Page 60 of My Lovely Tragedy
“Yeah, the truth as you see it, not as it is. Lies of omission are still fucking lies.”
My lips part to continue arguing with him, but the fight has left me—if I ever had it—leaving me bereft and lost. It’s evident I will be making no progress, so I might as well save face.
I spin back around on my stool, giving him my back, ignoring Brooklyn’s jabs and insults carelessly thrown. My grip on my silverware is stiff and uncomfortable, and my hands ache, even as they tingle with pins and needles. “Are you going to finish your dinner?”
“I want to go home.”
I finish chewing. Swallow. Set my fork against my plate and rest my palms flat against the counter. “You told me you didn’t have a home anymore,” I rasp, reflecting on that first night again. How simple it was in the moment, now endlessly complicated. A precursor tomore.And less.
And forever.
Brooklyn’s sharp inhale sounds through the air, telling in and of itself.
“I vowed to give you a home,” I tell him. “I wanted to give you everything. I still do,” I murmur.But I can’t—and that regret will follow me to my grave.
“And yet, you took that from me, too.”
* * *
Brooklyn’s wordsflow in a constant echo in my mind, brought louder with every throb of pain radiating down my neck. I stare down at the keys beneath my fingers, but I cannot feel them. Numbness radiates out and up each forearm, making the muscles weak and useless.
I try to flex my fingers and only get a few twitches for my effort. Despondency and disappointment flicker in, more emotions on top of the summit resting upon my shoulders.
Brooklyn sleeps behind me, the sofa long since molded to the shape of his body. After his outburst, he went back to his silence and refusal to give me his eyes.
I never thought I’d regret keeping my own away, but now that I am deprived, I regretso much.
With grit in my teeth, the heels of my palms slam against ivory keys, sending a discordant tune echoing through the vacant air around me. My shoulders roll as I arch my back, pressing harder against them as I release some of the tension aching in my spine.
Shadows eclipse the moonlight, bathing swarms in their darkness. I follow their paths, rolling my head from side to side. Still left unsatisfied.
“Can you shut up?” Brooklyn’s harsh but sleepy voice bleeds into the shadows, and despite my overflowing vexation at everything and nothing in particular, I spin around on the black bench to face him, searching for those damned eyes.
He’s buried beneath his blankets still, back to me, so all I see is the sharp outline of his body.
“That’s rude,” I surmise softly.
“You’re fucking rude,” he argues petulantly.
“Must we result to such childish insults, darling?” I ask, exasperated and so,sotired.
He shoves himself up, letting the blankets pool in his lap. His chains clank from the movement of his arms, drawing his attention. And even in the moonlit darkness, I see the moment it all comes back.
Not just his generalized anger—but what lies beneath that. His wrath is the tip of the iceberg, but it’s the hurt of my betrayal that lies beneath the water’s surface, keeping him under.
But anger is easier. And it feels better than the pain.
“Fuck you. You started all of this.”
“Fuck me?” I repeat slowly, nearly a whisper as I push myself to my feet. Stride across the room. Bend down to wrap Brooklyn’s chains around my fists, tugging until he’s forced to follow. Into my space.
Into me.
My nose scrapes his, those eyes still sostubborn,it makes my blood boil. Hissing water in a kettle. “Look at me.”
Jaw locked tight, he purses his lips, then they twist downward before parting. Hot, minty breath fans across mine, flowing into my mouth. “Fuck.You.”
Steam billows out. I growl softly and tug both his arms around my waist, capturing both in my right hand as I grip his chin with my left and yank his head back. He yelps and falls against the back of the sofa, neck arched, hair tangled beneath.
