Page 2 of Bleed Me

It felt like my hair was being pulled slowly from my scalp as Art tightened his hold. “Multiple personalities, huh? Was it your ‘personality’ that told V ‘Delilah’s watery doe brown and golden eyes pleaded for air as I came down her throat’?”

I had no idea what he was talking about. To my knowledge, Delilah and I had never had oral sex. But there laid the problem. My knowledge wasn’t correct.

Delilah’s was. She had been living with a part of me I would never personally know. That is how multiple personalities work. They replace the one that is not handling whatever circumstance the host is facing.

Art was trembling with anger. “Huh? Wanna tell me that wasn’t you?” He released my hair and shoved at my chest. “Don’t bother. I heard you my damn self over the phone when V called me.”

In Delilah’s bedroom, V had told me she was calling Tucker, my best friend, but then I blacked out again. When I came to, Viola was hysterical. What had I said? What had I done? I was clueless, but whatever words or actions I committed, V wanted me to pay the ultimate price. I can’t explain how it feels to know that a part of you is vile and not know why. Not comprehend how that part of yourself could bring harm to those you love the most.

So, right in front of Art, as I had in Delilah’s bedroom after V had told me what I had done, I leaned my head back and screamed to the night sky, “Nooooooo!” Rage and frustration racing through me had my legs carrying me again. I screamed, “Goddamnit! Art! Please tell me you’re lying! Pleeeease!”

Art didn’t move, at all. He just stared at me, lost in thought as I gasped and cried for hurting someone so dear to me. Delilah was my savior. After all I had been through, she was the one I could count on most. To think… To think I—

“Ah, shit,” mumbled the redheaded biker, rubbing a palm down his long thick beard. “This fucker really doesn’t remember.”

Art blinked. He stumbled back, eyes searching for nothing anyone present could see. The smart fucker was putting pieces together.

I was suddenly afraid I would soon black out—switch into another of my personalities. I cried out, “Dissociative amnesia. Don’t forget that. It’s what Delilah suspects I have.”

Just then, another Harley roared and skidded into the field, racing toward me like the devil was coming home and was hungry as hell. The headlight shining in my eyes made me squint.

Artist and Redhead tried to block Diesel, who, now on foot, stomped toward me, but there was nothing powerful enough to stop that hatred. The two men fell back as the large man charged through them.

Diesel was someone us kids had trusted—looked up to. He was a silent guardian for Delilah and her brother, Tucker Ward. But there was nothing silent or safe about Diesel this night. I was seeing the true side of a very deadly and powerful man.

The strength of his fist had been lost on me until it crashed into my jaw. My teeth jammed, stunning my brain into an ear-ringing confusion. My knees buckled, again, fruitlessly. I hung by my wrists, hoping he wouldn’t strike me again, my lonely island growing…

He roared in my face, “Where are they?” his blue eyes, just like his sister’s, set ablaze.

“H-Home.” My jaw would barely move through all the pain, but my life depended on my next words. “I left them at home.”

Tucker’s dad had taken me in early my Junior year and treated me like a son. Their home became my home. From what I could remember of my past, at this point in my life, it was the nicest home I had ever had. Now, it was all gone. I was utterly isolated and about to die.

From under his sweaty dark hair, Diesel sneered with revulsion, “I always knew something was wrong with you. Your nighttime weirdness never sat right with me—” Interrupting him, his cell vibrated in his front jean pocket. “Better be important!” he answered. He listened while his eyes found mine. “Got it.” He slid the phone back into his pocket, glaring and backing away from me. He spoke, but I knew it wasn’t to me. “They’re at Tuck’s. I’m going to them now.” He looked to Art while pointing at me. “Burn this fucker… in her car. I don’t want her to have one memory of this scum.”

And there it was. My death sentence.

Art was full of regret as he tried to explain, “Diesel, I gotta tell ya something—”

“Are you kidding me right now? After what he said about your Jail Bait? There is nothing to discuss.”

Now I understood Delilah’s nickname, JB.

Art tried again, “But, in Daytona, I witnessed—”

Diesel was in his face like a raging bull who had been set on fire. “JB is like my kid! Nothing to discuss! He fucking hurt her! Burn this fucker, or I am ripping off that patch of yours and shoving it up your motherfucking ass!” Seething, spit flew from his mouth as he faced Redhead. “And if this kid ain’t burning in minutes, you will dig out his patch,” he was suddenly back in Art’s face, “so I can ram it up your ass again!” He faced Redhead. “Understood?”

Red lifted his hands. “Completely. The kid is toast. Car too.”

“Accident style.”

Red nodded. “Done.”

As Diesel’s jet-black bike raced into the night, a rusty brown truck pulled in. After parking, a leather-vested biker stepped out, watching Diesel’s taillight disappear. “I haven’t seen that old man drive so fast in years. What the fuck is going on?”

Red asked him, “Why you in a cage?”

The biker rolled his eyes. “Got an over-doser in the back. Junkie dumb fuck. ‘Bout to bury him but caught word you guys may need help first.” He froze when he saw me as if recognizing me. “What did he do?”