Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

shower. Or before bed. To be comfortable. So you’d have
some things here if you wanted to spend the night…”
I trail off into silence, not knowing what else to say
because it all sounds so lame out loud.
He lifts my chin with a knuckle. When our eyes meet, his
are exultant.
“You bought me clothes.”
He says it in a fervent tone of awe and wonder, like you’d
say, Heaven is real and I’ve seen it!
“I did.”
“With your own money.”
“Whose money would I have used if not mine?”
“I mean, it wasn’t from your trust account. You haven’t
withdrawn any money from that yet. So it had to be your own
money. That you earned. Yourself.”
I examine the expression on his face. “I’m getting that
you’re not often on the receiving end of a gift-giving
situation.”
“No one has bought anything for me since my parents
died.”
“Really? Not even your sisters? For birthdays or
whatever?”
I immediately realize that his sisters are the wrong subject
to mention. His eyes grow distant. His face hardens. He drops
his hands to his sides.
Then he turns to the sink and says in a lifeless voice, “The
Irish killed them, too. After they found out what I’d done, they
took my sisters in retaliation.”
He pauses for a moment. “They didn’t get as lucky as my
parents. Before they were shot, they were raped and tortured.
Then they were dumped naked and broken on the doorstep of
our house.” His voice drops. “Sasha was thirteen. Maria was
ten.”