As he pivoted, his heavy shoe came down on my hand—grinding the leather sole and the glass beneath it into my skin.
He didn't notice. He just walked away.
I knelt there, staring at shards embedded in my bleeding palm.
A strange sound escaped my lips—half sob, half laugh.
Miranda recoiled. "What's wrong with you? Why are you bleeding?"
Warm liquid dripped from my nose onto the ruined carpet. I staggered up, wiping my face with my sleeve.
"Maybe he's dying."
I didn't wait for his reaction. I turned my back on his shock and staggered out of the club, blood dripping from my fingertips.
By the time I pushed open the front door, I was numb.
A crash echoed from the kitchen.
Jonathan was on the floor, struggling to hoist himself from his overturned wheelchair. He looked up, eyes rimmed red, like a guilty child caught in the act.
"Hazel... I just wanted to make you something to eat..." He slurred his words, saliva and tears running down his chin. "I'm useless. I'm just trash!"
He looked the part perfectly—a man paralyzed for years, helpless and broken.
But as I watched him, a memory surfaced through the haze.