"That's for what you owe Adelaide," he snarled.
The world spun, and I felt the warmth of blood trickling from my nose.
Thud.
Another punch landed squarely on my jaw.
"And this one's for me."
Raymond pulled back to strike again, but Yedda stopped him. "That's enough. If you hit him any harder, we might end up in real trouble."
Perhaps noticing a passerby approaching, Raymond reluctantly dropped his fists.
I slumped to the ground, blood streaming down my face, laughing hysterically.
One of the thugs holding me down muttered, "Raymond, you've knocked something loose in his head."
They spat on me in disgust before hurrying off.
Maybe I really was losing it.
No one understood how much pain—real, physical pain—could bring a strange, almost perverse relief to someone as numb as I was.
A part of me even craved it.
Why hadn't Raymond just finished me off?
Then I could be with Adelaide again.
I couldn't imagine how lonely she must have been, how much she must have yearned to hold on, to get that one last family photo.
And yet, was it really so hard to make that wish come true?
Just then, my phone rang where it lay on the ground.
It was the photographer we had booked.