Page 112 of Eternal
Present
Amasked man, following me, watching me, fighting me.
It’s a new thing now.
I don’t like new things, I hate it. Since when do people know where the fuck I go and what I do?
I stumbled in front of my door, the ride back was rough, my bike felt heavier than usual, every bump in the road sending fresh pain through me. My helmet drags at my neck, and my fingers fumble at the strap.
The injury is healed so why does it still hurt?
Did I push too hard? Did he hit me there? No, he didn’t…
It would’ve been easier to calm myself if he had.
And who the hell was that?
Okay, calm down, Azra. Calm the fuck down.
I shove the key into the door, miss the hole, curse, and try again. My hands are shaking, I don’t know if it’s from the fight,the cold, or the way my body still feels him, his grip, his weight, his strength pressing against mine. He fought like a ghost, slipping through my defenses, anticipating my moves.
Who was that?
The door finally unlocks, I step inside, and the silence drops on me immediately, no gunfire, no screaming, no bodies hitting the floor.
It should feel good… It doesn’t.
I drag myself down the hallway, agonizingly slow. My ribs ache, my shoulder is on fire. I don't even know why, but it’s the old wound that worries me, the one that should be healed, the one Damir stitched shut.
I push into the bathroom, flick on the light, to bright, too fucking bright.
The mirror catches me in its reflection, and I almost don’t recognize the woman staring back. Hair tangled, skin pale, blood smeared across my jaw, my eyelid, even my neck. And when I catch my naked reflection in the mirror, it’s like I’m fourteen again, in pain, a stranger to my own body.
Someone I thought was disgusting for being so broken. Someone who thought her body was never hers, and it's still here in a way, it almost feels like a punishment.
This thing they touched. Hurt.Branded.
This is what they wanted, this is what they paid for.
I’m no one.
No mind, no soul.
Just killing. Just fighting.
Is this what you wanted, little Azra?
Do you miss daydreaming and hoping? Because I don’t.
I shrug off my jacket. My shirt is damp with sweat and streaked red where the stitches tore open again.
Fucking hell.
I reach for the cabinet, pulling out my med kit. The movement sends a sharp pull through my ribs, and I grit my teeth, pushing past it. I grab a towel, bite down, and start the slow, agonizing process of stitching myself back together.
The needle goes in, flesh pulls tight, and the pain rips through me.
I muffle the scream against the towel.Again. Another stitch.Again. My vision blurs, sweat slicks down my spine.Again.
