Page 39 of Saved By The King's Gamma

“You’ve been to hell and back, yet here you are, Abbie. Don’t let what they did to you be the only way you see yourself.”

That’s easy for him to say, all I see is them when I look in a mirror.

“Your heart,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “it’s seen the depths of human cruelty, yet it’s filled with an unparalleled capacity for love and forgiveness. It’s the most beautiful thing about you.”

“And your soul, Abbie,” he concludes, “despite being fractured by torment, it’s not dimmed. It’s tragically beautiful, and there’s nothing more captivating than that. Nothing more captivating than you.”

A lump forms in my throat. He must be deluded to think I am the least bit captivating. I’m frightening, yes, but certainly not captivating.

18

The evening unfolds with a gravity that weighs heavily on my heart. Abbie sits across from me, her usually radiant face now clouded with doubt and self-loathing. I know she doesn’t believe my words; the compliments that I bestow upon her seem to dissolve before they can truly reach her heart. But I’m determined, resolved to remind her every day of the beauty I see in her until she sees it in herself.

Still, I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness as I watch her pick at her fingers. I wish she could see herself through my eyes, see the way her laughter lights up a room, the way her eyes sparkle when she talks about her passions, the way her heart is so full of love for others.

But tonight, she is lost in her own darkness, unable to see the light that shines within her. And so, I continue to speak words of love and admiration, hoping that someday she will believe them and see herself as the beautiful, deserving woman she truly is.

As the sun dips, leaving the sky draped in darkness, I prepare the spa bath, adding oils that fill the room with a soothing scent. With a deep breath, I shed my clothes but keep my boxer shorts on, understanding Abbie’s fragile state and not wanting to alarm her further. Gently, I lead her into the warm water, positioning her between my legs. The moment her back meets my chest, she shudders, a gasp escaping her lips as her body goes rigid in my embrace.

I reach for the soap, intent on washing her, but she stops me, her hands trembling as they grip my wrist to stop me. “I will never hurt you,” I whisper, my voice laced with a sincerity born from the depths of my soul. “I would rather rip out my own heart than ever hurt you.”

Her hand trembles but eventually loosens its grip as I move the soap over her skin, carefully avoiding the areas that might trigger her.

After a few moments, her hand falls limply into the water, and she allows me to clean her, though I meticulously avoid touching her in any way that might cause distress.

Next, I shampoo her hair, my fingers working gently through the strands, washing away the grime of the day. When we’re done, we soak in the silence that blankets the room, the warmth of the water encasing us both until it gradually turns cold. With a sigh, I pull the plug, turn off the jets, and wrap her in a towel, leading her back to the room where the fire crackles invitingly.

Abbie quickly dresses and grabs a blanket, moving closer to the fire. She sits there, staring into the flames with a vacant expression that chills me to the bone. After a while sitting in silence, eventually, I decide to cook dinner.

It’s hard for me to sit still in the silence. As I cook in the kitchen, the aroma of sizzling steak fills the air. I call out to Abbie, asking her how she likes her steak cooked, but there is no response. Concern gnaws at my insides as I peer around the corner to find her sitting in front of the fire, staring into its mesmerizing flames as if transfixed.

Then, I see it—her hand outstretched toward the flames. “Abbie!” I boom, and she jolts back to reality, her hand jerking back from the fire. I rush to her side, clutching her hands and turning them over to inspect for damage. Her fingertips are burned. “Why, Abbie? Why would you do this?” I demand, my voice a mix of frustration and concern.

She says nothing, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. I curse under my breath, dragging her to the sink to run her hands under cold water. Where has my Abbie gone?

“Why would you burn yourself?” I ask again, grabbing her face gently, forcing her to meet my gaze. Tears blur her eyes, and my heart breaks for her.

I pull Abbie into my arms, holding her tight against me as she sobs, her body shaking with the force of her emotions. I can feel her guilt radiating from her, and it breaks my heart to see her in such a state.

As Abbie’s anguished cries fill the cabin, my heart shatters into a million pieces. “Pain is in your head,” she tells me, her voice breaking. “Physical pain is nothing but this,” she clutches her chest, “this inside me, it’s unbearable. It hurts, Gannon. It’s an ache that never stops. You say I’m good, but I’m angry. I’m so angry, Gannon. I want them to hurt like they hurt me.”

“They can’t hurt you anymore, Abbie. They’re dead,” I try to remind her.

But she breaks down even more, pulling at her hair, yanking it as if trying physically to remove her torment. “They aren’t dead, Gannon! Can’t you see? They haunt me!” she screams, her voice filled with despair.

“They live, Gannon, they live,” she repeats, clutching her head, her memories haunting her in a way that makes me feel utterly helpless. Then, she starts chanting a call for Azalea, almost like she is repeating a mantra before she starts rambling. “More than my life, more than my life, more than my life. But I don’t want this life. She made me promise,” Abbie sobs, lost in her torment.

In a panic, I let her go, my eyes darting around the room until they land on a knife in the kitchen. Snatching it, I move toward her with determination, thrusting the knife into her hand.

“That’s right, more than my life, Abbie.” I press the knife, now clasped in her hand, against my heart. “You want to end it, you end me, too. Do you hear me?”

Abbie’s sobs turn into gasps of shock as I press the knife against my chest, daring her to end my life along with hers. She looks at me with wide, tear-filled eyes, and I can see the terror in her expression.

“Come on, Abbie. Do it,” I goad her, pushing the blade closer to my heart. “End it all.”

Her grip tightens on the knife, trembling as she struggles with her emotions. “Stop,” she pleads, her voice cracking.

“You want it to stop? Then make it stop,” I demand, my voice shaking with emotion. I don’t know if this is the right thing to do, but I can’t just stand by and watch Abbie hurt herself anymore.

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