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to die.
“Ramona?”
I didn't have the strength to speak. He’d sounded excited, though. Elated? Or was it concern? Panic? Because having someone die in your arms is the most fucked up thing that could ever happen to a person. Ever.
Then, from somewhere, I heard a voice proclaim, “Ahoy!”
What a weird thing for God to say. Or would that be Saint Peter? While we were at it, where were the pearly gates? The tunnel with the light, and loved ones waving me through?
“Over here!”
That was Maddox. Also weird. He wasn't dying, so why was he telling God where we were? And, really, wouldn't God know?
That's where my mind was at. Unable to process anything. It was having an out of body experience while still firmly embedded in my being. No wonder it was confused.
“Que es?” another voice asked. Masculine, older. And Spanish.
God was Spanish?
So there.
“She's hurt,” Maddox replied. “Muy… muy mala...”
He got the feminine form of 'bad' correct. Five points to the shit head.
The rest of that day was pretty much a blur. I had a vague recollection of male voices, most of them Cuban, all meshing together into one continuous buzz. Once in a while Maddox's attempts at Spanglish would chime in, mostly saying 'careful por favor', 'gracias', and 'she es mi amiga.”
I was going to object, naturally. I didn't consider us friends. But my leg had throbbed in relentless waves of pulsating, merciless heat, and the only thing that was keeping me from passing out was biting my tongue, and counting the surges of hurt that flowed from my hip to my foot and back again.
I remembered Maddox asking me if I was ready. He said that if everything worked out, he'd take me out for rum raisin ice cream, if I wanted. Then proceeded to tell me that rum raisin ice cream was more offensive to the pallet than a frozen pile of dog shit, and on the count of three, lifted me up off the sand.
I remembered screaming. A veil of black fog enveloping my head. The last conscious thought I had was wondering if my life would flash before my eyes. Like it had done when I slammed the Insatiable into the shore, full speed ahead.
My flash was a commercial. There
