Page 106 of Double Standards
I feel it, even if I can’t respond.
My body won’t move. But I feel every second of grief.
“Happy New Year, Axel.”
The same sweet voice, each word laced with tears I know are there, yet I can’t see.
I want to reach for her, to wipe them away.
But I can’t.
A groan bubbles inside me, but it doesn’t come out.
The strain of slipping in and out of consciousness is unbearable.
Still, I can feel my strength returning, if only in flashes.
An unfamiliar voice filters in. “He’s showing signs of brain activity, but he’s still unconscious.”
The accent is familiar, but my brain won’t place it.
Australian? South African? British?
Fuck if I know.
“When will he wake up?” That voice—I know it.
But where from?
“It’s hard to say. He lost alot of blood.”
Ifeel like a prisoner in my own body, trapped behind a wall of flesh and bone, screaming silently for control. My limbs are heavy, useless. My chest rises and falls without my permission, shallow and unsteady. Every breath is a struggle, like I’m clawing my way out of quicksand.
My mind won’t let go. Not until it’s convinced I’m safe.
How fucking ironic, because safety feels like a distant fantasy, some far-off place I’ve never quite been allowed to reach. And here, in this blank space between worlds, there’s no time. No sound. No gravity. Just a vast, echoing stillness that threatens to swallow me whole.
But I fight. Somewhere deep down, I fight. I don’t know why—maybe for her.
Eventually, I win the battle against my eyelids. It feels like lifting a mountain just to peel them open. Light crashes into me, harsh and disorienting, stabbing at my eyes like tiny blades. I blink rapidly, vision swimming.
And then I see her.
Blonde hair clouds my vision, soft and golden in the morning light. Silken strands spill over my arm, her thigh draped across mine, her presence anchoring me like a lighthouse in a storm. Cassie’s curled beside me on the bed, her body half-sprawled but still instinctively protective, one hand wrapped tightly around mine like she never wants to let go.
She shifts slightly in her sleep, murmuring something I can’t quite catch. Her face is relaxed, lips parted just enough to reveal a sliver of vulnerability, a softness I never thought I’d see again. Even like this—disheveled, tear-streaked and half-asleep—she looks like an angel.
My angel.
Emotion rises like a wave in my throat, thick, sharp and overwhelming. I want to speak. To tell her I’m here. To thank her. Apologize. Beg her never to leave.
But before I can shape the words, before I can make a sound,the darkness pulls me under again. Fast. Relentless. Like it’s been waiting.
Atingling sensation starts in my fingertips. It’s subtle, almost like a phantom itch. At first, I think I’m imagining it, some cruel trick of a half-conscious mind. But then it spreads, crawling up my palm, pins and needles stabbing at my nerves that feel like they’ve been dead for days.
I focus everything on that hand. Nothing else exists. No pain, no fear, no time. Just that flicker of possibility.
Clench.
