Page 53 of My Lovely Tragedy
My arm moves with the rapid rise and fall of my chest, a movement as smooth as a wave, as erratic as a hurricane. I come back to myself with each recoil. Slow flutters of white and gold.
An angel bathed in white.
Brooklyn.
My lovely, little crow.
Eyes pinned on the small spatter of black blood on white snow, I pull his body into mine, hating how cold he feels, even through the thick material of my coat. I situate him across my lap, uncaring of the snow as it seeps into my clothes. His legs hang over my right thigh, thick and useless, bare feet buried in the snow, which is now disturbed in large clumps.
His hair drapes across his face, stuck to his frozen lashes.
Painfully ethereal.
The drag of my thumb across his chapped bottom lip flips my heart. Guilt twines with elation, souring the feeling. Because I am certain, despite my own selfish desires and the decision I made days—even weeks ago—I will end up regretting it all the very moment he wakes up with hatred in his heart.
With downturned lips, I curl my arms around his broad shoulders, then beneath his knees to haul him against my chest. As I push to my feet, his weight nearly knocks me backward, forcing a grunt from between my lips. Wincing, I tighten my grip and rock on my heels, digging deep into the snow. I flex my quadriceps, feeling the rush of air as I finally straighten.
The desire to take my time walking back to the house, to keep him in my arms, is nearly too strong to overcome, but the gooseflesh marring Brooklyn’s skin, the cold leeching his warmth, eyes closed in unconsciousness, all pull me forward.
Toward heat. My home.His home.
A home he will wake to hate. A sanctuary I stole from him because of my own rapacity.
The truth suffocates, settling at the base of my throat, at my temples, in my hands as they tremble against his body.
Brooklyn’s head bobs with every step, neck arched beautifully, golden hair swaying. The moonlight washes out his deathly pale skin, brought nearly translucent with a purple sheen. Any signs of his tan are long since gone with weeks without sunlight shining so beautifully over his skin.
My eyes never leave his face, features softened and gentle and soutterlyhypnotizing.
Each step up the stairs jostles his body against mine. His shoulder jams into my pectoral muscle, bruising it.It’s not nearly enough.
Trying to get the front door open with no hands poses a challenge, and I nearly drop Brooklyn as I lean back, shoving his entire front against mine to free my left hand to turn the knob. He flops back just as quickly, and I’ve never been more grateful for my fast reflexes.
My fingers find their rightful place against his nape, squeezing as the rest of his body weight drops with gravity. Feet slide against the snow, sweat trickles down my spine. My chest heaves uncontrollably from physical exertion; my darling boy is much heavier than he looks, despite not eating properly for weeks—to mental exhaustion. The implications of what’s to come nearly immerse me in their consequences.
Clearing my throat, I push the rest of the way inside and kick the door shut, blocking out the nipping air and ice crystals floating within it. My shoes squeak on the hardwood floor as I beeline for the sofa, leaving a trail of snow in their wake, already melting and leaving puddles.
Grunting and holding my breath, I squat down, bracing all of Brooklyn’s weight on my legs as I slowly drop him onto the sofa, careful not to jostle him. His head lulls to the left, sharp nose grazing the material. I yank the blanket across his body, tucking it in all around before jogging to the hall closet and grabbing two more.
After he’s swathed in all three blankets, one of which is a navy blue and silver knitted throw that will make him sweat if I keep it on long enough—sure it will bring his body temperature back up—I give myself a moment to sit. A moment to stare and watch him and fuckinghate myself.
I rub my fingers into my temples, digging into the pressure points with a vengeance, eyes rolling back as black spots form and morph around my peripheral, but I can’t take my gaze away from Brooklyn.
Still unconscious by my own hands. And it feltgood.
To wrap my fingers around his fragile neck. To feel the rapid, hammering flutter of his heart. The sharp, prominent roll of his Adam’s apple as he attempted to swallow, to breathe.
His life in my hands.
So easily stolen and manipulated.
A high I can see myself growing strangely addicted to—a drug I will never taste again. Because it’s not mine for the taking; it never was. But Ineededhim to stay. And in the moment, no thought other thankeeping himcrossed my mind.
I trace my fingers over the sliver of bared skin at his throat. It’s swollen and red, mottled with the evidence of my touch. My maltreatment.
The realization that he will hate me for this sinks deep in my gut, where I know it will always remain. It will become a part of me, living and breathing and blackening my blood, my organs.
A regret that will prevail until my last breath. A curse I welcome with both arms.
