Page 130 of Inevitable Endings
“Dominik’s here too,” I add, softer still. “He’s safe. He’s been helping.”
His brows draw together like the information is hard to parse. He’s still piecing things together, still fighting whatever war lives in his mind. But something in his chest eases.
I shift slightly, both of us still tangled together, and I brush my thumb over the pulse at his throat. “You’re in an isolation room,” I explain. “Everything in here is designed to have as few triggers as possible. No sharp corners. No harsh lights. Nothing that might send you spiraling.”
He blinks, slow and heavy, like each word is landing somewhere deep inside him.
“You’re on medication,” I continue, gentle but firm. “For the PTSD. We’re still adjusting the dosage, it’s not balanced yet. That’s why you’ve been restrained. Because… because right now, your brain doesn’t know the difference between a memory and reality.”
And because people are terrified of you, but those words die in my throat.
He doesn’t speak.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
His breath shifts, fractured, unsteady. I feel it in the way his chest jerks against mine, like something inside him is trying to crawl free.
“I have to tell you,” he whispers, voice splintered, barely human. “What happened.”
His arms tighten around me like a vice, not in violence, never that, but in desperation. His entire body begins to tremble, small tremors at first, then violent ones, like he’s fighting ghosts stitched into his bones.
“I need you to know,” he grits out, jaw locked tight. “The darkness, the screams—fuck, the smell. Burned metal. Rot. My own blood.” His voice cracks, something feral clawing behind it.
He’s spiraling. I can feel it in every word, each one a jagged shard of something that should never have existed. His pulse thrashes against my fingers. His eyes go glassy, unfocused, like he’s watching it all happen again.
“They tortured me like—”
“No,” I say, firm and low, like a hand on a gun. I press my forehead to his, forcing him to look at me. “Stop.”
He shakes his head, wild. “You need to hear it, what he told me—”
“Not like this,” I snap, quiet, but unflinching. My fingers curl in his hair, grounding him. “You’re bleeding too fast. Bleeding through words.”
His breath stutters, panic still rising.
“When?” he whispers, like a dying thing.
“When your mind isn’t trying to kill you for remembering.”
He swallows, hard. Silent. A single tear tracks down his cheek.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he says, barely audible.
“I don’t care how many pieces there are. I’ll hold them all. Even the ones that cut me.” I stare into his green eyes.
He squeezes his eyes shut, like he doesn’t want me to see him.“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do.” I rest my hand over his heart, feel it hammering; wild and wounded. “I see the worst in you, and I’m still here.”
He breaks again, this time with a sound, something low and broken, not quite a sob, not quite a scream. It rips through him, and through me too.
“I wanted to die,” he confesses. “I begged for it.”
I nod, tears streaking down my cheeks.
“The only thing that kept me breathing,” he murmurs, voice barely there, “was you.”
My breath catches, but I stay silent.
