Page 43 of Broken

A sigh rumbles from me because I’m so beyond tired of my body not behaving as it should. Pre-surgery, I was fine. Now, mentally, I’m strong, but physically, I’m frail.

And I hate that.

I’m Nephilim, dammit. Watchers aren’t weak.

But there’s nothing I can do. Only time will heal me, only time will take some of my issues away. Maybe a few will alwayshover around, but I can deal with that so long as I return to a semblance of ‘normal’ working order at some point.

Impatience and drive got me out of rehab ahead of the doctor’s schedule by months, but my obstinacy can only do so much, and that’s clear as I hobble across the street.

For a second, I stand outside, watching as lights flicker on through the windows on the second floor.

I feel...

My hand shakes as I rub my eyes.

I didn’t expect to be so unconfident in my next steps, but seeing him in the flesh, learning of his darkness, and sensing how on edge he is, is so much more than I expected.

Am I ‘good’ enough for Savio?

My brow puckers at the thought of all my failings, all my scars, and if they’ll serve him.Savehim.

My zealous need to be with him, to cement the connection I’ve felt since I was seventeen as his life brushed up against mine, even only on the tattered edges, is what pushed me through my recovery.

But nothing has happened how I imagined it would.

I thought our eyes would meet and he’d feel the sparks.

That those sparks would trigger a connection, and he’d want to speak with me. Would want to be with me too.

Maybe I’m crazy without the cyst doing anything to help me.

Maybe I reallyaminsane.

And if I am, should I be here? Should I just leave him alone?

The thought whispers through my mind at the same time as I hear a slight grunt.

After dark, I’ve noticed how quiet Rome is. Especially on certain streets.

I think it’s because it’s wintertime. In the summer, I could imagine the streets always bustling with life, but at this time of the year, it’s quiet. Only a few cars rumble along the streets,and only tourist spots like Borgo where my Airbnb is, and where there are plenty of restaurants, have more people gathering, but even then, nothing like through the day.

It’s that peace that helps me hear the grunt.

A slapping sound.

Faint.

Like a murmur in my ears.

I strain to hear it again, wondering what it is, then the grunt is louder.

And the whistle is louder still.

It’s rhythmic. A blunt thwack culminating in a high-pitched hiss.

When the source of it registers, I almost retch. Then, shoving my fatigue aside, I rush forward on shaky legs. I tried to walk across the river, back to Borgo Pio on foot, but my body wouldn’t let me. And even now, after the drive, I still feel weak, but for him, I’ll push myself to the limits, because this has to stop.

Hehas to stop.

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