Page 28 of Nemesync
He stepped back, a grin spreading across his face as he holstered his weapon. “Having fun, Miss Dellé,” he said nonchalantly before disappearing inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts, feeling the pounding of my pulse as my body grew cold once more. What had just happened?
I re-entered the venue, my steps so small and measured. My mind was a fucking mess. It raced with the memories of Elijah all over me.
I took my seat at the table where my father and Zaidan awaited and tried to compose myself, but the air felt heavier, less breathable.
My father, noticing my return, glanced at me. “Everything’s good?”
I forced a smile, “Yes, everything’s fine.”
Zaidan’s gaze met mine, and he smiled, nodding subtly, as if he understood something. Confused but unwilling to show it, I stayed composed. I still felt the gun between my thighs, and the heat coming up from a gaze behind me. I couldn’t shake the images of what happened outside.
The meeting wrapped up, and my father addressed Zaidan, “Well, it seems like we’ve reached an understanding tonight. Thank you all for your time and cooperation, I hope good things will come our way.”
Zaidan added, looking at me, a bit more stressed than before, “Indeed, an interesting discussion.”
I felt Elijah’s gaze burning my cheeks, and I turned to look. I caught him smiling proudly, reveling in the impact he had on me. I hated him; he was so happy to see how much lack of control I had over my body’s reactions. And I knew it amused him.
“Zanae, is there anything you’d like to add or discuss? Or are we finished for tonight?” My father asked.
I shook my head, clearing my voice. “No, I think everything’s been covered.”
Zaidan’s gaze shifted, and he nodded toward a corner of the room. I followed his line of sight and saw Elijah’s eyes meeting his. His behavior became more nervous; he was scared. Before going back outside, he looked around, as if to make sure no one was looking at us. He then kissed my hand and grabbed my arm, whispering in my ear, “Call me if you want to marry me. I will satisfy every one of your fantasies. You look like you could take anything, I like it.”
His grip on my arm was so firm, that it left a red mark as he let go. I stood frozen, unable to breathe again. The voices returned, my skin burning, my eyes watering. I could hearhimagain, feelhimagain.Histouch,hisvoice echoed in my mind—the wayhisfingers trailed up and down my arms, my neck, my jaw.
Hiswords echoed in my ears, ‘I know you love it; I know you do.’
Wake up Zee!
My father’s touch on my shoulder brought me back to reality. I caught one last glimpse of Elijah’s eyes before returning to my father’s side.
He looked at me, then at my arm, then at Zaidan. That was the final image I had from tonight.
Back home, something caught my attention. On the wall above my bed, the painting of the dahlia Luna painted me.
Sometimes, hopelessness can feel like a will to live.
In my case, I couldn’t be sure about the message I got from this painting. It was hard to know if she created it for me to remember her, or to recall how it felt to be loved by someone, to find strength even in despair. Just like dahlias.
Is it good to let life run through my veins again? What if it ends up being destructive rather than good? Everything turns that way when it comes to me.
A sad smile appeared on my lips. She always told me I always reminded her of that flower in particular.
Alone in my bed, my mind went somewhere dark and cold. Guilt suffocated me. Everything that reminded me of Luna made it harder to breathe.
I can’t articulate my feelings. I have never been good at expressing anything. When she was alive, words were superfluous between us. She would just enter my room, play some music to keep my head occupied, and run her fingers through my hair until I fell asleep.
She healed so much of me, not just the physical wounds on my wrists but also my heart.
For as long as I can remember, I inflicted pain on myself, hoping it would make me feel something I was missing in life — emotions, powerful ones, not just fleeting joy or happiness, but a range beyond anger and hate.
You killed her. Don’t act sad. YOU KILLED HER.
I want the voices to stop. I need them to stop. The blades nestled in my drawer tempted me, an escape to make me feel alive. To prove to me that life was running in my veins, seeing the vibrant red that fills me, showing me that I was still here, and that I was just defective, but still breathing. What harm would one cut do? Justone...
The sharp ache that digs a hole in your heart, discovering how your only and best friend took her own life, leaving no signs before her suicide. The agony before her death, that haunting night, and saying goodbye to her – it hurts so bad, sodeep.
I fought, I tried so hard because I believed I was worthy to share a life with her.
