Page 58 of My Lovely Tragedy
It’s beenfour days since my lovelycorvushas looked me in the eye, and I feel the loss of his gaze like the death of my very own soul.
But I expected this—his retreat into himself. He hasn’t fallen completely back into the hole he was in, but he teeters on the edge. Waiting for the slightest give to send him spiraling.
What I did not account for was how crippling it would be tofeelit. To know it’s because of me. What I did to him.
My fingers tap restlessly, left index finger grazing the F key repeatedly as I stare blankly at the document in front of me, stuck.
Brooklyn shifts on the sofa, drawing my attention in a flash. I glance up greedily, already searching for his eyes. Even for the quickest flash of blue. He simply readjusts the notebook in his lap, steel clanking as he flips a page back and forth, switching between two. His pen scratches, scribbles. His nose wrinkles, a frown accentuating the most beautiful lines.
My heart leaps, surging toward him, only to be left just as vacant when he refuses me access.
The screen in front of me goes dark, mocking and gruesome.
Accepting defeat, I shove myself to my feet and take my computer back to my loft to charge before starting dinner—steak and potatoes with frozen vegetables since I’ve long since used the rest of my fresh produce.
Brooklyn doesn’t bother glancing up as I work in the kitchen to prepare our meal. The sizzle of butter fragrant with herbs permeates the air, the smell of browning meat not far behind.
I pull out a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and pull the cork, letting it breathe as I flip the steaks and baste them in the butter and herbs, then stir the vegetables as they sear in a pan.
After letting the meat rest, I plate our food and fill both our glasses. After placing them on the counter in front of our usual seats, I turn back to grab our wine, nearly dropping it when I come face to face with Brooklyn.
His naked shoulders are broad, stretching across the space in front of me. Hair thick and gnarled because he refuses to brush it. Lips chapped and cracked, the faintest traces of blood lingering in fissures. Eyes downcast, locked on his chains dangling in the air between us. Their scent—metallic and dirty—wafts. An irrefutable reminder of our stances.
“Dinner is ready,” I whisper.
“I have eyes,” is his only response. I smile, heart skipping at his dry humor. At his blatant rudeness.
I have missed it.
“Yes. It would appear you do.” I graze my index finger along the underside of his chin, dragging along the scrape of his beard, before turning away and bringing our glasses to the table.
The crystal sparkles from the lights above, fragments bouncing along the soapstone. Brooklyn pulls his stool out, the clank of metal now a forever part of his melody.
He doesn’t acknowledge me as he stabs his fork into the meat and shovels it in, chewing loudly—and with his mouth open. Getting his kicks where he can, I presume. But little does he know; I find it absolutely charming—the fact he is going out of his way to annoy me.
That he cares to even bother.
“How do you like it?” I ask as I pierce my own piece and place it between my lips.
“Had better,” Brooklyn replies, short and gruff. My mouth twitches as I chew, watching the side of his face.
He feels my eyes. I know he does, but he keeps his own locked on his plate, fingers gripping his fork tight enough to blanch his knuckles. I follow the line of the chains dangling behind him, weighing his arms down, causing every muscle in his arm to bulge, straining against his pale skin.
Each tendon has its own path beneath the surface, and I trace each one with greed, so beyond tempted to touch that I’m startled when Brooklyn jerks away, chains clanking against the legs of the barstool.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he growls, jaw locked tight, fists balled threateningly. And while I do not think he would try to fight me, I also do not wish to push him either.
I scratch at the back of my head. “I’m sorry, Brooklyn.” Another apology that will go unheard.
“Quit apologizing to me!” he screams, shoving to his feet with enough strength to send his stool skidding backwards before it crashes to the floor. The jarring sound makes his shoulders hitch, but it doesn’t stop the flow of his wrath.
“I am so fucking tired of hearing you say you’re sorry when you’renot!If you were, you wouldn’t have done this. You wouldn’t have eventhoughtof keeping me here against my fucking will. I have a family, Tobias, and they’re probably worried about me. It’s beenweekssince I’ve talked to them.”
My mind flashes back to the article pulled up on the browser on my computer. The missing person’s report on BrooklynValenCrow, lead singer ofThe Disorients.Disappeared without a trace and has been missing for nearly a month.
Speculations state he’s off on some bender, per the musicians well known benders—which have never been proven, but he’s been seen intoxicated in public far too many times for it not to morph into a rumor.
There is even a video of hisfamilyat a press conference, talking about how they just want Brooklyn to come home and that they know he was last seen with someone named Tobias, according to their last conversation with Brooklyn.
