Page 24 of Warmer, Colder

“I told you that you’d be mine,” the voice above me whispers before everything goes black.

Part II

Chapter 10

Stasi

1 Day Dead

They say love makes us do terrible things. But what about obsession?

According to Dr. Daniels, love fills you; obsession takes everything you have.

Love brings you to life; obsession has you running head-on into the tunnels of madness.

Before I’d been able to find my way back to the surface; I was equipped with the tools I needed—my goddess, my coping mechanisms. Seeing Becca give in to him, like that, has tipped me over the edge. I’ve descended without food, a light, or any sense of direction. I’ve disappeared into the complex chambers of the cave system that is our past. At the heart of it is complete darkness. There are only my thoughts of her. The bitterness of tainted memories on my tongue. She stole my sanity with the very first hello, sucked it right down inside her, and now everything is dark.

I wake much like my last living memory—cold and heartbroken.

I thought my death would be peaceful. Drifting away in the bed I’d shared with my wife over a lifetime of love and happy memories. But it was nothing like that picture-perfect dream of the hopeless romantic I’d been. It was bloody and worse, thewoman I thought would hold my hand as I took my last breath stood by and did nothing.

It’s true that I’m partly at fault; my miscalculation,my underestimation, led to my death. But that’s where my portion of the blame ends; it’s only the beginning of the nightmare. Even the cut of the blade opening me up, violating the ink that I’d carefully chosen to decorate my throat, is hardly worth mentioning at this point. Because the worst of it, therealviolence against me, was watching through hazy, tear-clouded eyes, as she resigned herself to his actions, and allowed herself to be complacent in my death.

That’ll fucking undo me if I let it. But I won’t make the mistake of allowing myself to be vulnerable around her again.

This whole time I’ve been viewing the picture of our relationship all wrong. Painted by children’s fingers, I interpreted the ambiguous shapes as love that needed a second chance. Viewing it through the other side of the blood-spattered looking glass of the afterlife, I see now the messy splatter of heartbreak and broken promises that should have been left in the past. The whole thing is like some fucked up Rorschach test. I’d truly believed that Becca’s betrayal all those years ago was a mistake. The choice of a terrified child. Now I see it for what it really is; the decision of someone whose self-preservation is what matters above all else. The indicator of aselfish fucking bitch.

As much as I hate myself for being so goddamned naïve, there’s something I hate more,Becca.

I get to my knees ready to make her regret what she’s done, but there’s a magnet tugging at my spine, begging me to turn around, to come closer. Slowly, so slowly, like a rusted wheel with worn-down rubber, I turn and see the freshly planted rose bushes. The markers of my grave. I don’t know what’s worse, thetrellis-covered bench that insinuates this space will be used for leisure or the fucking bird bath in its unassuming innocence.

The scene is quite possibly the most macabre sight I’ve ever beheld. This is the shit people would write darkly romantic poetry about.The girl buried beneath the rose bushes.That kind of eternal infamy would be better than this half-assed gesture to show some semblance of respect for me. Unfortunately for her, she’s not getting off that easy. Not after I was ready to get Nate out of the way for her, not after I made the ultimate sacrificefor her.

If you’d told me all those years ago that the girl with rainy-day eyes and a smile better than sunshine would be my downfall, I wouldn’t have believed you. She was the best thing that’d ever walked into my life. She loved me . . . at one point, at least. Until loving me became dangerous. Until loving me became a sacrifice.

She has something in common with my mother.

Some people just aren’t cut out for it. Maybe I’m not either. Because I’m starting to think that maybe this thing I called love all these years isn’t, not really. It’s not a thing of writing sweet letters or wishing the best for someone even though it didn’t work out with you.

No; it’s not that tender thing at all. It’s an affliction of hunger that’s left me starved and stealing. I’ve gorged myself on her, but nothing is enough.

Just one more refresh of her feed.

Just one last drive past her house.

Just one more time falling apart with her name on my lips.

Then I’ll let her go. Then I’ll set myself free.

But I didn’t keep that promise to myself or Dr. Daniels—not that I really give a shit what she thinks. One more time turned into three more times and then ten. After the first day I lost count.

Maybe it’s because all I got was scraps of her.Not from her. Of her.

She never looked for me long enough to realize I was down there beneath her table. Lurking, begging an unknowing hand to drop something that would satiate this empty, growling heart of mine.

The problem is, the scraps didn’t nourish me; they turned mealy in my mouth, were bitter on my tongue, and were rotten through and through.

With her toxic love, she’s poisoned me and turned me into something I don’t even recognize. The only thing I do know is that I’m done with her bullshit. I rise from the dead like a demonic entity ready to make Becca’s life a living hell.

---