Page 67 of The Beautiful Dead

Now, in his absence, I felt the edges of myself fraying. The apartment was silent, but it wasn’t empty.

He was everywhere.

In the shadows stretching across the walls. In the lingering scent of cigarettes and cologne. In the weight of the switchblade resting inches from my fingertips, a silent promise.

My phone sat face down on the nightstand—a landmine waiting to detonate. I hadn’t checked it yet, but I knew. Even when he wasn’t here, Domino always found a way to touch me.

I showered too long, scrubbing at my skin like I could wash him away, like I could burn him out of me with scalding heat. But it didn’t reach deep enough. It never did.

When I caught my reflection in the mirror, it didn’t look like me. Eyes shadowed. Lips swollen. Neck painted with his marks. I pressed my fingers against the bruises, half-expecting them to sting, half-hoping they would.

The pain meant I was still here. That I hadn’t simply unraveled in his absence. By the time I was dressed, my hands were shaking. My thoughts were a turbulent storm.

When I was with him, his presence consumed me. I couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t breathe without inhaling him. But now, in the silence I had once craved, I questioned everything.

Who I was.

Who he had made me.

What I wanted.

I was Schrödinger’s cat. Both dead and alive, existing in a paradox of desire and doubt.

The elevator doors softly slid open, revealing another smiling doorman. Another unfamiliar face in a perfectly pressed uniform.

“Morning, Remi. You off to Deveraux?”

“Yeah…” My voice felt wrong, thin. I forced a smile that I knew didn’t reach my eyes. “Yes, Matty.” According to his nametag.

He hesitated. “Mr. DeMarco said to let his?—”

I lifted a hand, cutting him off. “It’s fine. I’ll take the bus.”

Matty’s expression tightened, his gaze assessing. I knew what he saw—knew exactly what questions were lurking behind his eyes.

Why do you look like that?

Why do you look like someone had torn you apart and stitched you back together?

I didn’t owe him an answer.

“I’m sure,” I said, nodding once. “I like the bus.”

He sighed but let me go, holding the door open as I stepped onto the too-bright streets of Marlow Heights. The noise hit me like a punch to the ribs. People crashed into me, shouldering past without a glance. Car horns screamed. Voices shouted. The air was thick with exhaust and decay.

By the time I reached the bus stop, my hoodie was up, strings pulled tight, an imperfect shield against a world that had never felt more foreign. My blood simmered.

My jaw ached from clenching it too hard. My fingers traced invisible patterns of blood and broken bones against the fabric of my jeans.

I needed to breathe. I needed a release.

Blood.

Pain.

Power.

I needed it all. In the light of day, everything I had done with Domino felt like a fever dream. A hallucination.

---