The Longest Night
Song of Solomon, 1

She made the final lunging steps to the cabin and pulled the tarp right up to the door. When she let go of the rope it stayed imbedded in her hips. When she pulled it off a sharp, ripping sort of pain made her grit her teeth. To her surprise the man was awake and met her eyes with half a smile when she turned. “You were lucky,” he said drowsily.

“Yes,” she replied. She would have died without this shelter. He was lucky too. “Can you stand?”

The man propped himself up on his elbows again and winced as he moved his legs, trying to lift himself up into a sitting position. He yelped and fell down, gasping, a hand hovering over his wound.

She knelt down, dropped her gun and her pack and pulled his arm over her shoulders. “Will you be able to help me?”

He nodded, gritting his teeth and clenching his eyes shut.

She pushed as hard as she could, and even as she started to lift him, she knew he was far too much for just her, she would surely injure herself, yet still she was raising him up. He screamed, hissing through his teeth, stumbling to support himself. He leaned heavily on her, and somehow she turned him towards the door. She shot out her hand to shove the door open, punching it by accident, cracking all her knuckles. It stung, but she hardly had the time to pay it any mind. The immediate room from the doorway was the living room; She stumbled directly for the couch. She dropped him on it ungracefully but he caught himself with a hoarse shout. She helped him right himself. “My first aid is in the bathroom.” She grabbed the small box from beneath the sink and hurried back, turning on her flashlight as she went. She sat beside him on the ruined couch, unlatching the lid to the box. She moved to collect some things, when his strong and steady hand covered hers.

“I have some training,” he said with strain, looking her in the eye as she looked up at him with surprise. “If you can get a mirror, it would help me treat my wound.”

She didn’t respond immediately, but she nodded, and pulled her fingers out from beneath his hand.

The shattered mirror standing across from the couch had a perfect shard sitting on the bottom corner. She stood, marched over to it, and plucked it from the mirror’s frame. The man had already sifted through the first aid box, and he removed the last item as she situated herself next to him. “Will it be enough?” she asked, her eyes on the kit.

“Yes,” he said, lifting up the alcohol. A small bottle of vodka. “I’m surprised you didn’t drink this long ago,” he added with a pained laugh.

She could scarcely smile. She twisted the cap off of the bottle for him as he held it up, and proceeded to timidly unbutton his jacket and lift his shirt up over his stomach. Her eyes stayed glued to her hands, trying to avoid his stare, for she was sure that her ghostly white skin was burning red.

She untied the rope holding the rag in place and removed the cloth for him. “Will this be clean enough to wipe the blood off?” she asked, holding up the crumbled piece of shirt that had acted as his dressing.

“Yes.”

She wet down the rag with some of the vodka that he handed her and gently blotted at his wound with it. All of him coiled tight, he held his breath, she wanted to pull away. Another small bout of blood gushed out and she quickly wiped it off.

She put the bottle on the floor and positioned the mirror for him, flashlight in her other hand. He studied his reflection intently before pouring more vodka over the area. A low sound came from the back of his throat. She dabbed at the excess fluid dripping down his stomach, wishing she could have found him before he was injured.

“All right,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Can you lace the thread in the needle for me?”

She nodded then grabbed the items. A year ago she had found the sewing kit and amalgamated the supplies with her first aid. She was thankful she had. It took her a few attempts to feed the thread through the eye, like the room was spinning fast. When she did succeed she gave a liberal amount of berth to keep the thread anchored. The thought of the thread slipping away while he slid it through himself…

She looked at him, needle held aloft. “Will you be all right?”

“Yes. Just hold the flashlight and mirror still for me.”

“Okay.”

She furrowed her brow and settled her bleary eyes on his wound, and she concentrated on holding the mirror in place and the flashlight just so.

He exhaled slowly then pushed the needle through his skin. He swallowed a yell. More blood. Then he was through. Again. Again. Tears were welling in his eyes by the time he finished the first stitch. They welled in hers to see it. As he sutured he used her knife to cut the excess string and carry on. By the fourth he was breathing again, albeit heavy. Soon he stopped giving any indication he was in pain.

As he pulled the last stitch through, he let out a long sigh and let his head fall back, his hat tumbling off onto the floor. His hair was more shaggy than his beard. Ragged. A man who had been through Hell.

She unbuttoned her cloak again and tore yet another strip from her shirt. Now it had shrunk considerably, and more and more of her belly was exposed. Somewhere in one of the dresser drawers in the bedroom was a never-been-worn sweater she was planning to wear, and so the state of her ever-shrinking shirt made her anticipate it all the more. As she looked up to put the rag on his sealed wound, she saw him looking at her, that soft expression making the feeling in her stomach come to life again.

She fumbled the rag onto his wound, and tied the rope gently around it, holding it in place. She let out her own breath slowly. “How long will that last you?”

“Until we make it back to the park,” he replied, bringing down his stained shirt.

She looked to his eyes, her face marked with confusion. “‘We’?”

He returned her gaze gently. “I wouldn’t leave you here.”

She had never considered the possibility. In fact, ever since replaceing him, she hadn’t considered what would come for the future, what she would do, or what might happen after she saved him.

“Would you come with me?”

His face was so soft, and there was almost no trace of the hardness that Catherine had thought she had seen in the past.

“Of course.”

“All right.” He didn’t quite smile but he didn’t pretend it was of no consequence either. Then he closed his eyes and visibly relaxed into the couch.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Catherine warned, touching his shoulder. “You should sleep in the bed. It’ll be better for your back.”

“I’m not as old as I look,” he replied with a short laugh. As he sat up he flinched, balked. She grabbed onto his shoulders and he swung his arm over hers as she led him to the bed close by.

The man dropped, dead weight, onto the mattress as soon as he saw it, and she situated him properly. He was out cold before she took his boots off. She went back to the couch, grabbed the blanket, and draped it over him. For a moment she stood at the bedside, looking down. Then she sat next to him and rested her hand on his chest. A strong heartbeat, an even tempo. She took her hand away after his third breath but she didn’t leave the bedroom for some time.

Eventually she could hold out no longer. She returned to the main room and stumbled onto the couch. Her world turned black before she even hit the cushions.

Archie Guillory sat across from Catherine, silent, with his head propped up against his fist. He slapped her manuscript over the desk several times. Finally he looked at her, his expression something akin to boredom. That was how he seemed to look all the time. She met his eyes, unfaltering.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Archie said. “I hate romance novels. Never published one in my life.”

“Nor have I.”

“Ha!” Archie slapped the manuscript on the desk once more, rubbing his eyes while he chuckled. “Well, I would normally retort with something sarcastic like ‘I can tell’, but honestly…I’ve never read something like this. Very anti-cliche in a great way. But I usually don’t publish romance novels for the sole purpose that they’re crap. Yes, they sell, but they’re usually a great waste of trees. I could make a good buck off of them but I would hate every moment of it. When I was younger, my father always tried to get me into the romance novel market. But my God, if they weren’t trash that my grandmother could have written.”

She remained poised, unchanging, still as a stone. She was doing it on purpose; she knew she had to turn a new leaf, appear more competent if she were to do this.

“It’s not typical of a college student to produce something as good as this. It’s not Shakespeare, mind you, but it’s got cojones of a gentle sort. Not only will it sell, but it’ll be on a bestseller list, I bet. It’ll ruffle some feathers.”

“But?”

“There might be infringements on people’s rights here.”

Her guard wavered slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that even though this book is great, it’s based off real people. We can’t publish this without worrying of a lawsuit.”

“I don’t think I’ve violated any infringement law.”

“I can read you like a book. No pun intended,” he added quickly. “I can see a true-events inspired story when I see one. You’re going to have to get permission from a few people if you want to keep clear of the court room.”

Was it truly that obvious? In a way, she was publishing her book to be obvious, but only to him. Archie barely knew her; while she wasn’t close to many people, she feared that those who were could see through her story all to easily.

“It’s original,” she said flatly, attempting a crude poker face.

Archie sighed in frustration, rubbing his hands over his face. He already knew about her and her mother, and could very easily put two and two together about the main character and her mother. And he could only guess that the man of the novel was also a person from her experience.

She was sceptical about meeting with Archie at first, and in fact he was also sceptical of meeting with her. He was a big shot agent, helping make books by more successful, more substantial, more mature writers. It turned out that the editor who had agreed to read over her manuscript had thought it was excellent, so she recommended her to Archie. She wanted to go through a less pretentious agent, but her editor insisted. As for Archie, he bitched and moaned about it, but he had read the book anyway.

Archie’s hands slid off his face and he leaned back in his leather chair. “Tell you what. I want to publish this book, I really do. But in order to do that, I need your word on paper.”

“Which means?”

“You sign a contract binding your name to all the legalities of the work, and if a lawsuit comes down on all our heads, it falls right on your shoulders.”

“You make it sound like it’s under the counter.”

“It wouldn’t be a problem. All that would be left is you being aware of the dangers surrounding it. A lot of books face lawsuits, but in your case, it might be legitimate if someone doesn’t like the fact that they’re being represented in a book for the entire world to read.”

She didn’t even know his name, so how could she surely know his nature? How could she know he wouldn’t charge her? How could she know that he wouldn’t hate her for what she did? It was a possibility, a very dangerous possibility, that he would replace out and he would reject, retaliate, ruin.

If she didn’t do this, she would do those things to herself.

She had been staring off behind Archie’s shoulder as she pondered, and without looking at him, nodded slightly. “Do it.”

Archie nodded back after a moment’s pause. “All right, then we’re done here. I’ll have Ed take down your number, and he’ll call you to book another appointment with art designers and what-not.” Archie had waved a hand at her as he spoke, as if dismissing the entire process as useless. She felt safe enough to break a smile, and she leaned across the desk to shake Archie’s hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Guillory.”

“Please call me Archie. It’s the only way I can retain my youth.”

She kept smiling and rose from her chair.

“Catherine. Now that that’s all past us, is it true? The story?”

Yes. “No.”

She looked back at him blankly, but she felt herself breaking under his stare. He wasn’t glaring up at her from his seat, but his forehead was wrinkled by his arched eyebrows. He played with a cigarette he had pulled from his breast pocket.

“I hope he gets the message, then,” he said to her, stuffing the cigarette in his mouth and rising up out of his seat. She stood on the spot. Her mouth opened once to reply, then closed. As he dug through his pockets for a lighter, she grabbed her bag and left the office quietly.

She dealt with Ed quickly. He called a cab for her, which arrived almost immediately, and she spent the twenty minute ride filled with so many thoughts it may as well have been five. As she came through the front door, her mother asked her where she had been, and Catherine fabricated a story of going to the library. After a small visit, she sat in her room at her desk, her hand resting on her laptop in contemplation.

She hoped he would get the message too.