Page 151 of My Lovely Tragedy
I swallow the formed lump in my throat, thinking of little Charles and Annie. Two beautiful, intelligent children. But with Stella as their mother and Charlie for a father, they’ll grow up to be wonderful people, of that I am certain. I have merely been a passerby in their lives. And I tell Charlie as such.
“You really think that is what matters? A fuckingpasserby,” he mumbles with a sneer.
“No, but it’s true regardless, and you are more than aware of that. You have known me for years, Charles. I am alone at my core.” I feel his eyes on me, somehow just as forceful through a screen as they are in person. It makes me appreciate getting that interaction out of the way a few days ago, though it seems he still hasn’t gotten his beratement over with.
A soft knock sounds through the speakers, and Charlie lifts his head, straightening in his chair and righting his expression into something more neutral. A moment later, there’s a creak and then a small voice. “Daddy, I’m thirsty.” His face melts into something so soft and unguarded in that instant that I have to look away. A sudden sharpness pierces through my sternum and into the thick muscle of my heart. It weaves through the ventricles and outward, penetrating into my lungs.
“Goodbye, Charlie,” I rasp, then end the video call. Swallowing the last of my scotch, I unmute the live stream, then dig in my pocket. Gold glints in the subtle light, flecked with rust-colored copper. I pull open the blade, silver and stained with fingerprints.
His and mine.
I drag the pad of my thumb over one in the center, smudging it—and more as I work down the length of the blade to the tip. I curl my thumb over it until the point disappears inside my skin. Blood wells around the edges of pierced skin, a small bead at first that lingers, clinging to my flesh before falling.
Another stain, welcomed and abandoned.
The sting is slightly and not entirely unfamiliar. It reminds me of IVs and blood draws. Uncomfortable, but the harder I press, the more surface area I cover, the more it makes sense.
His affliction.
My beloved loves the pain, whereas I think I prefer the sight of blood through split skin more than any associated discomfort. The exposure of what’sinside.
I watch my skin flay through a mirrored gaze, like I am staring down at myself. Watching my trembling hand move, fingers loosely curled around a knife, silver and gold glinting as they shimmer with crimson.
That’s when I hear it—through the sound of my heart hammering in my ear canals. The rise of screams crackling through my speakers. The strum of a guitar. A few hits on a drum. The hiss of a microphone.
I blink down at my forearm, over the wire of my frames, watching the small trickle of blood ooze from the wounds. I drag my fingers over them, smearing the blood around and pressing into them. A frown pulls at my lips. Doused with disappointment.
I had hoped that in doing so, I would somehow bring Brooklyn closer, but all it did was make him feel so much further away. Because now I know how it felt for him, but I cannot and will not ever be able to know what itgave him.
What I was able to give him.
I saw it, and I felt it. Every moment we were together.
But now, that is gone, and the memories are not nearly enough. I have my words—every single one written for him, about him and of him—but even those are not enough.
The only thing capable of understanding—of capturing—is the drag of his skin against mine. His silky hair wrapped around my fingers. His blood and release smeared between us, hot and sticky. Itching as it dried.
His eyes, a vibrant and tantalizing azure, peering into my own. Not looking through me, butinto me,and seeing every muddled, messy shade of wickedness and depravity within. Knowing who I am and wanting more. Asking and begging. Pleading and grasping. Nails in my skin, teeth in my flesh, heart in my chest.
But this is what I have now—him through a screen, singing to me, and he does not even know it.
I am more alone than I ever have been—by design.
It’s all by design. Every choice made, whether with intent or otherwise, has its consequences. Actions and reactions. Cause and effect.
Life and death.
And this is mine.
I had him.
I lost him.
But he let me see… and be seen in return—and for that, I can never repay him.
My crow. Intelligent and loyal and fierce.
His fingers are curled tightly around the microphone, and though I cannot see with crystalline clarity, I know they are blanched. Ghastly white with the loss of blood. He turns his head to the side, glancing over at someone over his shoulder before he rolls them and straightens his spine. Steeling himself, filling his lungs with resolve.
