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Scars

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Mary holds out her arm. She's done this before, sure, but it hurts like hell every time. Cutting open the scars and rubbing them with salt and holy water for protection.

Ellen holds the knife steady. If she had to choose anyone to do this she would choose Ellen, with her steady hands and no fear in her eyes.

"Ready?" Ellen asks her, and Mary nods and braces herself.

Ellen carves quickly and efficiently, doesn’t drag it out more than necessary. Blood runs down Mary’s arm, and she holds the towel underneath it, not letting a drop spill. Blood is powerful, and this towel has to be burned to make sure no one uses it to get hold of them. They are, after all, two of Hell’s most wanted fugitives.

When Ellen starts rubbing the salt into her wounds she feels tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t let go of the towel or close her eyes, she lets them flow over and run down her cheeks. Tears are, after all, not worth anything.

When they’re done and Ellen has put bandages on her arm they put the towel in the wastepaper basket with Ellen’s towel and drench them in Kerosene. In the light of the fire Mary takes Ellen’s hand and clenches it hard.