Page 19 of Little Blue

I’ve been a man obsessed since.

She sucks air into her lungs, past trembling pink lips. Blonde hair with just a hint of strawberry tumbles in waves over her shoulder as she bends at the waist, gasping. Her hand still rests against the wall, and even though her body is trembling, when her hand falls away, it leaves a print of moisture.

She’s moved beyond desperation to panic. The anger will come next.

I’m rather impressed by how quickly she’s moving through the stages. It takes many men, who are physically stronger, larger, more experienced in the ways of this unorthodox death of all they’ve known, to come to the terms she’s coming to now.

That their life is now mine.

That her life is mine.

She is mine.

Her blue eyes flash to me for the first time since she began to truly spiral. A sound of grief and fear rips from her chest to tumble from quivering lips. Tears shimmer in glassy eyes that shine a bright, brilliant blue the color of—heaven.

I almost laugh, then.

It’s fitting that I find myself staring into the warmth of eternal salvation in the eyes of this woman who reached into the void of me and gripped a soul I wasn’t certain I possessed. Fuck, but she didn’t just grip that soul, she tore it from the dark fabric of me to cradle it against the bosom of her pure salvation.

For her, I’ll worship.

I’ll bruise my knees and dig myself from the bowels of my lonely Hell, until my fingertips bleed, raw to the bone. I’ll shield her with my flesh, shelter her with my bone. For her, my deadly touch will be gentle.

For her, the heart that beats monosyllabic and static in my chest flutters and quickens again as it has each time, I’ve been in her presence. Something my unflinching heart never does.

It’s the reason I’ve always found fascination in the thunderous organ people speak of in their chest. The racing. The palpitations. The life it sings of.

My heart never learned to sing. Never bothered. I’ve suspected, with my void-like eyes, obsession with death, and unaffected heart—that I was born with one foot through deaths door, the devil himself waiting, arms open, for my eternal torment.

I’ve experimented, and often, through many means. Strenuous exercise, hunting, sex, and killing. My heart never races. It remains stoic always, my breaths calm, my body unaffected. Even in betrayal, I am calm.

It’s a misconception many have that I don’t love or care for those in my life. I do. Deeply.

I simply don’t feel that quickening others speak of. I’ve never felt the rush of emotion that drives people to thoughtlessness, to rash acts, and regrets.

I’ve never been driven to obsession or yearning.

I’ve never needed another so much, I can’t breathe. I’ve never felt the organ in my chest skip in nervousness or excitement or desire.

Until her.

A tear escapes from her eye to fall down her cheek. A fist grips the untouched organ in my chest, squeezing painfully. For a moment, I’m robbed of the ability to move, my response to her tear so physical—so strong—I’m rooted in place.

She’s beautiful always, but she’s a goddess when she cries.

Still, I don’t like it.

She shakes her head and palms away her tear with a viciousness that has her panic morphing into anger.

I breathe a relieved breath. Her tears, obviously, I can’t handle. Her anger, however…

“You broke into my apartment, my home, and you stole me. You stole me from my life!” she screams.

Oh, yes. Yes, I can handle her anger. “This is your life now.”

Her jaw drops.

Fuck, she’s beautiful.

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