Page 64 of Mayfly

Inhaling deeply, then slowly releasing it, Issak’s face relaxes to a state of overwhelming contentment. Rubbing the back of his head against Curren’s shoulder, he smiles and says, “I love you.”

“I know.”

“Tell me you love me back.”

The second Issak's plea has left his lips, Curren’s eyes are like magnets to mine and there’s a fire back inside them.

“I can’t,” he whispers in Issak’s ear. “Because I’ve never been yours.”

Issak’s eyes jolt open, and as he turns around, Curren plunges his knife straight into his heart.

With no time to react, Issak’s eyes bulge.

Then, as swiftly as he drove the knife in, Curren rips it out.

Holding the weight of Issak’s body by his hair, he dangles him in front of my face. He then forces the knife under his ear and up into his brain, tears it back out, reaches around, and slits his throat.

Hot blood sprays against me.

My eyes blink furiously, desperate to maintain contact with Curren’s. But all I see are another man’s dying eyes and an everlasting expression of sorrow.

I turn my head away from the direct stream and try to blow it out of my nose.

“Curren,” I splutter. “Curren.”

With a thud, he tosses Issak’s body beside me where it lands in a crumpled pile. Blood continues to furiously spurt from within his hemorrhaging body, and his short circuiting nerves have him convulsing closer and closer to falling through the floor.

I can't look away—dumbfounded by how quickly it all happened.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Heart. Neck. Throat—gone.

I don’t know which way is up.

What’s truth or fiction.

What’s going to happen to me now.

A hand swipes at my face, then again and again, trying to wipe away the blood.

“Damn it.” Curren drops to his feet. With his knife between his teeth, he rips open his waistcoat and the buttons fly. “I’m sorry,” he tells me, his voice trembling as he drags silk and cotton over my face and neck.

Tossing the waistcoat aside, he tries to pull the tape from over my mouth, but his fingers slip. After wiping his glove on his trousers, he tries again, but curses when he can’t get any grip.

With no hesitation, he unfastens his glove and tears it off. His fingernails scratch against my skin as he picks and picks at the tape until he gains enough purchase to peel it off.

The depth of the breath I suck in widens my eyes, and before I have time to exhale, Curren is forcing my head forward to meet his lips.

Bitter.

Copper.

Issak’s blood is all over both our tongues, and it’s like fuel to an already roaring blaze.

When I try to pull back; to say something—anything, he holds my head firm with his still gloved hand, and reaches behind me. With one smooth slice, my arms separate, and with the tape still stuck to my shirt, I reach for Curren’s hair; his chestnut waves smearing with blood.

"You need to go."

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