Page 71 of Nemesync
Fuck this.
I’m alone in this parking lot, but not alone in my head. No one will hear my struggles, apart from my demons so I scream, and I scream so loud that I feel my throat tightening, hurting with each outcry. I feel like I may bleed from screaming.
But if I scream louder, they may stop.
On the dashboard, my knife looks at me, tempting me.
The blade wants me to put an end to the fucking chaos, to grasp at a semblance of peace that attracts me so hard.
I inched it closer to my wrist and cut through my skin. Then, slowly, red spilled from it.
It hurts but it may be what I deserve.
It hurts but it feels like my fucking salvation.
It hurts but it’s enough to make me feel, seeing it flow against my skin, as a reminder that I’m still alive.
As long as you still bleed, as long as you feel pain, you’re alive.
The car door opens abruptly. Elijah looks at me, looks at my hands, my eyes, the blade that just opened my wrist.
In that moment, the desire to be seen, understood, and even maybe rescued washes over me. I wanted him to comprehend how much pain was in me, I wanted him to at least give me recognition for that.
His deep voice is softer than normal when he speaks up, “What did you do,Milaya?”
I didn’t want anyone to see me in this place, but when I saw him, I felt the urge to cry even more, and I don’t feel bad about wanting to.
I’m broken and he knows it.
Without waiting, he gets me out of the car, my head resting against his chest as he carries me. The rapid thud of his heart was an anchor in the quietude of my own soul.
“I’m here,” he says. And it’s enough.
In his arms, with the blood still escaping from my wrist, I found the comfort I craved to find.
He’s here.
Someone is here.
Elijah is here.
Stairs led us upward, and he gently placed me in an empty, frigid bathtub.Oh no. Not this, not here, please.
I can’t speak, I can’t talk, I don’t want to break this, I don’t have the strength to.
Is it weird to feel more connected to her now that I’m bleeding in the same position she died? In a bathtub, feeling so empty that nothing is helping?
Elijah’s fingers brush against my cheek so gently.
“You’ll learn to live, Zanae.”
Please teach me, I want to say.
Please, I want to beg.
With care, he tends to my cut and wounds on my hands. I gaze up at the ceiling, feeling the stubbornness of destiny, as life itself refuses to ease up on me.
“I thought you wanted me to suffer Elijah. Tell me, do you like it?”
