Page 105 of My Lovely Tragedy
“I’m sorry I have to take that from you, darling,” I whisper into the early morning air, knowing he cannot hear me but needing to say it, regardless.
I need to say so much more, but I mustn’t dare. There is self-interest, and then there is apathy, which I cannot feel with him—not that I would ever dream of it.
But sometimes, with release comes pain. Unimaginable and unbearable. But necessary. I can only hope he figures that out… eventually.
Or perhaps it would be better if he never did.
It would be easier for him if he let his hatred consume him. It wouldn’t be healthy, but then again, nothing between us ever has been.
I crack open my laptop, squinting against the distorting lines wavering across my vision. The screen is undamaged, thankfully, and as I tap my browser, the first tab that pulls up isThe DisorientsYouTube page. A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I hit play on the first video shown, “Used.”
A harsh melody flows quietly into the dawn brandished light as I open my story and stare at the words in front of me.
A silent scream of devout pleasure.
My eyes flutter closed as Brooklyn’s many expressions flood my mind. Peaked in ecstasy, flushed with confusion, open and bare for my deepest prodding.
Mine.
My fingers move of their own accord, flying over the keys as I pour every ounce of my everything into words that can’t quite capture the depth in which I feel, but I have to try—for him.
And as his angelic voice carries with me throughout the last piece of my story, I don’t bother to brush the tears away as they splatter over my hands and into the keyboard below.
* * *
My back isto him when he finally wakes. It wasn’t intentional, but as he makes his way toward me, dragging his chains, it feels right.
The mountains in the distance feel closer today, their incomprehensible size nearly overwhelming. Maybe it’s the water that drips from the gutters in a steady stream, all signs of snow gone, replaced with earthy traces of life flourishing.
I can nearly smell it, but I’m grateful I can’t.
Warmth.
“Good morning, darling.”
“It looks later than morning,” he rasps, voice still thick from sleep. I nearly fall back into him, but my hand reaches out to grip the windowpane.
“Only just.”
“Oh, nice.”
“Hmm.” The lump is nearly impossible to swallow.
It’s silent for a while. Just the sound of our breath and the gentle breeze swaying branches just on the other side of the glass. Brooklyn presses against my side, resting his head on my shoulder. I drop mine to his, and together, we stand at the window and watch spring come into bloom right in front of us.
How has time passed so quickly?
It feels as if it has just slipped between my fingers.
“Last night…” he starts, then stops. His chains clank together in my peripheral.
“Yes?” I prompt.
“Just…thank you,” he murmurs. So soft and gentle, it makes me sick.
This time, there’s no swallowing down my shame. It sits right at the back of my throat, choking me with every selfish breath I take. “Don’t thank me, my love. Trust me, it was almost entirely selfish.”
He shakes his head, a frantic drag over my sweater—the very one from last night because I couldn’t bear to take it off, not when it smelled so heavily of him. “That’s not true.”
