The Memory of Water

⁴⁶ HIS STRINGS CUT

We sit on the pavement in identical postures. We have both had the wind knocked out of us and need to stay close to the ground.

“Frank,” I say.

“I can explain,” he says, his breathing heavy, one hand up in defence, the other on his ribs.

I want to laugh. He says it sincerely, as if an explanation could make a whisper of a difference in this situation. As if it could undo terrible things. If only words could.

“You’ve been trying to kill me,” I pant.

“I’ve been… helping you,” he says, spitting out blood.

The bastard.

“Helping me?” I shout.

“Guarding you,” he grimaces. His eyes glow. “You can’t see that now, but you will.”

I wind my arm back and punch him in the face as hard as I can. There is a simultaneous crack, as my knuckle breaks his nose and breaks itself in the process. He is KO’d, sprawled like a dummy on the ground, his strings cut, blood pumping out of his nose. I shake my hand out. I see figures in the distance, running. I bolt, leaving Frank to bleed.