"What happened?" she asks, tearing my chest cavity open with her sincerity, her need for this connection.
My chest caves in when I think of the loss I suffered nearly a century ago. "I was distracted from being where I was needed."
Finally, she looks up at me, confused by this small piece of my past I've given her. "Where were you needed?" She must see the devastated look on my face, the one I try to never let anyone see. She knowingly nods, "That's why you were willing to save Bel for Caspian."
I've never felt so transparent. I've told her nothing, but she sees it all the same.
"For someone like us, losing our—" I clear my throat, fighting to keep the emotion out of my voice. "Our sacrifice, our charge, is akin to losing a piece of our soul. It's both physically and emotionally painful to the point where nothing ever soothes the ache. It's a torture I would never want another being to go through. So, yes. I was willing to help them get her. It's not about revenge for me, you know." I can't stop the avalanche of confessions, using these to keep the more painful ones in check. "I don't want to kill all the members of the Sanctum; I don't want them to pay for what they've done. There's no such thing as justice for them; it'll just be a never-ending cycle of pain for both sides. All I want is to keep others from suffering at their hands."
"Like you did. Or still do, I guess," she supplies.
I can't look at her and see the pity in her eyes, so I stand and go to the sink to clean my dishes, taking her empty plate and cup with me to do the same.
Thankfully, she takes the cue and disappears. The sound of the projector and TV turning on draws my attention, and I walk out to see what she might be doing. I've never seen her turn that thing on, always ignoring it and me when she walks by it.
She flips through the channels until she lands on some kind of reality TV show about vapid people who clearly have no regard for anyone but themselves. I'm stuck standing behind the couch with my arms folded, enraptured by their pure narcissism, while also wishing I could look away from it.
She looks over her shoulder and the back of the couch at me with a small grin, "Come sit and watch this stupid show with me."
"Why?"
She chuckles, settling into the couch further, "Because neither one of us should be alone right now. So come sit, and we can useeach other to fill the space the cruel voices in our heads would usually take up."
As much as I don't want to watch some silly show about self-absorbed humans, sitting in isolation seems even worse. I take a single step forward, and she adds, "And watching these idiots' life choices will make you feel so much better about your own."
The bluntness of her words dulls the ache the first reason started, forcing a laugh from my chest as I take a seat on the other couch, my eyes on her instead of the TV. She grabs a blanket from the back of the sofa, draping it over herself and hiding her stunning figure from my sight, which is probably for the best. There's no telling what I might do if I look at her in that dress for too long.
A bag of popcorn and three hours later, I peel my eyes off the screen in front of me only to find Isla sound asleep, sprawled across the couch. A small sense of pride fills me, as dumb as it is. If nothing else, at least Isla knows she's safe enough here, in my home and my presence, that she can fall asleep not five feet away from me.
I consider moving her to the bed and decide against it. She looks comfortable enough, and I've taken enough liberties with her body that I don't think this one would be appreciated.
Shutting everything down, I go to my bedroom, feeling far lighter than I did earlier today. Who knew pointless TV could actually make someone feel a little less alone? I try to convince myself that the show we watched made me feel that way and not the company, but it's pointless.
There's a mirror image to me in Isla, whether we like it or not. She knows how to tame the rampant thoughts in my head and calm the regret and self-hatred for a while because she harbors the same things. If I were a better man, I would take peace in it, let it blossom into a friendship I likely won't find anywhere else.
But I'm not a better man, and I won't.
Fuck.
Dry Humping
Isla
Weapons training is quite literally everything I hoped it would be.
I think I must have always known there was something different about me. Somethingwrong.
If my inability to find a long-term partner was any indication, others knew it, too.
It's not that I've ever craved violence or sought it out. Well, before recently, anyway.
But this piece of me, this hunter side, has always been there, feeling like a caged beast just waiting for the moment it could finally break free.
Either to cause immense damage or save a life, it could go either way, as long as I got to unleash all this tension on someone.
And once I did, saving Cas from the Sanctus, frommyfucking family, the beast refused to return quietly to its cage.
Between restless, nightmare-fueled evenings and the resulting achy, furious mornings, I've turned to alcohol even more than I did before. Not only do I use it to quiet my parents' voices inmy head, screaming at me that if I turn against God, he'll turn against me too, but now I have to drown out the urges to create chaos and violence in every situation I'm placed in.
