The Nod: Chapter Five. “On Loss”

“The stain is still on the carpet. I had to move a chair to hide it.”

“From that night?”

“You lost a lot of blood.”

“The fucker stabbed me.”

Hatred. Hatred burning from a dark patch under a green chair.

“Why did you let me in?”

“You were bleeding. I wasn’t going to leave you out there.”

“You should have.”

“You would have died.”


“I know.”


“So. Talk.”

“Don’t tell them.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t tell them anything. He doesn’t know anything.”

“Shut up.”

A slap.

“Another word and I will kill you.”

Cold metal pressed against the temple.

“This is a gun. It’s against your head. Start talking or this same gun will go off in her face.”


The nightmares where you lose something or someone are the worst. It’s a double hit.

First, it’s gone- and you feel those emotions. Second, it’s a dream- you never had it in the first place.

A broken heart, money, a job. All fake. But the loss is real.

She stands in the driveway. You show up bloody and limping. A gunshot to the knee and the shoulder.

You know she can’t struggle. She’s pregnant and will do whatever it takes to protect the baby.

The gun is enough.

She holds out the car keys but you shake your head. She drives.

As soon as the car pulls out onto the road, there’s an accident. Metal against metal. Heads against glass.

Steering wheel into stomach.

Blood from between her legs.

Thick and dark and sad.

You reach over to help but she’s screaming and pushes you away.

Her stomach is now perfectly flat. The baby is lost.

You feel it was somehow your baby- this stranger’s life you are responsible for losing.

You chase her out of the car. Guns shots coming from behind.

One hits you.

One hits her.

She dies.

You wake up.


“Congratulations. You’re now a married man.”

“You’re here.”

“I guess I am.”

“This mean that everything is settled between us? The past is the past?”

“And all of that shit.”

“We weren’t sure you would come.”

“The past is the past.”

“Mom would be happy to know you did.”


“You going to stay long?”

“I guess. Make up for lost time.”


“I don’t have your answer.”

“Of course you do.”

“I don’t know where the money is.”

“Don’t make us take off another finger.”

Blindfold taken off, a woman’s mutilated hand comes into view.

The blade runs along the index finger.

“Now. Where is the money?”

“My brother.”

“No. Wrong answer.”

“My brother took the money.”

Splintering of Bone.

A woman screams.

“My brother took the fucking money.”

Screaming. Spitting.

“You’re lying. He’s dead. No money.”

The gun presses against the working knee cap.

“Where’s the money?”

“I don’t know.”

A gun shot. Another kneecap lost.


About litbandit

El Bandito Bibliotequa...or something.
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