Page 121 of My Lovely Tragedy
“Feel me. I am here.” Every new point of contact eases another bout of tension in his body. Slowly, his breaths begin to calm to a reasonable pace, and the tension eventually bleeds out, leaving him pliant and loose.
“That’s better. Much more comfortable now, aren’t you?” I praise him. He sinks his face into my chest, finding solace there as I drag my hands over the expanse of his back, a drugging, repetitive motion.
Our semen cools between us, becoming tacky and fusing our skin, but Brooklyn does not seem to mind, and I certainly do not. And with his visceral reaction to me pulling away, to let himbreathe,I am not even bothered to clean up our mess.
In fact, I hope it stains.
“Are you feeling better?” I ask after what feels like forever within a blip. Brooklyn’s edging the borders of consciousness.
His words are unsurprisingly slurred as he says, “Sleepy.” I chuckle warmly, heart filled with…him.
“Sleep, my love.” I continue my massage against his scalp, strands tangled around my fingers, just as they should be.
“Mmm.” He hums drunkenly. My lips curl in amusement, and I press a kiss to the crown of his head—which he leans into. “Love you, ‘bias.” And then, he falls lax, dropping below the surface.
My smile falls, replaced with a piercing stab that I feel over everyinchof my skin.
For it, I hold him a little tighter, even as I drown in my own atrocities.
* * *
It’s hard notto count the hours as they pass. Each one a heavy, methodicaltick.Another chunk peeled off, leaving me raw and hemorrhaging.
After three hours and twenty-six minutes, I withdraw from the comfort of my crow’s body, leaving him to rest comfortably on the sofa.
The cool air of the cabin hits my bare skin like needle pricks, causing a wince as I slide my glasses back onto my nose to make my way up to my loft. The space up here is slightly warmer, but no more comforting as I pull on a pair of black briefs.
Mine and Brooklyn’s semen is dried across my torso, groin, and thighs, and the itch is sickeningly haunting as I fasten the buttons on my pants before tugging the hem of my blue sweater down. I pull the key out from under the collar, then drop it with disgust.
My descent is slower, knowing what lies just ahead. I slow the inevitable by entering the bathroom and going through the motions of the mundane. Washing my face, brushing my teeth. Raking my fingers through my sweat-sticky hair.
After replacing my spectacles, I only just catch my gaze in the mirror before jerking away with a grimace and switching the light off. I sink to the floor, back against the wall, feet pressed against the cabinet doors of the vanity. I drop my head, curling myself inward until my forehead rests against my legs.
The position constricts my airways, adding more pressure than my body can withstand. My neurons send signals firing outward at rapid speeds. They scream with agony to move, to allowbreath.
But how can I allow such a trivial thing after what I have done? After what I am about to do?
I have to live long enough to do it.
That thought is what drags me out, gives mejustenough to push to my feet. They take me out of the door, across the scuffed, wooden floor, to where my darling lies so peacefully. Ethereal and golden, even washed out in the moonlight.
I selfishly graze my finger along the side of his face, and my eyelids flutter closed at the rough scratch of his unruly beard. And then, before I can reach his mouth, I grasp the key dangling between us and unhook it from around my neck.
The gold chain slides over my palm, silken and feather soft as I let it slip off until all that touches is the harsh, unyielding steel of the key.
My knees crack as they hit the floor, and the sound is deafening, but I don’t…can’tfeel any of it. My eyes never leave the respite of Brooklyn’s sleeping face. Lax and unknowing and utterly gorgeous.
With trembling fingers, I pin the key between my index and thumb to bring the edge to the keyhole of one padlock. The scent of rusted metal wafts up, nearly choking me as the teeth slide inside.
I hold myself, poised, air stuck, blood coagulated, organs failing. And then, I twist my wrist. The silver arch pops open with a smallshnick.I pull the links from the small, curved bar, then watch as they slide off his wrist with an ease that hurts more than I thought it ever possibly could.
His delicate skin, bare and bruised, etched with the indentations of my manacles…
I am a hideous, despicable man. For loving it—and him.
For allowing him to feel the same.
But I will not permit myself to regret a single moment spent with him by my side… just as long as he feels enough for the both of us.
