Black Christmas (Plus Bonus Story "Black Supper") by JC Andrijeski Page A

ten years––was always less delicate than Angel.
    “What the fuck happened to you, Miri?” he said.
    We were at the martial arts club.
    His dark eyes looked me over, that critical cop gaze of his scanning details, marking them. Probably tagging them with small labels, giving them meaning, building pictures brick by brick as he assessed the scene of the crime.
    I still had a limp from what happened to my foot and leg.
    It was my wrists that caught Nick’s attention though.
    He stopped right before we were about to go into a sparring clinch. I saw his dark eyes widen. I saw his handsome face go pale, his mouth harden into a significantly less cop-like frown. He grabbed my arm, staring down at the remnants of deep rope burns on both of my wrists. His cop eyes raked over the rest of me a second time, resting briefly on my foot, which I still favored, even though I’d decided to come back to the club anyway.
    My coach was okay with it; he just joked that I shouldn’t kick anyone with that foot for awhile. I’d tried to smile at his joke, but I’m not sure I pulled that off either.
    “Jesus.” Nick’s eyes went from angry to shocked. He pushed up the sleeve of my gee, saw the marks from needles, the bruises. “Jesus fucking Christ... Miri.”
    He looked up at me, his eyes wide.
    “What happened to you?” He swallowed. “What the fuck happened?”
    I pulled my arm away from him, tugging the sleeve down over my arm.
    “Someone was holding you,” he said, his voice still shocked. “Who, Miri? Who took you?”
    My lips pursed.
    Truthfully though, I didn’t know how to answer him. I thought about everything in Bangkok, about what happened. Where did you start in a story like that?
    How did you begin to answer a question like that?
    “Were you held hostage, Miri?” Nick said, his voice lower, but firmer.
    I met his gaze, still struggling to think.
    Still, Nick and I didn’t lie to each other.
    Well, not usually.
    “Yes,” I said, shrugging.
    “I’m going to kill that fucker,” Nick exploded. “I’m really going to kill him this time, Miri.”
    I shook my head. “It wasn’t Black’s fault.”
    “The hell it wasn’t! That’s the second time he’s nearly gotten you killed... in less than six months, for crying out loud...” Nick looked me over, that more stricken look back in his eyes. “Miri... my God. What happened?” Seeming to see something in my face at the question that time, he winced, backtracking. “Are you seeing anyone?”
    I stared at him blankly. “Seeing anyone?” For some reason, I couldn’t comprehend what he meant. For a second I thought he was asking me if I was dating.
    “Trauma counseling,” he said. “Jesus, Miri. You’re a fucking psychologist. You of all people should know you need to see someone after something like this––”
    But I was already shaking my head, as soon as I understood. I spoke before I knew what I intended to say.
    “No, no... no,” I said, still shaking my head. I wrapped my arms around myself, still shaking my head. “No, I don’t think so, Nick. I will. But not yet.”
    “Not yet?” He stepped closer to me and I backed off, almost before I realized I’d done it. I saw that impact him in some way too and bit my lip. He lowered his voice, talking to me more gently than maybe he ever had.
    Somehow that only made it worse.
    “Miri,” he said, holding up a hand. “Miri... this is big. This is really big. This isn’t a small thing. You need to talk to someone.”
    I swallowed, avoiding his eyes. I knew Nick knew what he was talking about. While we’d been in Afghanistan, he’d been taken once. I knew some of what happened to him there, what they’d done to him. I hadn’t been his shrink, of course––we both knew that probably wasn’t a great idea, just because we’d been friends for so long. Even so, we’d talked. A lot.
    Over a lot of alcohol mostly.
    “Please, Miri,” he said, his eyes serious. “Please. As your friend who