I hate him. He made me love him. He made me want to live. And then he took it all away.
The muscles in his arms shift as he clenches his fists over and over.
“Hit me. Beat me. Cut me. Rip my fucking world apart if that’s what you need. You want the guns? They’re in my car. Go get them. Load the clips. Shove the barrel down my throat and pull the trigger. But I will not let you bandage my wounds, give me food, or make me drink anything. I. Will. Not. Live. For. You.”
He launches the glass of water at the sink and it shatters. I don’t flinch. I’ll be his song. I’ll be the song that people play when they’re ready to end their life. Theo can plant his fist into the wall until his hand falls off. He can break every glass in the cupboard. He can self-destruct before my eyes, but I will not live for him.
My eyes close and minutes later I hear the shower. I fade back into the world where this is all a terrible illusion. When I wake again, the glass is cleaned up and the door to Theo’s room is closed. The light in the corner still flickers its yellow glow but behind me the sun peeks in through the blinds, giving more light to everything—except my life.
Navigating this world is beyond grueling sometimes. I keep waiting for my mind to wonder if Oscar will find me, if he willsave me, but it won’t go there because I don’t want to be saved. Fighting the cancer. Fighting my emotions for Theo. It’s too much. I’m so tired. I want everything to be over.
A creak in the hinge of the bedroom door announces my captor’s approach. Where is my fear? It’s died already.
The door to the bathroom closes. The toilet flushes. The door opens.
My gaze stays glued to the floor.
“You need a bathroom break.”
Looking at him feels like too much effort, but I inch my eyes up to meet his anyway. “I needed one hours ago. So, I wet myself.” My eyes drop back to the floor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
My name is Scarlet Stone, and on the day Oscar was arrested, he told me to remember that letting go takes far more strength than holding on.
How does thishappen? How does the man I fell so hard for just—disappear? This revenge of his has washed away the memories of us—the love.
I can no more stop loving him than he can stop hating Braxton Ames. Both of our uncontrolled emotions will likely escort us to our graves.
“Come on, motherfucker,” he mutters as he looks through the rifle scope, his finger steady on the trigger.
Someone has been in the boot of my car.
He hasn’t given me a second of his attention all day. I smell like piss, that’s probably why. It’s soaked my leggings right down to my ankles. I can’t even stand the smell of myself. There’s been two times in my life that I’ve honestly wanted to die. Both of them have been in the presence of Theodore Reed. Only this time, I can’t pull the trigger.
Why does life without him seem so unlivable? Oh, the questions. I want to know if he ever really loved me. I want to know if taking another man’s life will give him any sort of peace. I want to know if taking my life will leave him with regret.
I want. I want. I want.
However, my words have been silenced by the grief over losing him and the clock, once again, counting down—numbering my breaths left on this earth.
My throat itches. I try to stifle my cough. He glances over his shoulder, his hands still poised on the rifle. I’ve seen that look many times. It was his favorite look for months when I moved in with him—the you-are-not-worthy-of-oxygen look. So here we are. We’ve come full circle. Nothing is forever, especially not love. It is for now. Some people get more nows than other people.
“Communal underwear.” I laugh. I’ve heard the appetizer to death is a nice serving of delusion. I’m there. “You’d better kill yourself after you kill Ames and me. No one wants to wear communal underwear.”
He adjusts his grip on the rifle and presses his eye to the scope. “Shut up.”
“Ma’am. Shut up, Ma’am. You’ve always had rubbish manners. Not Daniel. He was a gentleman. The sex was a bit vanilla, but he loved me. He was such a catch.” I laugh and cough, then laugh again. “Oh, Karma… she doesn’t miss a thing. I’ve done a lot of things in my life that I should not have done. I’ve shown disregard for the law, and even life. How did she know? How did she know I’d follow you into the arms of Hell?”
A fit of coughs takes over; each time it constricts, it feels like sandpaper lodged in my throat.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” He stomps over to the sink and fills a glass with water. “Drink.” He tips my chin up. Some of it makes it into my mouth, despite my efforts to pinch my lips together.
I choke on the water. He keeps pouring, most of it running down my face. When he stops. I spit what’s in my mouth onto his shirt.
He’s angry. I should care. But I don’t. Why? Oh, that’s right: heart ground into the soles of his boots. After putting the glass on the worktop, he shrugs off his shirt and throws it onto the floor.
“Will you tattoo my name on your other arm under a gravestone?”
