First Blood Read Online Free

her neck and onto her arms.
    But the horror of those wounds.
    “Don’t worry. It’s over now,” she said.
    It was true. The water had cleaned her wounds. They had not closed, but at least they were not bleeding as much.
    Jonathan trembled.
    Her two wounds.
    There were two gashes, one on each cheek. Jonathan had never seen wounds so deep. It looked like an ax had struck his wife’s face. He could see the bone beneath the muscle.
    How repulsive , he was thinking.
    “What...”
    “Don’t ask any questions,” Madeleine said in a low voice as she left the bathroom. “I need to think.”
    She went down the stairs to the living room. Her husband rushed after her, his heart beating fast.
    “No questions? Are you kidding me?”
    Madeleine, looking vexed and overwhelmed, put up her hand to make him stop talking. Jonathan closed his mouth and looked down, submissive, as always.
    “Thank you,” she said.
    Her composure was back. She was the woman he had fallen in love with—the unyielding businesswoman capable of facing Chinese giants on their own turf and walking away with their guts in her hands. Still, she was injured.
    “I don’t know what happened,” she finally said when she reached the leather armchair. It faced a large window. She sat down, taking her time. She was unreadable.
    “You need a doctor right away,” Jonathan dared to say.
    “What I need is a drink.”
    She looked for a cigarette and lit up. Some drops of blood formed on her cheek.
    “Glenfiddich,” she added.
    “Okay, okay,” Jonathan said, shaking himself into action.
    He opened the cupboard, grabbed a bottle of whisky, and picked up two crystal glasses. Trembling, he filled them up. He held one out to her and downed the other one.
    “What did you do to yourself, Madeleine? You have to tell me.”
    She took a sip.
    “I have to know,” Jonathan said.
    Madeleine blinked and grimaced, now fully aware that she really did not want him near her. Not bothering to move or speak, she gazed at her glass of whisky and the window in front of her.
    It was pitch black outside.
    She sighed.
    “Yes, I know.”
    “So are you going to tell me?”
    “Yes.”
    She looked at him with her cold, steely eyes.
    “Turn the outside lights on, please.”
    “Um, okay,” Jonathan said, walking across the room.
    An instant later, bluish lights rose from the flowerbeds, shrouding the grounds in a ghostly aura. There were splotches of frost on the garden statues. Farther away, the street lamps towered over the boulevard.
    Jonathan came back and poured himself another glass of whisky, which he drank as quickly as the first.
    He waited.
    “These are old injuries,” Madeleine finally said.
    He looked and her and did not say anything.
    “I’ve always had these horrible scars.”
    Jonathan shook his head. “I don’t know what you are trying to say, but this is idiotic. You never had any injuries like that. You are...”
    He stumbled over his words. “You are disfigured, Madeleine. If they get infected...”
    “They will not get infected. I was sure something was going to happen. I knew it in my heart.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I dreamed about it.”
    “What are you trying to say?”
    “That dreams are places of lucidity, Jonathan. Much more so than we dare to admit.”
    She tensed her jaw, and Jonathan saw the bones move in the open wounds. He shivered. Somewhere deep down, he was actually finding that mutilated face strangely attractive.
    “What kind of dreams were they?” he asked, shaking his strange fantasy.
    “Dreams that are not good to venture into. Nightmares with sharp claws. All the things that I wanted so much to forget. But the flesh doesn’t forget.”
    She lifted the whisky to her lips.
    “Like these cuts?” her husband asked, still not understanding.
    “Yes, like these cuts. I got them a long time ago. I thought I would never have to live through that again. The pain, the humiliation. But it seems I was wrong.”
    She tossed her head