But I Need You - W. Winters Page 0,42

look up to do it, my neck craning because he’s a larger man, rotund from drinking and not doing a damn thing else. When he turns I’m quick to hit him in his groin, catching him off guard to steal his wallet.

Chase me down the alley, my inner voice prays. My sneakers squeak as I run farther to the left, farther away from the couple kissing past the dumpsters at the start of the busy street.

So we can be alone.

“Little shit.” His groan fills the smaller space, the alley that leads down to an old row of homes built for the steel mill. You can barely fit a bike through this alley. I remember when my brother did it, though.

With everything raging inside of me, I don’t count on the tears or how my gaze becomes glossy at the memory.

Cody had me on the back of his bike, and he was able to ride down an alley just like this one. I remember how scared I was that he was going to hit the wall or that his handlebars would catch the side of a brick. I shouldn’t be thinking of him right now. I lose myself, my focus, I lose everything remembering how I held on so tight to him. Stopping in my tracks, right in the middle, the man curses behind me and grabs my shoulder.

I don’t even recall my hand wrapping around the blade, but when I strike him in the gut, once then twice, that’s when I realize what I’ve done and that I’m still here. I’m not back with Cody, holding on to a small bag of candy.

I’m not there at all. I’m holding a bloody blade and looking up at a man who fails to say anything.

Harold looks older than the picture in the paper when I look up. His skin is a little more yellow too, and more wrinkled than the paper. The shock in his gaze was also absent then.

I hesitate for only a moment when his wide eyes look down at me. He stumbles back just slightly and I stand facing him in the narrow alley, his wallet in one hand and the blade in the other.

My heart is still racing, but he’s more disoriented than I am. And I’m the one with the plan. He swallows thickly before calling out for help.

The man’s on his ass, scooting backward. He’s trying to get away, but what’s done is done. There’s sorrow and sympathy, but it’s odd how it comes, how it’s because it’s like Cody’s watching me. He wouldn’t want this, but Cody’s not here and he’ll never know.

Everything speeds up then. I only hesitate because he’s watching me. The moment Harold turns his head to look behind him, maybe to cry out for help again, I strike. Eating up the short distance between us with long strides and slicing his throat.

Once, twice, and a third time.

It gushes at first, hot and bubbly. It’s different than what I’ve seen in the barn.

He clutches at his throat, trying to speak.

I don’t tell him why. I wonder if when we die, we can still ponder things. I hope not. I want the things I think about to rest once I’m gone.

I watch him, and make sure he’s gone. It doesn’t take long. It’s so much faster and simpler than I thought it would be.

A breeze goes through the alley and my face is cold. Streaks of what feels like ice make me shiver involuntarily until I brush away the tears. They’re unexpected.

I clean off the knife on his shirt before dropping it down a sewer. The last act that involves Harold has to do with his wallet. I collect the cash and pocket it. Only forty-three dollars. Then I drop the wallet down the grates along the street too.

The white noise fades fast and I can hear the parade again, like nothing happened. Picking up a stick, I trail it along the mortar between the bricks of the building. Because that’s what kids do, they like sticks and rocks and keeping to themselves.

I keep walking and I don’t look back. Instead I think about Cody and how that was the only time we rode down that alley. How when we went down it, I couldn’t wait to try on my own. I was going to have my own bike soon and I was going to do it too.

I don’t hear anyone scream like I thought I would. Watching the parade from the end