Fissure

Like swatting away a handful of snowflakes swirling around me.

Laughably easy, like world champion fighters shouldn’t engage in a fight with two year olds easy, but I was too deep into the rage zone to make adjustments. To pull my hits just before they landed. To put a lull in the whirl of blows escaping from my body. To call surrender before I really hurt someone. I’d become the animal, the mama bear whose cub was threatened. I was merciless, unrestrained by a conscience, and out for blood.

The blood was splattered up to my elbows when a laugh cut through the almost silent room. It was a laugh that didn’t need a face. I would have recognized it a millennium away, it was that chilling. And menacing.

Pulling the punch that was aimed at the cheek hollow of the guy I was keeping trapped with a fistful of tee-shirt in my other hand, I shoved him away, knowing who I wanted to be taking all this rage out on was behind me. The poor kid slumped to the ground as soon as I let him go, joining eleven others that were being dragged from the makeshift fighting arena.

“Pretty boy can fight,” Ty’s voice snaked through the room. “Gotta say I didn’t see that one coming.” Another laugh, low and lazy—like he thought this unworthy of his attention—exploded into all the silent spaces of the room. “But I suppose the water boy could have done the same against a few guys that were so drunk they couldn’t locate their dicks to take a piss.”

I wasn’t sure when a dozen men became classified as a few. I must have missed that memo. “I see your manners are still as confused as your sexuality,” I said, grinning at him in mock innocence.

Ty Steel wasn’t a man who could take a joke, as was evident from the red hulk trembling before me. I’d learned from my psych course that a person sensitive to a personal jest was insecure and likely harbored a belief that he or she was exactly what the jest was implying. Was I to assume, given Ty’s reaction, that he was indeed confused about his sexuality? I didn’t really believe it, but man, it gave me a good laugh thinking about it.

The first valuable, real world application thing I’d learned in college.

“I have a strict no bitches policy allowed at my parties,” he said, breaking through the shoulder-to-shoulder circle around me. He was shirtless and fumbling with his belt. At first I thought it was because he was trying to take it off to use as a do-it-yourself weapon, but he was cinching it back on. A glance over his shoulder revealed the girl no boys’ mamas had met, hard at work adjusting her dress into the right spots of barely covering those spots. I didn’t think there was enough hate within me to loathe Ty more, but lo and behold, there was plenty.

I glanced over my shoulder at Emma and, while there was a selfish piece of me that wanted her to see the cheating monster of a boyfriend in front of her—still slicked in sweat, girl of questionable reputation flushed and panting behind him—but every other unselfish bone in my body hoped she’d missed it. Prayed she’d be looking any other direction but Ty’s.

Of course she wasn’t.

And instead of looking furious, or ready to crumble in tears, her face barely registered emotion. Staring at her boyfriend, freshly sated from someone other than his girlfriend, her eyes narrowed the teensiest bit, like she was nothing more than mildly irritated at his “indiscretion.”

However, I knew Emma, and unlike the rest of us, what brewed inside her rarely surfaced. She was the epitome of keeping her emotions bottled, but I hoped when that lid burst one day, it scalded Ty to a lumpy, unrecognizable blob.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay away from this ass-wipe?” Ty directed at Emma, waving a flexed arm between her and me.

“Ty—” she began, her eyes flickering to me.

“Shut up,” Ty interrupted, lifting a flat palm at her. “I’m sick of hearing your voice. In fact, I’m sick of seeing your fugly face. Go grab me a beer. I’m going to need it when I’m done with this little bitch.”

I saw red like I’d never seen it before. It took up my vision like a curtain of blood. The scrap of restraint I’d been grasping the past minute slid like sand through my hands and, once again, I was the thing of which nightmares were made of.

I leapt in his direction, tackling him to the ground in the same movement. Ty’s eyes hadn’t even had a chance to widen in realization before my first fist pounded the side of his face. A splatter of blood exploded from his mouth, mixing with the rest of the guys’ blood that stood in my way on the floor.

Ty didn’t put up a fight, not because he didn’t try, but because he didn’t stand a chance with me. My fists came one right after another, keeping a beat that surpassed the music that faded into the background. I found I had no conscience, no mental bells chiming, when I fought Ty.

A man of his caliber didn’t deserve consciousness. A man like him deserved exactly what he was receiving, exactly what I was doling out, unsure if I could stop. I felt no guilt, no remorse, no bone crushing beneath my knuckles, like pounding a lump of bread dough.

Blood was everywhere, taking up more real estate than the skin, clothing, and floor around us when the only voice that could have gotten through to me screamed behind me.

“Enough!” Emma shouted, racing up behind me. “Patrick, enough!”

I heard her and understood her words, but my rage wouldn’t obey them. When the elbow of the opposite arm that was landing a punch punctured the air, something reached out and snagged in.

Her hands wrapping around me did the trick—I stopped mid-strike.

“He’s had enough,” she whispered beside me, her voice shaking. Kneeling beside me, the ball of adrenaline, and the unconscious Ty, she tilted my face until I was looking into her eyes. Calm entered me then, chasing the rage back into its cages. “You need to go,” she instructed, lifting her eyes to the exit.

When I stayed frozen, splayed over Ty, she added, “Now.”

And then she turned her attention to Ty, her face lining. Looking up at a couple guys in close proximity, she said, “Let’s get him to his bedroom and get him cleaned up.”

The duo did as asked, giving themselves a shake before carrying out their duty of dragging a limp Ty out of the bloodied arena. Emma watched him being dragged off, slumping where she kneeled and closing her eyes.

What had I done? This wasn’t a fight between a bunch of guys. This was a massacre. I’d known it would be, and I still allowed myself to be engaged in hand to hand battle with Mortals. Inebriated Mortals. It was clear I wasn’t safe to be around, at least for any low life of the Ty Steel variety. Now, and maybe never.

As long as Emma was in Ty’s life, I couldn’t be in hers. Look what I’d done to it. I’d gone all silverback on her boyfriend right in front of her eyes. Blood splatters dotted the side of her face. The blood I’d spilled from her boyfriend’s face.

The one I’d just come close to killing.

I leapt up, fighting a formidable urge to embrace her when it looked like she’d never needed one more, and plunged through the gape-mouthed crowd towards the door.

This time, my guilt gave me unparalleled speed, not my Immortality. I was out the door and loping across the lawn towards the Mustang before anyone knew I’d left.

The frat house was still silent from its shock, and those that had been puking, humping, or rambling in the front yard had succumbed to the slumber of the inebriated, so when the Mustang’s engine fired to life, it exploded like a sonic bomb. Yet through the growls and snarls of the engine, I heard her voice, soft and urgent.

Fighting over heeding her words or punching the Mustang into reverse and driving until the road ran out, my choice was made for me when a soft knock came outside my window.

Sucking in a breath through my teeth, I rolled down the window. I couldn’t look at her—my eyes stayed glued to the steering wheel. Again, the shame and guilt taking the lead.

“Are you okay?” she asked, crouching down until her head hung just outside the window. Still, I couldn’t look at her. I didn’t deserve to.

“I’m not sure,” I answered honestly.

“Do you need me to drive you to the hospital?” she asked, misunderstanding.

It was almost funny, in that sick I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry kind of way, that she was offering me aid when I wouldn’t have a bruise tomorrow to prove I’d been in a fight of a lifetime and her boyfriend, a hundred feet away, was five punches away from dead.

“No, no. I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks, though. You should probably get Ty to an emergency room though. He’s going to need some stitches.” I swallowed compliments of yours truly. “I’ll cover all his medical expenses.”

Emma cut me off. “Don’t worry about Ty. His dad has this great medical insurance plan known as being a doctor.”

Bloody doctors. I was surrounded by them at every turn in my life. I was going to become the anti-doctor, whatever that was. Although, I suppose after my actions tonight, I’d become just that.

“Good for him,” I answered, not able to stand much more of this. I wasn’t good with long goodbyes; any goodbyes at all, in fact. Ty wasn’t safe around me, but he was around Emma most of the time. Therefore, Emma wasn’t safe around me either. At this juncture, good-bye was the only option.

“Wait,” she said, reaching her arm across me, stalling my efforts of shifting into gear. “We’ve got a date scheduled for this weekend. Girl’s choice,” she said, like the fight that would become a legend at Stanford for the next two generations hadn’t just gone down. “Meet me at this address tomorrow night. Six o’clock?” she said, handing me a piece of paper with a location scrolled on it.

She waited for me to show some recognition that I’d heard her and would be there, unmoving, her hand still folded over the one of mine gripping the shifter. She wasn’t allowing me to run away like I wanted to. She was holding me accountable, holding me to her.

Knowing this was my chance to end it, to save her from the mess that was Patrick Hayward, I nodded my answer. “I’ll be there.”

“Good,” she said, obviously satisfied as she removed her hand from mine and stepped away from the window. “Don’t be late.”

As the tires screeched over the pavement, tattooing the road with a couple of black streaks, I knew I shouldn’t go. Emma getting stood up on our “pretend” date was a million times better than me showing up and dragging her further into my dangerous life. We were two different beings, our paths in life would never intersect, no matter how hard we tried to force them. When the stars had aligned, mine had been as far away from hers as the universe could put us. The only answer, the only acceptable solution, was to stay as far away from Emma Scarlett as Stanford would allow.

A few miles, an on-ramp, and a hundred and ten MPHs later, all these warnings were forgotten. Setting barricades up between Emma and me was pointless—there was nothing that could stop me when I came charging through, as I knew I would every time.

I wouldn’t only be on time tomorrow night, I’d be ten minutes early.