Page 183 of Eternal
Azra. Azra. Azra.
Sounds like a bruise I keep pressing on.
What are you planning tonight? And why do I care more than I should?
50
AZRA
“Miss Misery” by Elliott Smith
Present
Breathein. Breatheout.
In. Out.
Breathe.
I’m following the steps, I’m trying, really, but why is my heart not cooperating? Why is it beating so fast, that it feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest?It hurts.Maybe it’s because thoughts are spinning in my head, crashing violently against each other,collidingandcollidingandcollidinguntil there’s no space at all.
The organization, the missions, the kills, the never-ending cycle.
The past, the present, the future.
I can’t breathe deep enough, I can’t make it stop.
You did this. This is who you are now.
That’s not true… they made me that way. The people who abused me, the ones who destroyed me.Theymade me that way.
It’s been so long since I was anything else, since I was a person who cared, but the job... the job takes all of that. It’s all-consuming, and I’m... what now?
The cigarette is burning between my fingers, I inhale again, deep, trying to make my thoughts disappear as the smoke is.
My hands ached, my body ached. Everything ached.
What am I going to do today?
The answer was always the same.
Kill. Kill again. Andagain.
Until my hands stopped shaking, until the past loosened its grip on my throat, until there was nothing left of me. But I knew better, the past doesn’t let go.
It clings bone-deep, siphoning away every ounce of warmth until you’re left with nothing but the cold ashes of a world you can no longer imagine belonging to. Just the vague idea of a life you’re not even sure was ever yours to enjoy.
I crushed the cigarette against the windowsill, looking down at the city, with the ghost of Damir’s presence beside me. I wish he was here, I wish he could offer me his warmth for the night, but he’s not here.
Tonight, I know someone is waiting for me, a man who thought tonight was his fantasy came to life.
A man who didn’t know he had been marked for death.
I turned away from the window. My hand slipped beneath the pillow before I could stop it. I knew opening it would hurt, but I did it anyway.
I turn page after page, names already dead, scattered thoughts, pieces of her addiction. And then I stop. In the center of one page, the paper is warped, faintly stained, a small mark, round and brittle at the edges.
A dried tear.Hers.
