Page 77 of My Lovely Tragedy
I throw my arms out, wincing as the steel smacks loudly against the island behind me. “I don’t fucking know, Tobias. How about literally anything? All you ever give me are vague nuances and confusing metaphors. I’m not some all-knowing fucking poet like you are. My brain doesn’t work that way.”
My feet carry me the short distance to him. An action I follow subconsciously. Molars locked together at the hinge in my jaw, I drop my head between his shoulder blades. They retract against me. “I just want to know you,” I tell him softly, hating the way the words burn in my throat. How true they are, especially after everything.
A deep breath rocks me, and then glass shatters. Itplinksagainst the steel basin as it rains down in a small, discordant shower. I try to pull away, but Tobias’s left arm reaches back and grabs mine, right over the bandages. His grip is harsh—enough to make me hiss.
“Stay.”
I feel something warm seep into the gauze. Unease festers, but I obey him all the same as I revel in the sensation of his blood soaking into my wounds.Into me.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
TOBIAS
The dateon my computer screen stares back at me, haughty and mocking. The sand forever slipping through the seam to settle at the base. Just as it’s meant to. But that doesn’t ease its impact. Or what comes after it’s all gone.
I force my eyes away from blurred words, down toward the word count in the bottom left corner. So many pages and yet, not nearly enough. Although, I do not believe there ever could be. Not when this story is what it has turned out to be.
Nothing like I first imagined, and yet, utterly perfect.
Mycorvusand me, written forever in time, in our own, volatile way.
“Are you ever going to tell me what that is?” Brooklyn asks from behind me. I slowly close the lid without turning back.
“Perhaps someday.”
“You write about me.”Not a question.
“Yes, but you already knew that.”
“Yeah, I saw your notes when… when I…” He trips over his words. I hear theslinkof steel dragging over the back of my chair.
“When you put a knife to my throat and thought of ending my life.” I trace the healing cut at the base of my throat, and the other, just to the left of my Adam’s apple.
There’s a huff of breath and then a short, “Yeah. I guess we’re not sugar coating it, then.”
“Why would I? The truth is invaluable, even in its most disturbing renditions.” The scabs are rough against the pad of my finger. I silently mourn the possibility of deeper wounds and more scars.
“Are you seriously fucking starting on the truth shit again?” I hold my hands out in front of me in a placating gesture. One of insult.
“Of course not, darling.” But I’m smiling. Because he cannot see me and because it feels as if we’re finally back in that place we were before his chains. But deeper, with truths divulged and souls flayed.
Entwined and hypnotized.
“Fuck off,” he grunts as he circles the chair. I have just enough time to push my laptop to the side before Brooklyn falls into my lap, all thick muscle and golden hair blazing red in the sun’s rays. His nose finds its place against the hollow in my clavicle. Another home he has found in me.
“Should I berate you for the use of such foul language?” I ask, amused, fingers touching every inch I can reach.
“If you want, I guess. Doesn’t mean that will stop me.” He plucks at my shirt.
I sigh, long and drawn out as I run my fingers along his spine. Over his wings of knives and fragile bone with thousands of nerves beneath. Unimaginable agony so close, yet so far. “Yes, I suppose it wouldn’t.”
“Can I read what you’ve been writing?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I tug his chains into my lap and run my fingers along the curved links, over the padlocks, staining my finger in the powder of rust. Wind whistles through the trees, blowing snow across the glass of the window.
