Page 14 of Wiley A.F.

“Again, excuse the fuck out of me for seeing the most logical thing to do was to have you stand in for him to get info on the bride-to-be.”

“Tin, get him fixed?” I asked, screwing the silencer onto the end of my gun, and Ghoul did the same, stuffing them into our tuxedos.

“You get to the bride; I’ll check the groom area,” Ghoul instructed, getting right to action.

“10-4, boss. Shoot first, ask questions later,” I responded to him. He knew what I was saying without me actually having to say it. I wanted him to drive lead into anyone who looked like me. Whether he was aware of the persons true identity at the time or not, I didn’t give a damn.

11

Z

A MONTH LATER

Itold myself I would never do this. Apparently, not only did I lie to my best friend, but myself, too. My hands shook, one holding a mostly empty bottle of whiskey, the other clutching the anxiety pills the doctor had given me to “take the edge off.” My body had fought to find the will to breathe every second that had passed since Malcom had been taken from me. I was just so fucking tired of pushing myself to do something that came naturally to everyone else. Every time I pulled air into my lungs it was as if it was filled with fiberglass, and each breath brought me closer to this moment.

My eyes roamed to the full body mirror in the corner of our bathroom. Even with the bloodstains on my wedding dress that clung to my curves it still took my breath away, but for an entirely different reason than I ever thought a piece of clothing could do. It was supposed to bring me happiness, not terror or whispered memories of death with the swishing of the fabric. This was it. I was done.

While my fingers trembled to undo the bottle lid, I asked for the man upstairs to forgive me, hoping there was an afterlife where I could repay my debts to him.

The bitter taste of the pills made me gag, and the tears I had refused to shed slowly crept down my face. I never comprehended why this happened to anyone, but that was the exact reason I hadn’t walked this path before, I guess. Those who toed the line of depravity and depression for any amount of time wasn’t someone I understood until today. I thought I might have been okay, really, I did, but I made the idiotic mistake of begging Dave’s dad to let me wear it one more time before they locked it away as evidence. He made the idiotic mistake of taking pity on me and allowing me to do it.

My feet shuffled, and the glass bottle slipped from my grasp, brown shards splintering in all directions.

“What in the ever-loving fuck, Darlin’?” Malcom burst through the bathroom door, catching my body as I stumbled forward. My heavy eyelids fluttered, and I struggled to reopen them once they closed. If I was going out of this world dreaming of my dead lover, I was going to spend what time I had left with him.

“I couldn’t do it without you,” I admitted to him. I owed him this much.

His lips moved, but I couldn’t make out the words. I wanted to listen to the velvety croon of his voice one last time, so I interrupted him. “Sing to me?” I slurred as he dropped to the floor with me in his arms. My heart raced with anticipation, wondering which song he would choose, but it was a huge decision. There was never a perfect song written to lull your loved one to death unless it was the cries and screams of agony. Perhaps that was why he didn’t start to sing immediately. He had already been to Heaven and had forgotten how to feel pain, so the tormented tone I asked of him wasn’t something he could fulfill.

Musical sweet nothings didn’t leave his lips while he shook his head painstakingly slow, and my eyes closed again. Somehow, I pried them open. I just wanted one more glance of him. As he slipped black leather gloves over his fingers, he said something I couldn’t make out, shoving his fingers down my throat.

“The fuck are you doing?” A gruff voice questioned.

“I can’t let her die, brother. She’s innocent. I’m sure of it,” Malcom said.

I wanted to tell him he was wrong, but I wasn’t able to remember words, only thoughts. What if we didn’t see each other again? If this was it, I wanted to tell him what I owed him, an apology. Yet, my lips didn’t move as my mind raced, leaving me forever indebted to the one person who got me—the one who never gave up on me.

My body heaved, and my throat burned more than it ever had. I had to fight. I refused to give into the darkness as I counted the seconds in between my breaths.

1…2…

12

Z

My eyes squinted in disbelief. This was not fucking happening. There was no way I was living this hell. This was a hallucination! It had to be. I wouldn’t accept this as truth; I refused to. I watched them drop his lifeless body into the ground, and if that wasn’t enough, I didn’t leave until the dirt was on top of his coffin. This was not reality. It wasn’t possible. He was dead. I told myself all of those things so many times, praying my mind would believe the words and force me to quit holding onto the illusion he was anything but gone. My insides were liquid at this point and not in the melting into a puddle at the sight of excitement kind of way. Not even a little bit. It was very much on the opposite end of the spectrum from enjoyment. The depths of my soul lost all the strength I’d clung to since his death, and this abomination in front of me annihilated any hope I had of regaining power over anything at this point.

Tears streaked down my face, and before I knew it, my bare toes were digging into the smoldering gravel beneath my feet. I ran in the direction of the man I buried such a short time ago. The man whom I still grieved and wished I had died alongside. My soulmate. It didn’t matter what skeletons crept out of his closet after his death—the fact he had a whole brother somewhere in Cleveland, Ohio that he forgot to mention to me. I would always love him, flaws and all. Even now, I wasn’t able to stop my fucking heart from clenching at the sight of his chest rising and falling. He was alive. I didn’t know if these were actual events, or if in reality, my cold body never left my bathroom floor. Was I dead, too?

My pace slowed as a violent scream ripped up my throat and my sides shook from the vigor. I wouldn’t do this to myself. Not again. There was no coming back from it this time. I almost didn’t recover the hallucination of Malcom saving my life from overdosing. This time was too real, and I was without question too vulnerable to ever survive him again. I was barely breathing as it was. The thing people didn’t warn you about was how agony became almost welcoming when you had nothing else to cling to. Heartache and I were best friends at this point, and I wasn’t a shitbox of a friend—so, of course, I did what any person who was worth half of anything would do. I jumped in front, shielding my bff from being exposed, and decided to let this man have it. It didn’t matter if he was a delusion or not.

“You’re not fucking real,” I shrieked, dropping to my knees. “Nope. You can’t be!” My head shook vehemently. If I didn’t believe this, he would disappear. I had been told that was how these things worked. “I don’t accept you. Leave me alone! You are a demon from Hell. You. Are. Dead. Stay that damned way. I can’t take this…please,” I pled in such a miserable and weak voice I didn’t recognize it to be my own.

“Shh. It’s okay. I’m here. Okay? Not dead. Here,” the man assured, kneeling down until he was in front of me, and his hands cautiously wrapped around mine. Instinctively, my fingers jerked away from his, and he was quick to tighten his grip. “I won’t hurt you. Ever. Understand?” His familiar voice threatened to awaken lies of the past and lashed around my throat like a noose.

Now, there were two obvious choices. First, I could ignore this horrific mirage, climb back into my car, tucking my tail, and never know the truth. Second, I could accept this man as real, whether he was the devil here to smother me with this nightmare or an angel who would be my salvation. My fingers quivered within one of his hands, and he trailed a rough fingertip up my forearm, and my breaths hammered in and out of my lungs. There was no denying his touch. This. Was. Real. It was very fucking real.

“Malcom is dead,” I breathlessly said in an almost inaudible voice.

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