In all honesty, I should run. Instead, my hands are already turning the page, already hunting for more. Knowing she’sdeathonly makes me want her more. She’s, my end. I’ll crawl willingly to the grave if she’s the one waiting for me there.
With this new truth clawing at the inside of my skull, I shove the books and papers into my bag. It doesn’t matter if I’ve missed something. I know enough now.She’s real.The banshee, the wailing woman in the black fog. My Croía. My beautiful, terrible death.
Ready to take on the world if I have to, I step out of the library into the chilly night air. It hits my face just like a slap but does nothing to sober the fever crawling under my skin. My feet hit the pavement in a steady rhythm.
Inside, I’m coiled tight, every muscle straining forward, begging to run. To sprint all the way to her front door and tear it off its hinges just to stand in her shadow.
My cock presses painfully against my zipper, it’s so hard I could howl at the moon. Every step is a fresh jolt of torture, and I love it.I want it.I need to see her, even just a glimpse. A whiff of that sweet scent of caramel and blackberries she carries.
I’d give anything if she’d touch me, just once. For her to sink her fingers into my hair. I’d beg her to drown me in that black fog if it meant I’d feel her pressed against me.
The streetlights blur as I make my way down the cracked sidewalk to her street. My breath clouds in the air and my pulse pounds in my ears. I’m close now. Close enough that I can almost taste the iron tang of her power on my tongue.
It sounds weird but I wonder if she knows I’m coming. If she’ll appear at her window. Would she smile? Or hiss my name like a curse? Either way, I’ll drink her in, until my knees buckle.
My cock is in my hand by the time I get to her bedroom window. I gently stroke my shaft as I peek through the window. There she is, my Croía, sprawled carelessly across her bed, a thin towel barely clinging to her. One careless twist in her sleep and it might slip away altogether. The thought makes my breath stutter in my throat. This woman is magnificent. Every inch of her makes something primal crack open in my chest. It’s not just lust that coils inside me, it’s darker, a hunger that sinks claws into my gut and tears at my ribs from the inside.
My strokes are rough, driven by something deeper than desire. I press my forehead to the glass, hard enough to sting. The cold steadies me, just barely. However, each shiver of pleasure is sharper than it should be. Edged with something filthy, something wrong. I close my eyes, but it doesn’t help. She’s still there behind my eyelids, a laid-out offering, exposed, her skin begging to be touched.
The anticipation of being inside her tight pussy at some point soon encourages my hand to pump faster. If she woke up now, Christ, what would she do? The thought shouldn’t excite me, but it does. The idea of her eyes wide with fear, when she realises, I’ve been right here all along, watching her.
The pleasure builds in sickening waves. My legs shake. My breath rattles, like a dying thing in my chest. The need for her, for all of her, boils over so fast it feels as if I’m drowning. My balls tighten as I feel my breaths getting heavier.
A sick laugh catches in my throat as I place my free hand against the wall to steady myself. Pumping even harder, I nearly lose my balance. My forehead knocks lightly against the cold glass, the pane rattling with each ragged breath. A shiver coils up my spine, splitting me open from the inside out. The tingles break as though static is under my skin, an electric filthy heat that burns straight through my veins. I bite down on my lip so hard I taste iron.
The first hot rope of come paints her window, a stark white mark on the glass between me and her perfect sleeping body. Her name spills out in a hoarse whisper, Croía. Over and over, as I squeeze out every last drop of come. My pulse pounds in myears, deafening, as I watch her chest rise and fall. She’s blissfully unaware that I’m right here, defiling her glass, claiming her in the only way I can…for now.
My breath fogs the pane around the stain I’ve left behind as I lean my forehead harder into the glass. I don’t wipe it off. I want her to see it when she wakes in the morning, a reminder that she’s never alone, not really.
She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.
Is this what death feels like?
My mouth is so dry my tongue clings to its roof, a bitter reminder that I’m still here, still tethered to this debt. I stretch, my joints crack and snap as though they’re brittle twigs. Each pop fuels the fire in my gut. A slow, smoldering rage that’s been festering for far too long.
My eyelids feel like iron gates, still I force them open.I always do.Slowly I drag myself back into the light. It’s the same every time. I’m forced to crawl out of the dark, gasping myself back to life, as if I’m a dog on its belly.
This is the part I hate the most,an tar éis.(the after.) The pathetic shell I’m left in, trembling, weak and easy to break. I loathe it, I hate how it strips me of the power I fought so hard for, and how I lethim, the diabhal, make me this, a puppet on his strings.
Fueled by my own resolve, I drag myself out of bed, letting the damp towel drop where it wants. It feels just like a tiny rebellion, leaving it there on the floor, a limp flag of all the fucks I don’t have left to give. I test each limb in turn, flexing my stiff fingers and rolling my aching shoulders. No broken bones, thank God for small mercies.
For a heartbeat too long, I stand, but my knees quiver, mocking my effort to look composed. It’s as though my own body wants to remind me who’s in charge.Not me.I find my balance anyway. Stubbornness has always been my armour.
The wardrobe yawns as I reach for some black, threadbare leggings and an oversized purple t-shirt, the ones that’s seen more nights of sweat and tears than any lover ever has. No underwear. What’s the fucking point? I’m not leaving this house today.
The world tilts as I tug the clothes on. A bright wave of dizziness blooms behind my eyes and slams me to the floor. My ass hits the ground hard, and pain shoots up my spine. However, it barely registers. I’m too busy fighting the thick knot in my throat, too busy forcing down the bile of last night’s memory. Those goddamn green eyes. That devouring stare that won’t let me breathe.
In order to calm my mind, I suck in air through my nose and shove it out through my mouth. Then count. One, two, three, all the way to ten. I can still imagine him standing in the shadows, watching.
The spinning slows, still I don’t move.Not yet. Not until I feel the fight settle back into my bones. When I stand, it’s on my own terms, shaking or not.
With a degree of caution, I drag myself to the kitchen, each step deliberate, as if I’m daring my legs to betray me again. I need coffee, the bitter burning kind that scalds my throat and tricks my hands into steadying. It’s my only shield for mornings like this, when my own mind feels as though it’s gnawing at itself. Right now, I need an extra-large dose of it to keep the darkness at bay.
When the kettle clicks off, and I pour myself a cup, I clutch the cup like it’s holy, the steam fogging my lashes. Carefully I tug my battered folding chair from its hiding place behind the door. I’m still moving with that half-wary limp. My body reminding me not yet as I drag the chair outside, and settle it near my bedroom window. When I unfold the chair, my eyes catch something… more stains. Not just the faint smear from before, this is more. Fresher and thicker. My stomach lurches.
What the fuck?
My eyes squint through the early light as I step closer. It’s not bird shit. I knew that before my brain registered it. It wasn’t bird shit last time either. I just didn’t want to name it. Denial is warm and easy to hold and it’s dissolving in the acid of my rage now.
