Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 101427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
He choked and spat blood, but I didn’t let him recover.
My elbow came down on his collarbone—once, twice—until I heard the pop. Then I grabbed a jagged shard of bamboo from the ground and buried it in his thigh.
He screamed.
Too loud.
I grabbed his head.
Slammed it into the stalk.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
He slumped over.
Not dead.
But done.
A new body to feed my bamboo forest.
Sound erupted behind me.
I turned.
There we go.
The twins were a storm of motion.
Aki’s garrote wire flashed in the moonlight, whipping around one man’s throat. His opponent struggled, only for Yuki to crash a knee into his ribs.
The sound was wet, final.
And then, Yuki returned to fighting his man.
The final guy charged Yuki with a wild punch—bad mistake. Yuki dodged, hooked his leg around the guy’s ankle, and spun him into Aki’s waiting elbow. The man crumpled but Aki didn’t stop—he mounted, fists raining down, rhythmic and brutal, until the forest echoed with the wet thuds of knuckles breaking bone.
I watched, chest heaving and a huge smile on my face.
Father, you gifted me with a circle of my own dead men. This morning. . .I will gift you with fire.
Chapter eighteen
Emotional Inheritance
Nyomi
I was dreaming again, but it was not the kind of dream where I flew, kissed, or fell forever. It was a memory that always began the same way—late at night, in my old childhood home.
I must’ve been six.
Old enough to know better.
Still awake when I shouldn’t have been.
But there I was, bare feet on the cool hardwood, tiptoeing out from the hallway shadows, breath held in my throat so it wouldn’t betray me.
My mother sat in her favorite old green rocking chair, the one that groaned just a little on every other rock. Grandma had gotten it for her long ago to use while breastfeeding me.
My mother wasn’t in her usual white blouse and long white skirt this time.
Tonight, she wore a slip dress the color of ripe strawberries with thin straps sliding off her shoulders and the satin hugging every curve. Her legs were bare, smooth and oiled, one tucked under her while the other rocked gently against the hardwood floor.
A black silk robe draped open over her shoulders. The sleeves slipped down a little more each time the chair creaked.
The living room was dim, lit only by the soft blue lamp in the corner and the halo of moonlight spilling through the window.
My mother’s face glowed in that light. This was how I realized she’d done her face too—soft blush, glossy lips, lashes curled just enough to catch the lamp light when she blinked.
Her perfume lingered in the air—floral and sweet.
She wasn’t dressed for sleep.
She was dressed to be seen.
Billie Holiday played softly on the record player in the corner. A whisper of vinyl crackled, then that voice—raspy and holy—came out, making the moment more haunting.
The song was You’ve Changed. I didn’t know the words then, not really, but I understood the sound of someone trying to hold onto a love that had already slipped through their fingers.
It wasn’t a song you played when you were angry. It was the kind you played when you’d stopped begging and started grieving—when you’d accepted the silence but still dressed up just in case the door opened.
Billie wasn’t accusing him in that song. She was mourning the version of her man that used to look at her with fire in his eyes and touch her with hunger in his hands.
I never liked that song.
Not even when I was older and understood the brilliance of Billie.
She was sick when she recorded the song.
Addicted.
Alone.
Dying.
Haunted.
They say she poured herself into that album like it was the last thing she had to give. And it was. She died less than a year later. Lady in Satin was her goodbye.
And still—my mother played it all the time. Perhaps, she thought the sadness in Billie’s voice understood her better than anyone else.
My mother sat with her head tilted slightly toward the fogging window, rocking slowly.
The book on her lap was The Bell Jar, spine cracked, face down. Sylvia Plath’s words absorbed in the satin of her dress.
And there she was. . .my mother.
Rocking.
Back.
And forth.
Humming the chorus under her breath.
And I knew, in that eerie, marrow-deep way only a child could, that she was waiting for him.
For the man who should have come home hours ago.
So young and not understanding what was going on. . .still silent tears rolled hot down my cheeks as I remained in the shadows.
I remember wanting to whisper, “Mommy. . .”
But kept quiet because for some reason I always thought. . .
If I speak, I might break her.
It was always that sort of feeling throughout those years.
No one told me that she would break, but I just assumed that. . .I had to be quiet, careful, and low-maintenance. I didn’t know what age it happened, but I realized that my sadness was less urgent than hers, and that my mother’s heart was always. . .his.