rachel

“[Neil] I'm fine.' It was out before he could stop it. Wymack didn't have to say anything. The look on his face said enough. Neil fixed hid stare on the coffeepot and tried not to fidget. ... 'Neil,' Wymack said, 'between you and me, I don't think you've ever been fine.' Neil didn't have an answer for that, but he didn't need one. Wymack continued his routine...”
― Nora Sakavic, The Raven King

“He remembered the black sands beach along California’s lost coast where his mother finally gave up the fight. He hadn’t even realized she’d been injured so badly after running into his father in Seattle. She’d bled most of the way though Oregon, but he hadn’t thought it was serious. He hadn’t known she was bleeding out on the inside, a kidney and her liver ruptured, her intestines bruised beyond repair.
[…] They stopped six feet from the tide and she made him repeat every promise she’d ever dragged out of him: don’t look back, don’t slow down, and don’t trust anyone. Be anyone but himself, and never be anyone for too long.
By the time Neil understood she was saying goodbye, it was too late.
She died gasping for one more breath, panting with something that might have been words or his name or fear. Neil could still feel her fingernails digging into his arms as she fought not to slip away, and the memory left him shaking all over. Her abdomen felt like stone when he touched her, swollen and hard. He tried pulling her from her seat only once, but the sound of her dried blood ripping off the vinyl like Velcro killed him.
[…] He hadn’t cried when the flames caught, and he hadn’t flinched when he pulled her cooling bones out. […] By the time he found the highway again he was numb with shock, and he lasted another day before he fell to his knees on the roadside and puked his guts out.”
― Nora Sakavic, The Foxhole Court

“Shirt off.”
Neil stared at her. “Why?”
“I can’t check track marks through cotton, Neil.”
“I don’t do drugs.”
“Good on you,” Abby said. “Keep it that way. Now take it off.”
[…] “I want to make this as painless as possible, but I can’t help you if you can’t help me. Tell me why you won’t take off your shirt.”
Neil looked for a delicate way to say it. The best he managed was, “I’m not okay.”
She put a finger to his chin and turned his face back toward her. “Neil, I work for the Foxes. None of you are okay. Chances are I’ve seen a lot worse than whatever it is you’re trying to hide from me.”
Neil’s smile was humorless. “I hope not.
“Trust me,” Abby said. “I’m not going to judge you. I’m here to help, remember? I’m your nurse now. That door is closed, and it comes with a lock. What happens in here stays in here.”
[…] “You can’t ask me about them,” he said at last. “I won’t talk to you about it. Okay?”
“Okay,” Abby agreed easily. “But know that when you want to, I’m here, and so is Betsy.”
Neil wasn’t going to tell that psychiatrist a thing, but he nodded. Abby dropped her hand and Neil pulled his shirt over his head before he could lose his nerve.
Abby thought she was ready. Neil knew she wouldn’t be, and he was right. Her mouth parted on a silent breath and her expression went blank. She wasn’t fast enough to hide her flinch, and Neil saw her shoulders go rigid with tension. He stared at her face as she stared at him, watching her gaze sweep over the brutal marks of a hideous childhood.
It started at the base of his throat, a looping scar curving down over his collarbone. A pucker with jagged edges was a finger-width away, courtesy of a bullet that hit him right on the edge of his Kevlar vest. A shapeless patch of pale skin from his left shoulder to his navel marked where he’d jumped out of a moving car and torn himself raw on the asphalt. Faded scars crisscrossed here and there from his life on the run, either from stupid accidents, desperate escapes, or conflicts with local lowlifes. Along his abdomen were larger overlapping lines from confrontations with his father’s people while on the run. His father wasn’t called the butcher for nothing; his weapon of choice was a cleaver. All of his men were well-versed in knife-fighting, and more than one of them had tried to stick Neil like a pig.
And there on his right shoulder was the perfect outline of half a hot iron. Neil didn’t remember what he’s said or done to irritate his father so much.”
― Nora Sakavic, The Foxhole Court

“It was strange sliding it [the key] into the knob and listening to the lock clack undone. [...] Keys meant Neil had explicit permission to be here and do what he liked. They meant he belonged.”
― Nora Sakavic, The Foxhole Court