Page 28 of Grave Love
My cheeks heat, every part of my body tingling, tension surging to the points where his hands cup my face. My body reacts every time we touch. It’s been ages since I had a sexual or romantic relationship with anyone, and part of my attraction to him is that primal need for attention. For someone who actually wants me. To know what it’s like to feelanythingagain.
And yet, there’s something else inside of his words too. A swelling pain that eventually feels good. A sensation that numbs you. A raw hunger that scoops up my organs and flesh and muscles and every soft thing about me and makes mehis.Hard. Unrelenting. Inanimate.
There is no such thing as failure when you don’t have shame. Only existence.Nothingness.It gives me the safety of being. Of not thinking anymore.
“Drink,” Blaze orders, his eyes fixated on me, looking down into the depths of my soul.
And I do. Every last drop.
The room swirls in shadows of gray and black. My mind buzzes. Tries to make sense of it.
This is all part of his game. My game.
Or is it?
Is Blaze really a killer, or is he saying that to mess with me?
What if he’s worse than a killer? What if I’m making all of this up in my head?
What if he doesn’t kill me, and I have to live with myself after this is over?
Is he just trying to humiliate me?
I need something—anythingreal—to grasp onto. Like a weapon. A gun.
“Let’s go to your house,” I slur.
“You think you’re safer there? As if seeing my home means that you’re truly worthy?” he asks. “You don’t want to get burned alive tonight; is that it?”
I shake my head, a smile forming on my lips. It seems silly when he puts it like that. Like I’m causing a slight inconvenience for him.
“Open it up,” I say, nodding toward the retort’s control panel. “I’ll give you my password. Your only lesson in body disposal. First—” My head droops to the side, full of drink, or… whatever this is. Lust, maybe.Need.Or is it drugs? “First, I want to see your house.”
He stares at me for a moment, his jaw tight.
“Why do you want to see my home so badly?” he asks.
For a second, I think about lying. A story that sounds believable.
I opt for the truth. Even if I don’t know if he’s being honest with me, I don’t have any reason to lie to him. Not when he can see right through me.
“A gun,” I say. “You have a gun, right?”
“I do.”
“I want it.”
“You want to shoot yourself, love?”
I shrug. There’s an appeal to it. You put pressure on the trigger, then it’s over. You don’t have to question it because the chances of living are so slim, they’re negligible.
He claims that he’ll give me what I want. But those are just words, and words won’t kill you.
Maybe I want that guarantee that this will be over before I turn twenty-six.
“You want me to shoot you?” he asks.
I lift my shoulders. The final state of my corpse doesn’t matter. I simply want it to be over, and I want to enjoy it.
