Page 6 of My Lovely Tragedy
And through it all—my throbbing nose, his panting breaths, the wind rocking the car—I hear it. The fearful flutter of his heart, jackhammering within his rib cage.
The rhythmic sound fills my ears, a soft patter that eases the pain.
It reminds me of a bird—a hummingbird. But no, that won’t do. Brooklyn, while ethereal in his beauty, even laced with fear, is worthy of something much more… apt.
A crow, perhaps. Intelligent beyond comprehension, yet aggressive. And speaking of the number of times he has injured me since we met mere hours ago, I’d say that it suits him.
“Are you okay?” he asks, still panting loudly. I nod, pulling my glasses from my face with a wince as the nose pieces scrape over the fresh wounds they created.
“Yes,” I murmur. “Yes, I’m fine. Are you? I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No. I-I’m okay. Just… bad dream.” His chest is ricocheting at a speed that surely means his heart rate is through the roof. I fixate on his wide eyes, knowing he can’t see mine as I draw my own breath slow and steady.
“Hey,” I whisper, sliding my glasses back on as I reach for one of his hands. The moment our cool skin connects, he jerks, eyes darting down to the sudden connection. I don’t let his flinch deter me as I wrap my fingers around his palm, curling them inward until my blunt nails find their way into the soft flesh, thumb against his pulse.
Brooklyn hisses as I dig deeper. “Look at me,” I demand, tone soft but assured. His wild eyes dart around in the darkness before settling on my vague shape. “Breathe with me.”
I pull in a deep breath through my nose, ensuring the sound is loud enough for him to hear. It echoes in the car, amplified by the sound of his own. I release it between puckered lips, a low-lying whistle. Brooklyn’s own slightly foul breath blows onto my face.
My lips curl in a muted smile, my grip on his hand and wrist never alleviating as we breathe together for long seconds, lost in the grounding sensation of shared air in our lungs, pulses beating slow and steady in our throats.
With a trace of regret, I release my grip and watch as Brooklyn’s hand falls into his lap, leaden. “How are you feeling now?”
“B-better.” He lifts his chin. “How’d you?—”
“I, too, know how… disorienting dreams can be. I’m glad you are feeling grounded. Now, do you think you’re able to make it inside, or shall I help you?”
“I’m drunk, not an invalid,” he grumbles petulantly before shoving the door open and letting the blistering wind infiltrate the warm cocoon of my car. I shiver involuntarily at the shock before I shake myself out of it and exit the car to lead Brooklyn up the steps.
Once the front door is opened, I step inside and flick the light switch, only to be met with the same darkness. I click my tongue before turning around to usher Brooklyn inside. He stumbles, and I catch his elbow.
“The power seems to have gone out. It happens occasionally, especially during a storm of this magnitude,” I inform him as I guide him through the shadows, my memory of the layout making it easy for me to find the couch. Brooklyn plops onto it with a grunt.
“I’m going to start the generator. I shall return in a moment.”Please stay.
Finding the backdoor, I curl inward against the wind as I unlock the door to the generator enclosure. Once the machine is running in a loud thrum, I latch the door and dart back inside, shivering as snowflakes melt on the bared skin of my neck, dripping water down my spine.
The sounds within the cabin are quiet as machines start up and the furnace kicks back on with a low hum. With no knowledge of how long it has been since the power cut, I swiftly make my way down the small hallway, more than just the thought of starting a fire urging me forward.
After flipping the hall light, I step into the spacious room—and what I’m met with has a satisfied smile tugging at my lips before my brain can catch up entirely.
Brooklyn, face down on the couch, hair a messy halo around his head with his feet hanging off the side, dripping melted snow onto the rug.
I trace every inch of him. Here, asleep and snoring with a volume that would be disturbing to most, but I find oddly comforting.
I am always alone. It’s a life I chose for myself, and while, on occasion, I have recognized the implications of it, I never trulyfeltthe absence of another human being until this moment.
Brooklyn fills the emptiness of the cabin with the warmth of his presence. A sleeping body filling the void.
It’s… nice. Not being alone.
Feeling oddly content, I tug off his untied boots and drop them to the rug, unbothered by the stains they will leave. He’s lying at an odd angle, so I’m unable to remove his jacket. Instead, I pull out a large quilt from the closet and lay it over him, tucking it in around his shoulders and beneath his feet.
He doesn’t move an inch as I shuffle around him, his shoulders shifting with every even inhale, lost in the world of drunken unconsciousness.
Satisfied, I turn to the fireplace across the room and build a fire with practiced ease. When the flames are gently roaring, I hold my hands to them, relishing in the sting as I drop my forehead to the mantel.
My nose throbs and aches, blood smeared and dried beneath it and across my lips. The copper tang still lingers on my tongue with a distinct aftertaste, and my head beats to the rhythm of my heart, loud and amplified at the base of my skull.
