Page 37 of Shattered
I straightened my stance. “Be more specific.”
“The branches.” She leaned forward, about to touch it, but then stopped. “They’re dead from the winter. Empty. Husks of their original selves.”
“Empty,” I repeated. She nodded to herself, a melancholy hint to her eyes. She gazed at the paintbrush in her hand. “You feel empty?”
“Yes,” she murmured. “A lot.”
“Like nothing will ever change?”
“Like I’ll never be where I want to be,” she turned towards me, staring into my eyes, never actually seeing them. “I’ll always be striving. Never actually getting anywhere. So why bother in the first place? What does it matter if I waste away with the winter?”
I imagined it was hard to be an artist. The younger you were, the more invincible you felt, and the possibility of selling your art to make a living seemed like an attainable goal, not like the fantastic dream that it actually was. You thought you could be someone. A famous artist. An international name. Making creations that meant something. Artwork memorialized in a museum for the ages.
Then reality set in, and you realized thatthatdream so rarely came true.
Through reason, I could figure out what she was feeling. It must have been devastating to come to that realization. The idyllic fantasy held up under a harsh fluorescent light. But did I feel pity for Melissa’s misfortunes? No. She chose this life. She might not have understood the consequences of her actions, but she knew damn well what she was doing.
I didn’t understand depression on an emotional level. But I did understand the overwhelming emptiness. Our responses to that were different. Melissa might have found it hard to find any motivation. To try again and again but never take another step forward. I, however, filled that emptiness with death. The control it gave me, the immense power over those who thought they were above consequence, the domination of their lives, all of that filled the hole within me. It was different. I knew I was bound for execution or a life in prison. And I didn’t care.
But Melissa… She wasn’t like that. She might have stood on the backs of others once, but now she knew she wasn’t above consequences. She drowned in them.
“This is going to sound crazy,” she forced a smile, “but I haven’t felt like that since I met you.”
A war of emotions raged in my chest. I wanted to throw her on the bed and fuck her right there, making her take everything I had, filling up that hollow cavity with every last drop of the rotten soul I had left, showing her how screwed up it was to believe in me. I wanted to leave, because Melissa wasn’t like the rest of them.Shewas different. She deserved a chance at a life beyond me. Each moment I stayed, the harder it would be to rip out this page of her life, to erase me from her story.
The longer I stayed, the harder it was for both of us to let go.
“I’m wrong for you,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes, though she kept her gaze steady. “It’s not about right or wrong. You of all people should know that.” I returned her glare, and she fidgeted in her space, no longer able to meet me. “It means something if I haven’t wanted to give it all up since you came here.”
“I’m a distraction, nothing more.” I crossed my arms and moved back, leaning on the wall. “This is about you, and what you want with your time.”
“And I want you, Rourke.”
I cracked my neck. Her words were exactly what my dick needed. Invitation. But it was about power, the fact that she knew I held her life in my hands.
But did I care? No. Because she knew exactly what she was doing.
“I could kill you,” I reminded her.
“But you won’t.”
“You only want me because of the power I have over you. You crave it. To submit like there’s nothing left in your life but to give yourself to me. The surrender of everything you are. Your soul. Your fucked up brain. What’s left of your heart.” I flicked off the light, letting the darkness emerge between us. “I will crush you, Melissa. And what will that make you?”
“Crushed,” she whispered.
I went to the dresser, giving her a moment to think. I lit the candle, and the light flickered in shadows against the walls, illuminating her exposed arms, her cheeks. She hadn’t moved; she was watching me. Waiting for me.
Then her legs parted. Those cotton panties spread on the chair. The paint drop drying on her thigh, drawing me to her sweet cunt.
Fuck.
I came towards her, raising my voice: “You trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she breathed, “I do.”
I do. As if it was a commitment beyond this moment. I do swear that I trust you, Melissa, like I trust my heart to pump blood. You could turn me into the police right now. You could screw me over for the rest of my life. But maybe you need me, like I need you. We’re a special case of fucked up love.
