Page 125 of Ugly Truths
They stretch under my skin, retesting their limits. It burns from the inside out. Not with heat, but a blaze of pure ice, pumping through every inch of vein until it’s unbearable. This time, I don't force it down this time. I let it settle. I let it live. Because if this is what she needs, I’ll give it to her.
I’ll be the monster. I’ll do it gladly.
Grasping her chin, I tilt her head back to meet my gaze, her angry tears still streaming. I wait, thumb gently wiping her cheeks, until her eyes are clear enoughto truly see me.
“When we find him,” I start, smoothing the top of her hair, “you call the shots. Whatever you want to do to him, however long it takes, it’s yours. There are no rules, no limits, and absolutely no fucking mercy.”
Chapter 49
Elena
No one knows how many times a soul can shatter before it's beyond repair. In my mind, three always felt like a solid number.
The first time it happens, it knocks the wind out of you. Somehow, you manage to stand, gather the shards, and try to fit them back into place, slicing open your fingers and palms as you do. By the time you're done, it's not quite the same, but it's close. You convince yourself that with time, the edges will smooth over, and it'll morph into something nearly like it was before.
The second time, you're a bit more prepared and manage to breathe through it. The pieces are smaller now, more delicate. They break as you handle them, tiny slivers embedding in your skin, impossible to remove. Stepping back, you have to squint a little to make it look almost like it did before it first broke. Maybe, you think, time will help again.
The third is different. What's left isn't even pieces; it's just grains of sand. With the slightest breeze, they scatter. Entire sections are missing now, gaps that you can never fill, and even the small piles you manage to gather are just one strong gust away from disappearing, too. By this point, you're so exhausted that you let fate take over, waiting for the rest to blow away until there's nothing left.
And yet, I'm still here, despite having sprinted past what I was sure had to be the limit.
Even so, the pain leaves no room for anything else. I can hardly remember feeling anything but this. My heart barely beats through it.
It doesn’t help that every time I close my eyes, Jeff is there.
In every dream and every nightmare.
Sometimes it’s the last moments in the SUV, me leaning over him, hands soaked in his blood, begging him to stay. Others, we're back at Ironworks in our old routine. Once, Peter was with me, standing over Jeff’s grave with that smug look on his face, telling me that he’s going to take everything and there’s nothing I can do to stop him.
The one that hurts the most is when Lauren makes an appearance, clutching Jeff’s lifeless body and asking me, “How could you do this to us?”
I haven’t spoken to Lauren since the hospital, nor have I tried. I wouldn’t even know what to say. The idea feels cruel. She likely doesn’t want to hear from me, and she shouldn’t have to. If anything, she should stay as far away from me as possible. Everyone should. No matter how I try to change, I only ever seem to destroy other people's lives while I somehow survive.
I thought I was doing it right this time.
But I knew better deep down, didn't I? I could have told Silas to send Jeff away and shut down the whole idea of training before it started. That's what any good person would do.
I was just so excited to see him.
The man who gave me a place to go. Who sheltered me, protected me, who had my back. And he did. Right up until his very last breath.
Agony cuts through me as images of Jeff and Drew blur behind my eyelids. They only asked to be let in, and now they’re both gone.
Because of me.
Silas's voice startles me out of my thoughts. “Lena.” He's behind me, but I don't turn to face him. “What are you doing?”
It’s a fair question, especially considering it’s the first time in two weeks that I’m out of bed for more than just a shower. Eating has been a different story, but beggars can’t be choosers. I can’t seem to keep anything down, anyway.
He’s also probably wondering why I’m standing in the middle of the guest bedroom I stayed in as Scarlett and haven't set foot in since I came back as myself. It’s almost eerily unchanged. The bed is crisply made, and the chairs in front of the fireplace where I once spent my days exploiting his kindness are meticulously arranged. It's the perfect preservation of the place where I ruined everything.
I’ve never wanted to incinerate anything so much in my life.
Silas's hand slides across my lower back, a silent announcement of his presence as he steps beside me before it falls away. We stand side by side, his eyes flicking from me to the rest of the space.
Eventually, he pushes up his glasses and says, “I hate this room.”
His words pull my gaze to his profile, watching him scan the walls and furniture, likely recalling all the ways I hurt him here. Used him. Manipulated him. Poisoned everything I touched.
