Page 55 of My Lovely Tragedy
Now, it’s the reality.
A decision I am making and committing to as I wrap the chain around his wrist and secure it with the heavy weight of the padlock. Once the metal clicks into place, I test the space between each link and the fragile bones of his wrist. I am able to fit my index finger all the way around, but no more.
Enough space so as to not injure him but not enough to where he can escape.
I repeat the action on his left wrist, gently lying the heavy chain across his abdomen before grabbing the tail ends of both and bringing them to the fireplace. I watch the flames lick and dance, and I close my eyes to feel their warmth before they are extinguished for the last time.
The overwhelming sensation of despair washes over me unexpectedly. Tears sting at the backs of my eyelids. My nose burns, making it twitch against the feeling.
My fingers tap against my thighs—one, two, three, three, two, one—again and again until the tears dissipate, and my bottom lip stops quivering.
And now that the fireplace is cool enough—at least not hot enough to burn me instantly—I drop to my knees and secure each chain to the hitching rings at the base of the fireplace, their use once being to hold a grate for the wood. The metal is no longer silver but discolored from the fire, and as I yank on the chain, secured with another padlock, it’s evident they’re still just as strong.
With both secure, I pull out the master key and let the chains fall lax against the hardwood, their new home for the time being. They’re still ice cold from being outside so long, and my hands are numb, my fingers tingling as warmth trickles back in, turning my bloodless digits pink once again.
A bone-deep exhaustion licks its way across my blurry eyes, seeping deep behind my sockets. It travels down, throughout my body. Settling in the very marrow of my bones.
After a trip to my loft, I encase the key around my neck, barely able to make it back to the chair before I collapse, eyes already searching for Brooklyn, still asleep and wearing my chains.Unable to leave.
That thought is what follows me as I welcome the deep reprieve of sleep.
* * *
I wake to noxious fumes.And it’slovely.
I know who’s above me before my eyes open. Before my brain truly takes in the startling shift of my reality.
Pine and cinnamon. Sweat and anger.
Devastation.
“Brooklyn,” I murmur, voice coming out hoarse and scratchy through the chains wrapped around my throat, nearly cutting off my air supply. I open my eyes.
“Don’t fucking say my name.” He grits his teeth, top lip curled in indignation. His hair is a golden halo around us, his body filling my lap, arms extended, holding the chains in place.
The links shift as he squeezes a bit tighter, causing them to dig deeper into my skin, capturing the fragile chain beneath my shirt. My chin lifts, allowing them more room—allowinghimmore room—while also stretching my skin taut. Brooklyn sees the move as threatening and growls, stealing the last of my air.
I hold my breath, eyes pinned on him. Calm. Seeing.Letting him see.
His cerulean’s are magnificent. Liquid fire licking and consuming. An angel of vengeance.My angel corvus.
“What the fuck did you do to me?” It’s phrased as a question, but it is one he already knows the answer to.
I have never seen him more beautiful than he is in this moment. So filled with hurt and confusion, it swallows him whole.
My lips part. He squeezes tighter, crushing my larynx. A weak whimper slips out, where it mingles in the air between us, brushing across his own lips. His eyes narrow, pupils blown.
Silence stretches, blooming and revolting.
I can’t take my eyes off him, even as darkness flashes and white, misshapen blurs dot across my vision.
The chain is warm now. His breathhot.The marks along his own throat tempting and delightful.
Just as my eyes roll back, Brooklyn slackens the chain. I suck in a gasping breath, filling my lungs to the point of sharp pain in my ribs. Air whistles, exiting in wheezes as I pant uncontrollably.
“What did you do, Tobias.” Brooklyn, voice nothing but a raspy whisper, does not phrase it like a question. But even with the vehemence behind his statement, anger drains from his body in an instant.
My hands tremble against my thighs, burning with the desire to touch him. To hold him and tell himit’s all okay. To trust me.
