Page 73 of Marked By Feral Monsters
I strip off in the bedroom, dropping my clothes in the laundry basket before turning on the shower in the bathroom. Stepping under the spray, the temperature is perfect. Cool enough to soothe the burning scratches on my skin, warm enough to soften the aches in my muscles.
My eyes squeeze shut as I drop my head under the stream. In these quiet moments, the guilt creeps in. Some days it's louder than others. Today, it's screaming.
I love Eric. I really do. No one would ever understand our relationship, but I love him and I'd never turn my back on him. But some days it feels as though he's ruining my life. Like, if he could trap me here just like he is, so he'd never be alone again, and he'd do it. No matter the cost to me.
I close my eyes, letting the water trail over my skin, holding in a sob.
It's been three days, and I can still feel Nix. I can't take a full breath; I feel like I'm suffocating.
I wish I could take it back. That I didn't bring him here.
With a soapy hand, I retrace the path of his warm hands. My fingertips trail down the side of my neck, my chest. I squeeze one breast, feeling the weight of it, the softness of my skin. His hands were calloused and rough, and I felt every caress, as if he was marking my skin like clay. It scratched and burned and feltreal. His chest was firm, solid, his mouth a burning inferno on my skin as he licked and bit my ear, pressing against me. His other hand trailed between my legs, and I greedily spread them, ready and wet. He was already hard, had been since I brought himhome from the restaurant, but he ignored it in favor of touching me.
The bathroom door swings open, ripping me out of the memory. The rush of cool air makes my nipples harden in the warm shower.
Silence. Always silence.
"I can't talk to you right now," I whisper.
I finish rinsing the soap off my body, but frustration and heartache tug at the empty pit in my stomach, claimed by the void that he created. I've got no more tears; I cried them all out.
Eric's taken everything from me.
My head bangs lightly against the wall. "Eric," I sigh into the stream. "I can't keep doing this. It's not… It's not healthy. For me, for you."
Silence. Again, always.
I pump shampoo into my hand and lather it in my hair and then rinse it off. Once the conditioner sets, I change tactics, adding, "And who's the one that's going to get caught, hmm?Me!I'm the one who will get in trouble!" I swing the curtain open, wishing it were a door I could fling. "You had no fucking right! Howcouldyou? Huh? How could you do that to him? To me?"
A towel floats toward me. A peace offering. It's not enough. In fact, it's nothing compared to what he's done. To me, to Nix. To the others. He knows that, but he can't ever offer me more, and some days, that feels like the worst thing that could ever happen to either of us, no matter how much I love him.
After rinsing my hair and drying off, Eric's cool presence follows me through the house. My disappointment and sadness hang over us like a second wraith. Some days I think Eric is closer to the darker parts of me than any other.
A truce is the best we can do until I can figure out how to dig us out of this mess. I can't leave this house. For a multitude of reasons, but its grip is now as strong on me as I imagine it wason Greta. I will live my life and die in this house, like she did, and her mother before her.
I've thought of exorcising Eric, finding some way to help him move on. But that feels even more inconceivable than moving away and selling the place.
And what would he do if I suggested such a thing—that he leave me, this life we have together, however toxic it may be? Would he rage and storm and shatter mirrors, leaving me to clean up his mess, like always?
Or would he say yes and let me go?
In silence, we cook together. I reach for ingredients, which Eric anticipates by opening the cupboards and refrigerator before I need to. He kisses my neck, sending a breeze along the dip of my collarbone. I'm still mad—understatement—but he never fails to turn me on. It's strange how this drafty old house, embodied by Eric's cold presence, is the one thing that warms my heart.
After cooking dinner and curling up on the couch to read a book by lamplight, a blanket drapes over my shoulders. My lips tug into a half smile, and I cuddle under the quilt, resting my head on the pillow. Eric lies beside me on the couch, his weight dichotomously heavy and light. I sigh and try to relax into him.
But I'm still angry.
No, that's not right. I'm hurt. And worried. About me, about him.
I whisper into the void. "Eric. We can't keep doing this."
I can't tell him it's wrong to kill every man I bring home. Or that it means I'll be alone forever. I'm afraid that's exactly what he wants. So, instead, I appeal pragmatically. "If you kill every man I bring home, one day, they'll trace them back to me, and they'll take me away from you."
I swallow down the other reasons. But it's clinging, this loneliness. Cloying, a sticky tar that's invaded me, and I can't tear it away.
Eric's behavior has become increasingly erratic, so I need to set some boundaries. But the last thing I want to do is hurt him. It's just… we can't keep going on like this. It's wrong. And selfishly, I need more.
His ghostly pressure wraps around my body, pulling me into a hug. I look around the empty room. The TV is off, the screen black, reflecting only me. "Eric…" I whisper.
