My jaw clenches as I stand. There are no tears, only heat from anger that reaches my temples. My vision blurs, not from crying, but from rage as I storm into the living room.
“Kiki,” I say.
I grab a pillow from the sofa. She turns her head toward me. I seize her by the throat and slam her to the floor.
She smiles, says nothing, as if she had waited for this moment all the time, and I press the pillow down over her face.
Her hands fly up, striking my arms, clawing, desperate as she fights for air.
But I have zero fucks to give.
I hold the pillow there until she stops moving.
Coughing sounds behind me, making me stop for a second.
The second I hear it, I leave the pillow where it is and run back to the bedroom.
Emily has pulled herself upright, leaning against the cold bathroom tiles. She slides down into a sitting position, her hands limp at her sides, her body refusing to cooperate.
Her eyes flutter, and she starts to close them again.
I rush to her and drop to my knees. My palm presses against her cheek, searching for warmth, for proof she’s alive. Her head tilts, her body slackens.
“Freckles,” I whisper.
No response.
I pull her into my arms and lift her, carrying her to the bed. I lay her down and strip away her wet clothes.
She opens her eyes, closes them again, too weak to resist.
How can someone look so empty and still be so beautiful?
When I pull off her shirt, I see small white marks.
Thin lines carved into her skin, some deeper, some faded, some fresh enough to still hold shape. Both arms are covered, as they have always belonged there.
You don’t have to be a genius to know what they are.
Her scars. She was self-harming.
They say scars mean you survived. No one talks about how heavy surviving can be.
I know that well. I survived torture. Just hers came from her own hands, mine came from my own father.
I trace the lines gently with my fingers, following them down to the small rose tattoo on her wrist. I press my thumb there, feel her pulse under my skin.
Steady.
The tension in my chest loosens.
I pull a blanket over her and step back from the bed. I turn, already thinking about the body in the living room, about what has to be done next.
Her fingers close around my hand.
“Stay,” she whispers.
I should leave. I should finish what I started. I should clean the blood, erase the evidence, disappear again, and go back to the Institute and pretend as if nothing happened.
