Page 2 of Stitches

I said nothing as I moved slowly past him to the bathroom. I closed the door on him without a word uttered and turned on the shower. Quickly, I undressed and leaned against the porcelain sink and stared at myself in the mirror.

Bruises littered my body from head to toe. Some old wounds from the night in the cemetery and some new ones. Together, they screamed my guilt.

I’d really fucked up. I’d lost everything I’d tried to keep.

The lacerations to my body were many. Some were deep and tender, others were shallow and sore.

And they all reminded me to not fuck up ever again.

I kept hoping that I’d get the strength to just kill myself, but I still hadn’t found it. I hadn’t been punished enough just yet and didn’t want to take the easy way out either.

Although all things considered, I’d doubt anyone would miss my treacherous ass anyway. After all, the watchers had strung me up on a cross and set fire to everything around me. If that didn’t screamfuck off and die, I didn’t know what did.

I breathed out and straightened.

Fuck, I was a mess.

I needed to return to classes. I knew I did. The idea of seeing the guysand heragain made bile burn my throat and tears sting my eyes. God, what I wouldn’t give. . .

But I knew it was over. I’d been cast out, an angel who had once helped rule. I’d plummeted like the demon I was, and now, this was my life.

I hated feeling sorry for myself.

I pushed away from the sink and got into the shower, the water stinging my skin. A cry left my lips at the pain before I buckled down and absorbed it. Became it. Existed in it.

And then I slid painfully down the wet tiles, the water raining on me, as I huddled into myself, the tears blending with the water. The red from my bleeding wounds washed around me as I sobbed on my ass.

The water ran cold, and my body shivered, but I didn’t give a fuck.

“Get up,” Asylum said in a low voice, turning off the water.

It took me a minute, but I finally wiped my eyes and looked up at him.

“What do you do when you feel like you can’t breathe?” he asked softly, the familiar words tearing at my heart.

“I do it anyway,” I whispered back, my voice shaking.

“What do you do when you need help?”

“I-I. . .”

Asylum squatted, a towel in hand, and cocked his head to the left at me. His black hair fell across his forehead and his blue eyes darkened.

“You fucking trust in me to keep you insane,” he answered. “I’m not a watcher. And neither are you. Get the fuck up and deal with life. It’s the only one you’ve got,brother.” He tossed the towel at me and stood.

“Seth will be here to dress your wounds,” he said, going to the door. “He’s better at fixing things than I am. My joy is in tearing them apart.” He left the room as I clutched the towel, my throat tight.

He was right.

I had to get the fuck up.

I didn’t even bother contemplating how he knew our watcher mantra. I knew the guy was fucking magic made from stardust or some shit. Not in a supernatural way, but in a fucked-up, scary way. In a way that made me believe the devil might be real.

At the end of it all though, he really was right. I had to pick myself up. This was my life now, whether I liked it or not. My new reality.

I’d gambled and paid the ultimate price.

Eventually, the sin catches up to the sinner.

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