He saw fury creased across a young forehead, too young to crease like that. Black furrows full of the blackest rage. Fists clenched, arms thrown wide for balance. A boy at his feet, bent in half. The image was frozen, but the boy’s leg was blurred. The boy’s leg kicked, action without motion. A frozen blur, vivid and remembered. The last kick that did it, pushing a nose back into a brain. Silencing it.
Cole didn’t need to see it. Didn’t need to see the before—the years of life abused and wasted. Didn’t need to see the after—the hours of being beat on. So much pain on either side of that frozen slice of rage. Towering stacks of pain squeezing a sliver of time, that frozen horror of violence. Of killing.
Cole didn’t need to see it. He had another life worth flashing by. A life of redemption. Of learning to love. But he didn’t get that one. Just got the brutality and error—looming and frozen.
ѻѻѻѻ
Something else. New. Guilt and pleasure intertwined and swirling through Cole’s mind, becoming one.
Arms waving, reaching, swimming out of the fog. Out of uncons-ciousness. The world, a world solidifying, congealing into the half-real, half-imagined.
A woman kissing him, her hands on his body, on his chest.
Lips touching, over and over.
Cole looked up—saw it wasn’t Molly.
Red hair. Bright. The color and flicker of fire, of precious warmth. It danced and waved all around him—it draped across his bare chest. He was naked, the girl hovering.
It felt like—
It felt like forever.
Like wholeness and emptiness, like something spilling out and refill-ing, like infinite desire and eternal sating, the two racing and endless, like lines stretched out through the unknown, meeting at forever.
Pleasure.
Lust laced with fear and shame.
It wasn’t Molly.
He tried to fight back, to push her off, but every movement—deflected. Every effort—turned against him. The fiery woman. Resistance became passion.
The gradual giving in. His body worn down. Exhausted. Dead. She was kissing him—he kissed back. Hands wrapped in the wild hair, pull-ing her down.
Skin sparked with electricity everywhere it touched, where it touched other skin. Something jolted him alive.
Alive.
Part XIV - Salvation
Cole looked at his hands. Fiery hair slid between his fingers. Ten fingers. But he didn’t have two hands. Not anymore. A dream. It was a dream—the last firings of frozen neurons as he perished in a bank of snow.
He pushed the girl away—or tried to.
She was strong. And the more he fought, the more beautiful she became, smothering him with a longing.
Cole groaned. He wondered if this would be the last he ever felt. A parting gift for a life too soon ended.
He longed for Molly.