Page 76 of Warmer, Colder

“You say you care about me, but you were still lying to me up until a few minutes ago. You’d still be lying to me if I hadn’t figured it out for myself. I mean, were you ever going to tell me?”

“Yes! Of course.” She approaches me, leaving a few inches between us.

“When? At what point would have been a good time to give me that essential truth about yourself?”

“When the time was right,” she insists loudly like it makes perfect sense.

“See that’s my point. You didn’t plan to.” I chew on my inner cheek. “I gave you all the hidden parts of myself. What else could I have given you that would have made me worthy of that information?”

“You were always worthy.” I can feel the conviction against my neck as she draws closer.

I should be reaffirming that this isn’t how you treat someone you care about, but those words.Those words.They crumble my defense; they’re exactly what I’ve always needed to hear. A tear of relief falls down my cheek. But worse, is the throbbing ache between my legs.

“Maybe I’m obsessed with you, but at least I can look myself in the mirror. At least I know I can admit that. At least I know what I want. You’re a fucking mess. And I’m okay with that. But go ahead. Deny it.” Revulsion and temptation mount as she comes closer. “I know the truth.” Stasi’s hands are confident as they tug my shorts over my narrow hips.

My tears multiply.No onehas ever given mean inchto deviate from the pinnacle of perfection. She’s giving me space to mess up, but it’s contingent on me allowing the same for her. I don’t know if I can accept that. The truth she sees so clearly gnaws at my insides, like a rat caught in a heated bucket. I squirm as I drip between my thighs. Instead of objecting, a whimper escapes me as she runs her finger over my wet panties.

“You’re mine, Becca.” Leaning over my shoulder, she sweeps her tongue up my cheek, catching my tears and tasting the purest version of me. “A crybaby. A mess. A forgotten ember desperately waiting for someone to come along and spark you into a vibrant flame.” That vulnerability snaps something within me and I spin in her arms. “I want nothing more than to burn it all down with you. Let’s raze your stifling cage to the ground. Let’s leave our past in a blaze behind us.”

Closing my eyes against the destructive picture she’s painting, I count to three as I fight to find my sensibility. “Anastasia, you need to let me go. This isn’t healthy. This isn’t how you start a future with someone. This isn’t okay and this certainly isn’t love. I’m done.” When she doesn’t move of her own volition, I open up the heated space between us with a hand on her chest. Stunned,she doesn’t react. “Do us both a favor and stay away from me. I don’t want this. I don’t want your lies. I don’t want you.”

And just like that, the guillotine falls on the peace we’d found, severing the head of our blossoming relationship.

Chapter 33

Stasi

98 Days Dead

Turns out rotting comes naturally when you’re dead. The hours and days slip by. Time ceases to hold meaning without someone to share it with.

Done.The finality of it inhabits the air around me. The echoes of it mock me as I remain here in solitary confinement. The only disruption from the isolating torment is when the relentless entity tries to provoke me—the twisting of a door handle, a knock on the window, my name in her voice. Is this my payback for how I terrorized Becca? It effectively unnerves me as it looms over me, gorging itself on my misery.

If I didn’t have the energy necessary to banish it before, I certainly don’t now. I don’t even care. I force myself to look into its depthless void, acclimating myself to the bleakness of my future. With my little ember gone, this world is cold and desolate. More so than I ever could have imagined. It turns out hell isn’t fire, heat, and screaming—that’s what made me feel so alive. It’s actually the void of anything—quiet, empty, and alone.It’s the absence of her.

An anxious need urges me to go to her, but the rational part of my brain, the one that understands her on a cellular level, begs me not to push her any further. She’s not ready to hear me out, her anger is too fresh, her mind too clouded with uncertainty.Becca is someone who requires stability and level-headedness—I have none of that to offer her right now.

My endless desire for her has forced me to relive everything from the first fuck to the last fight we had, and I take greedy gulps of air that I know have been poisoned by my own poor choices. Like always when it comes to her, there is no healthy boundary for me, no sense of self-preservation.

I slump into the mattress, scraping my long nails against my scalp, tugging at my hair, trying to release some of this mounting hysteria. My scalp tingles, but it’s not enough. The frenzy of need requires a physical release. It exorcizes itself with a scream that tears from my throat. The black mass swells above me, eagerly consuming my misery; I can’t help but indulge it.

She was so certain that we can’t be together. Those old wounds burst open at the first hit leaving me raw and tender. I tried to stitch them up with my own convictions, but she kept slashing and burying her axe of denial deep within me. Her last words cut so deeply; leaving me flayed and bloody.

Maybe I should just let myself rot, maybe that’s the fate that was meant for me. It’s what she decided to leave me to once. She probably wouldn’t care if that’s what happens now. Without her, I don’t either.

99 Days Dead

Becca hasn’t made a single attempt to see me. I haven’t even caught a glimpse of her watching her parents in the kitchen. There haven’t even been any longing looks out the window.

I’m trying my best to respect the boundary she’s set. It’s not easy when every bit of my soul urges me to go to her. But I’m hoping that showing some restraint and giving her time to beupset in private, will increase the likelihood that she’ll come back to me. When I go to sit on the roof, I don’t take the long way around to pass by her window like I used to. I don’t use the yard, no provocative displays this time around. I don’t plug in the old, corded phone and harass her with landline calls—not that she’d be able to answer now that she’s dead too. She doesn’t even have a cell phone.

My old stalking ways aren’t even a coping mechanism I can rely on these days. There are no new social media posts for me to continue going back to without ever liking.

For the first time, her presence is truly gone from my life.

It leaves me wondering, who am I without her? Is that something I will have to figure out? Becca was always going to be mine. And now I may have lost her for good.

That thought could send me over the edge, could shatter any semblance of mental stability that I’ve managed to cling to for this long. I can’t let that happen. What if she comes back? What if she decides I’m worth the trouble?

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