Page 61 of My Lovely Tragedy
My fingers curl around his chin and jaw, thumb digging into his flesh hard enough to leave a mark.My mark.
Butfinally,I have those eyes again. Every bit of what I need.
“You’re being difficult andrude,Brooklyn.”
“Oh, gee. I fucking wonder why,Tobias,” he mocks my name, but little does he know how much I love it.
“You don’t have to be. You can enjoy being with me.” I drag the pad of my thumb across his puffy, cracked lip, tugging and exposing his bottom row of teeth, one lateral incisor offset from the rest. I drag my gaze over his mouth, up and over every line and crevice, until I have his eyes once more. Filled with contempt and hatred andlonging.
I latch onto it like oxygen under water. “You know I will take care of you,” I whisper low and soft, trailing the words like a kiss over his reddened skin.
His throat bobs. His breath quickens. Each note marrying into his melody.
My eyelids droop as I fall into him.
My forehead drops against his, damp with sweat. Our skin slides together, and nothing has ever felt so right. Fingers tighten and curl, dragging along his bearded jaw, under his chin to encircle his throat.
His arms around my waist tighten, pulling me closer.
I can’t breathe.
There is only us.
An inhale. A shaky exhale. I shiver at the warmth. “You made me feel so safe. For the first time in my life.” I soar at his confession, a breathy whisper floating in the air. “And then, you ripped it away.” A discordant tune rings loud, battering against my skull. “How the fuck am I supposed to feel about that?”
It all falls away.
His arms, his touch, his eyes staring right into my soul, seeing me just as I saw him.
I’m left wanting and hollow. Raw and exposed and mutilated.
And I deserve it.
I release my hold on Brooklyn’s shackles, finding no comfort as they crack against the floor. He doesn’t move an inch, head still tilted back, gaze open but vacant. Unseeing and haunting. Vulnerable in every way I feel.
My feet drag me backward, taking me further away from him until my back hits the wall. I slide down until my bottom meets the floor just to the left of the fireplace—a fireplace that sits empty and cold apart from keeping Brooklyn trapped here, where I wanted him.
Where Iwanthim.
His affliction doesn’t change that, but I never anticipated how well my own would complement his. How it would affect me and my words. The way Ibreathe.
Though, I do suppose pain and art go hand in hand—and this story is my most gut-wrenching yet.
It’s only right for the reality to be as much of the same.
I only hope, in the end, when the sand settles and the wind gentles into a soothing zephyr, that he can forgive me because none of this could ever be worth it without his absolution.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
BROOKLYN
I’ve spentmost of my life thinking about death. About dying.
How it could happen at any moment. A car accident, a mugging gone wrong. A fan far too obsessed with me.
But mostly, I thought about howIwould do it. Pills. A gun. Letting myself up to the rooftop, staring out at the sea of steel buildings, housing tens of thousands of people. Lights twinkling and shining, artificial stars paving the way for my descent to the concrete below.
But my razor blades always felt like home. A wash of comfort.Right.
