Page 22 of Reading Between the Lines
Tallus smiled at the contact. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something.
“Is this okay?” I asked, still unsure, still fighting the urge to retract my hand and bury it under the pillow.
“It’s perfect, D.”
It wasn’t perfect. Perfect would have been drawing him into my arms and letting him sleep against my chest.
“I… I don’t know how to make it feel normal.”
“Time. Practice.”
The ache of failure behind my ribs throbbed and pulsed. “I don’t deserve you.”
“What you don’t deserve is the shitty life you were given. Now go to sleep before I get sassy and tell you how lucky you are to have me. Not only am I stunningly gorgeous, but Iseeyou.”
I fought back a smile but gave up and let it hook the sides of my lips. “I happen to like you sassy. Your modesty knows no bounds.”
He dramatically sighed. “I know. It’s part of the whole Tallus package.” He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed my knuckles. “Sleep, Guns. I won’t invade your space. You’re safe with me. I promise.”
I’d never known safety or peace, but with Tallus, I was slowly learning what I’d been missing out on in life.
I closed my eyes and inhaled several calming breaths, searching for notes of Tallus’s natural scent and cologne among the overpowering floral reek of potpourri. I found it and let it infiltrate my brain and blood vessels; let it wrap all around me. I wanted intimacy to feel this good.
Time, he’d said, and practice. But how much time?
Before long, I fell asleep.
I dream of fighting. Of anger. Of punching a brick wall until my knuckles bleed.
Someone’s face beneath my fist. My own face. I’m punching myself, and the anger is all-consuming. Teeth shatter. Skin breaks. Blood pours from my mouth and nose. I keep fighting. Flailing. Screaming. I can’t stop.
A slap. A sting.
The bite of a bike chain cutting flesh.
Hands at my throat.
Pressure against my chest.
Underwater. I can’t breathe. My lungs. I need air.
Restraints around my wrists. I’m stuck. Trapped under the earth. Under the ice. Buried alive.
Punching. Punching. Blood flowing freely.
Intoxicating anger.
It’s my face. My face.
Drowning. Suffocating.
A boot to the head. Swollen eyes. I can’t see. A bike chain slicing skin.
Darkness.
A cemetery. The rotting scent of wilted flowers. Death in my nose. Down my throat.
Decay. A tombstone.
