Page 22 of Inevitable Destruction

It’s just us.

“You’re thinking extremely loud.” I release a breath that’s close to a snort.

“So are you, baby girl.” I grab her left hand and brush my thumb along the back of it, over every thin vein and tendon. Touching her is still so surreal. Sometimes, when I look at her, I can’t help but see the fragile, broken girl she was lying in that hospital bed.

She was in a coma for two weeks. And when she woke up… I had never seen anyone more hysterical, screaming she wanted to die and be with her sister. Then she almost succeeded—and in that moment, when I saw the blood and that sinister smile plastered across her pale lips… I wanted nothing more than to shove a needle in my veins to forget it all.

I still want that. But not right now. Not here, with her.

She keeps the urges at bay, but that’s okay. Sometimes we have to be selfish and use the ones we love.

Those same, cold, pale lips press against my cheek. Hot breath fans across my skin, and I turn my head, meeting her lips with mine. Our mouths brush gently before fusing together in a soft tangle of tongues.

My gut stirs, and my hold on her tightens.

“Touch me, Dom.” I brush my knuckles over her cheekbone, staring into her eyes and searching for… I don’t know what. The same love I have for her? Maybe. But that’s not what I find. I see desperation and pain swirling deep in her irises.

Two things I’m more than acquainted with.

“I need you.”

Those three words kickstart my heart, and my hand moves from her face to pull up my shirt she’s wearing. “I’ve got you, baby girl.” I’ve never spoken truer words in my life.

But what she doesn’t know—and what I refuse to tell her—is that I need her more than she needs me.

No, scratch that. She isn’t what I need. She’s what I want. Because there will always be one thing I love more than anything. Or anyone.

My pills and a fucking needle.

When I come to, I’m on the floor of my room, staring at the side of my mattress. My eyes burn, the stabbing sensation in them increasing tenfold when I blink. My tongue is leaden in my mouth, slack against the inside of my cheek.

Somewhere inside of me, I can hear my heart beating, slowly but surely, so that’s something, I guess. If I’m alive, I can forget it all. If I’m dead, well, then. Who fucking knows. And I’m not a huge fan of what’s unknown. I’d rather just drown everything with whatever I can and spend the rest of my life in a haze.

In rehab, they tell you life’s better when you’re sober. Everything feels better, more alive. Feeling things is better, is what they say.

The ones that say that have clearly never done drugs in their life. And if they have, they didn’t get anything good because there is no way anyone can fucking convince me that this is better: the squeezing feeling in my chest, constricting my heart, and decreasing my blood flow, the sandpaper sensation in my veins, the throbbing and pulsing in my brain, the way my limbs twitch and scream in agony with every shift of my body. And that’s merely the physical pain I’m in every fucking day of my life.

In what fucking universe is any of that better?

Not mine.

And the best thing about my universe? I don’t have to feel a goddamn thing. I don’t have to feel the way my heart is being crushed, and I sure as fuck don’t have to relive the memories of her. Or my parents and what they fucking did.

My hands curl into fists as I push down into the carpet and haul myself to my feet. Vertigo hits me, and I sway as the walls surrounding me blur and shift. I lose sensation and crash into the wall behind me. I hear the distinct thud and crunch of the drywall followed by a small plume of white dust floating through the air.

When my vision finally clears, I lean back, slumped. My head throbs, and black dots dance in front of me as I try to make out the sensations pulsing through me. My lower back is on fire; a wide, burning sensation focused on the base of my spine and radiating upwards to the nape of my neck.

I attempt to lift my arm to rub the pain away, but my limbs are leaden at my sides—not even the usual persistent itch at the junction of my arms is present. Useless fucking things anyway.

Resigning to the fact that I’m stuck here momentarily, I let my eyes fall shut, the throbbing in my temples a steady staccato rhythm bouncing against my skull. Without another option, I let the beat of pain lull me into some place between sleep and consciousness.

In my dazed state, I’m still fully aware of the bites of pain twitching through me, and my long, drawn out breaths, but it doesn’t stop my mind from wandering to flashes of one face in particular.

I can feel my brows pull together, the slight wrinkle between them deepening as I force a clearer picture. Long, brown hair pushed back with pieces framing his face. Deep, cobalt blue eyes. A cigarette between his lips, with smoke curling up near his face. A white T-shirt stretched across a muscular torso… No—a police uniform.

Wariness settles deep in my gut as realization trickles in. The familiarity of his face. A face I’ve seen before.

I wrack my brain and sift through my freshly sober mind, trying to fit the floating bits and pieces together into something that makes sense. I know I’ve seen his face before, but where exactly?

---