Page 99 of His To Erase
That lands like a punch I didn’t see coming. My mouth opens—then snaps shut.
Because he’s right. How does he see it so easily? Am I really that predictable?
“Hit a nerve?” he asks, maddeningly calm.
I scoff, breathing through the tightness in my chest. “Fuck off.”
I turn my head because I’m close to unraveling and I'm done being under a microscope. I’m so overstimulated on so many levels right now, it’s not even funny. And I’d rather bleed out again than let him see me break.
“There she is.”
The next stitch is much softer, which somehow makes it worse. I stare past him, looking at the far wall.
“You think you’re clever,” I mutter. “Like you’ve got me all figured out.”
“I don’t need to figure you out,” he says. “You’re already unraveling.”
My jaw locks, and my throat tightens as I try to swallow the emotions clawing up my throat.
Fuck him.
I open my mouth just to shut it, again. “You ever…” I stop. Regretting it immediately.
His eyes flick up. Waiting. “What?”
“Never mind.”
“No,” he says, his tone is flat but firm. “Finish it.”
My fingers twitch against the edge of the counter, but I still can’t look at him.
“Do you ever feel like you're forgetting something important?” I whisper. “Like… your life looks like it’s yours, and sounds like yours, but something’s off.”
He doesn’t say anything, so I keep going.
“You know, like you’re watching yourself from the outside. But nothing feels right, and no one else seems to notice.” Mythroat tightens. “And the worst part is… it almost makes more sense that way.”
He still says nothing. He just ties the last stitch, but doesn’t move for a long beat. Then—“Every fucking day.”
He strips off the gloves and tosses them into the sink, and starts washing his hands. Back to his usual untouchable, unreadable self.
I nod, swallowing down whatever the hell that was. I need to get out of here before I say anything else that resemblesfeelings.
“You hide it well,” he says quietly. “But whatever you’re running from…” A pause.
“Eventually, someone’s going to catch on.”
He grabs a clean towel and tosses it onto the counter beside me like an afterthought.
“You know where the bathroom is.” His voice is back to what it always is—cold and distant. His mood swings are giving me whiplash.
“Try not to bleed on anything else.”
Then he turns and walks away without so much as a glance back. I stay frozen, with my eyes locked on the broad set of his shoulders as he disappears down the hallway. And I’m still sitting here with my ribs stitched shut and my insides unraveling.
My ribs pull tight with every breath, the stitches sting, and the towel he tossed beside me is still clenched in my hands as I slide off the counter and drop into the nearest barstool like it’ll anchor me somehow. It doesn’t.
The silence stretches. I don’t know how long I stay like this, with my bare skin against the cold leather of the stool, and my body aching, while my brain spirals.
