Jay

'You what?'

The curious girl stands between my legs, and her chest rises and falls distractingly close to my face. Her wet hair clings to her unblemished shoulders, and I itch to touch her. It's fucked up. I was supposed to kill her. Instead, I saved her. And now, rather than finishing the job and giving myself a fighting chance, I'm looking up into those big amber eyes and wondering what she tastes like.

I crack one of my knuckles and bring my fist to my mouth.

I can't wonder. Blotters don't wonder. Blotters can't be curious. This is bad enough as it is.

'I created the hurricane,' she says again.

I shake my head. 'Yeah. I thought that's what you said.'

'You don't believe me.'

There's a cut across her forehead, and the blood is starting to congeal. I stand up. It brings our bodies even closer, and for some reason, she doesn't back away. Her breath hitches though.

'What are you doing?' she says.

'You're bleeding. It needs to be cleaned. Sit down.'

She just stands there, and I swear to the Creators, if she refuses, I'm going to lose my shit. I run my hand over my mouth.

'Sit. The fuck. Down.'

The corner of her lip briefly quirks. It adds fuel to the fire that's already burning inside of me. Why won't she do as she's told? I'm trying to fucking help her!

I reach for her arm, but she sidesteps me and sits on the chair. I sigh as I stride over to the sink. I grab my one chipped ceramic bowl from the draining board and put it beneath the tap. The pipes scream, and it takes a couple of minutes for the rusty water to trickle out.

I don't know why I'm doing this. I just need a minute away from her, I think. I'm struggling to contain this frustration and fury and this weird animalistic urge that's come over me. I need to get a hold of it. I need to think.

Does she really think she created a hurricane? Or is this just part of her game to antagonize me?

'Was the pain in your chest because of me?' she says.

'Be quiet.'

'I think it was. I think it was something to do with the tattoo of my death.'

I stare at the water as it fills the bowl and try not to lose my cool.

'You're frustrated,' she says.

'No shit.'

'I think I understand. I think I get why you would be.'

I grab my cleaning rag, rinse it, and then drop it in the bowl. I cross the room. 'Yeah? I'm frustrated because you're frustrating.'

I kneel down and spread her legs so I can shift my body between them. She tenses, but her eyes remain fixed on mine. My hands linger on her inner thighs for a moment too long before I pull them away and reach for the rag.

'No,' she says. 'You're frustrated because you're a Blotter.' She glances at the tattoos curling up my neck as I wring out the rag in the bowl. 'Your life is mapped out for you, isn't it? You always know what is going to happen next. But you didn't kill me like you were supposed to. You've diverted from the One True Story. You don't know what's coming anymore.'

Her gaze is searching. It's as if she's trying to see through the depths of ink and darkness inside me. She shouldn't do that. She won't like what she finds.

'That must be scary,' she says.

I lift the wet rag to her forehead, bringing my face close to hers. 'Blotters don't get scared.'

'Everyone gets scared.'

'Are you?' I dab the wound, and she winces. Good. I hope it stings.

'Do you want me to be?'

'Yeah.' I pull away, rinsing the cloth in the bowl. I watch the blood dancing in the water for a second. 'Yeah, I do. Because you should be scared.'

'Because I'm supposed to be dead?'

'Because you're with me.'

'Is it true Blotters know when their Endings are written?' Her warm breath tickles my face as she speaks. 'They know when they're going to die?'

I shouldn't be talking to her about stuff like this. I shouldn't be cleaning a wound on her head. None of this is the way it should be.

'Yeah,' I say.

'That must be hard. Knowing when you're going to die.'

'It's not. It's written. That's the way it is.' I rub a smudge of dried blood off her cheek with my thumb. 'You're supposed to be dead right now, little Twist.'

Her eyes narrow. 'I'm not though.'

I drop the rag back in the bowl. 'Yet.'

She leans forwards. I could count all the brown and burnt orange hues in those curious amber eyes. I could bite her bottom lip and see if she tastes as good as she smells.

'I'm not afraid of you,' she says.

She should be. It would be so easy to kill her; to end this.

My heart hammers against my chest. It would also be so easy to scoop her up in my arms, to hold her, to have her legs to tighten around my torso. I want to kiss her neck. I want to hear her unravel.

Fuck.

I have to get away from her. I knock the bowl as I move back onto the edge of the mattress, and the bloody water sloshes over the sides onto the carpet. I rub my face with both hands and then drop them to my thighs. A ghost of a smile plays about her pale lips.

'Is this amusing to you?' I ask. 'Do you think this is fucking funny?'

This is fucked up. She shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be thinking things like this. She should be dead.

Her back straightens, and the humour drains from her face. 'No. Why did you bring me here?'

'I don't know.'

'Are you going to let me leave?'

'No.'

A heavy silence hangs in the air. This is all wrong.

'What happens next?' she says.

'I don't know.'

I always know. But right now, I have no fucking clue. My mouth is dry, and my throat tightens. There's a dull burn beneath my skin, and I supress the urge to rub the tattoo above my heart.

I could make it all better, maybe, if I just did what I was written to do. But would the Creators forgive me now? Have I taken this too far already?

I said Blotters don't get scared. They don't.

So what does that make me now?

I'm fucking terrified.