Page 81 of My Lovely Tragedy
My lips part, a dispute poised on the tip of my tongue, but at the last moment, I manage to swallow it. The boy has a point, regardless of specifics or otherwise.
And it’s that realization that has me speaking of something I never thought I would. But he has already given so much to me, he deserves a piece in return.
“I didn’t have any family growing up. After my mother gave birth to me, she killed herself. I never knew who my father was, so I was raised by my aunt who, in all honesty, should have never been burdened with the responsibility of raising a child, lest the very one from her dead sister.
“But she did as well as she could. Taught me to read and write. Home schooled me until I decided to go to public high school at thirteen. She is the one who taught me to play and to read music.” I graze my fingers over the keys, her memory nothing more than a fuzzy image flickering in the back of my mind.
“She died when I was seventeen, and I have been alone ever since, apart from a friend I speak with occasionally.”
“That sucks,” Brooklyn says after a few minutes. I chuckle.
“It did, I suppose. But it could have been worse.”
“It can always be worse. Doesn’t mean itwasn’tworse.”
I lean back to look him over with a proud smile. “You are absolutely right, darling.”
His own smile flickers, and he bumps his shoulder into my arm. “So, do you just play because you love it, or was it ever a job?”
I shake my head. “Playing has always been my passion. Something I have kept for myself. Writing, however, is another passion, but one I could stand to make a job of. The pressure of deadlines and expectations has kept me motivated over the years, but I will say inspiration had slowly dwindled down into nothing—until I met you.”
“My muse…” he whispers, lips small shadows until he raises his head. Our eyes meet, and another piece slides into place. “I’m your muse.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Is that why you’ve fucking kept me here? So y-you have—or-or can—so you canwrite?”
My brows lift high enough, I feel the wrinkles form across my forehead. “It’s not quite that simple, but let me ask you this, darling. Have you ever had a muse? Felt that sharp, pulsating tug of inspiration—one so strong, you cannot possibly deny its allure?”
He frowns. “No. I-I’ve felt inspired, many times, yeah. But…” He deflates. “But not that.”
I tuck my finger beneath his chin and raise his head until our gazes lock. “I hope that someday, you do.” My thumb grazes his bottom lip. “It will change everything you thought you knew. The earth shall flip on its axis. Oxygen becomes water. Organs rotate inside your body. Time slows…”
When he opens his mouth to speak, I curl my fingers, snapping his jaw shut. I lean forward until my forehead knocks against his, noses skimming. Breath circulating. “I want that for you. More than anything. That ache to fill your lungs. That buzz to fill your mind with beautiful words that I know you will transform into something magnificent.
“I want you to live.To want to live.” I drag my palm along his neck, cupping his nape as my thumb brushes back and forth along his jawbone. I angle his head back, stretching skin. “Can you live for me?”
He swallows, and ithurts.A serrated blade through my heart. “I—” he cuts off with a croak, and I have the absolute pleasure of watching his eyes pool with more tears. To witness the moment they spill over. Hot and sticky against my skin. “I think I’d die for you.”
My eyes roll back at his painful admission. The bone-deep verity, ripped from the depths of his soul just for me. Tears sting the back of my eyelids, filling my lungs with their burden. The implications.
My mouth quirks sadly, a rueful, pitiful thing. I shake my head, dragging my skin across his. Friction and heat andfeeling.
“I know you would, my belovedcorvus.” And hewould.His death would be the loveliest sight to have been bestowed upon me. “But dying would be so easy. Effortless and even comforting. A thing you know, with which you are intimately familiar.” My eyes flicker to his mouth, listening to the sound of his breath whistling between his lips.
“I want to know if you canlivefor me. Keep that beautiful heart alive and beating. Your blood pumping hot in your veins. Your vibrant mind pulsing with new, enchanting lyrics and rude remarks.
“You dying, Brooklyn, would be the loveliest tragedy of all. But you are not meant to become that yet. You are meant to fly.To soar.To become somethingmore.Filled with endless beauty and life. Effervescent.”
The silence screams louder than I’ve ever heard it. Sharp pricks against my ear drums colliding painfully with the knocking of my heart. Choking, paralyzing.
Damning.
It’s not until Brooklyn moves, pulling away, that I finally blink, andhistears spill over. His lips catch one, and I watch with regret as it absorbs into the fissures. His pink tongue darts out to swipe up the excess before his mouth moves closer. A hair’s breadth away. Lips skim along my flesh, burning his words deep into the tissue until their very essence is entwined with my core.
“I’ll try—for you.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
