“Just because you didn't die doesn't mean you weren't a victim.”
The hatred in her eyes is brutal, sharp, and violent.
It tears through my chest like shrapnel, shredding the thing that's supposed to be a heart, the thing that is supposed to guide you to make good choices in life. Mine led me to this... to this beautiful little pistol with fury in her veinsthat she doesn't know how to contend with, sorrow in her soul that I was stupid enough to think we could carve out.
“Just because you didn't scream doesn't mean you said yes.”
I feel faint, but I won't fucking go weak in front of her. Not when she needs me to be strong.
“Just because you're hurt doesn't mean you should ignore the pain.”
“Just because you love me doesn't mean you shouldn't let me go.” She challenges, crossing her arms.
The thought of letting her go makes my bones ache. I rub my chest to ease the agony her words inspire.
The silence is heavy before I find my voice.
“Is that what you want? For me to let you go?”
I don't know what my life would look like without her. The thought of going back to the way things were before her... it's incomprehensible. Impossible.
I don't know if I even exist anymore without her beside me.
If we separate, I think she'll take too much of me with her.
“That's not what I want.” She shakes her head, tears running freely now.
Relief courses through me, and I bridge the distance between us to pull her against me, her small body conforming to mine in all the right ways. She lets me hold her like that for a moment before she pulls away.
“That's not what I want, Cal. And that's exactly why it's what I need.”
43
Cal
We spend our final days together fucking, feasting, and watching horror movies that seem incredibly cheesy and unrealistic compared to what we've done. I try to talk sense into her, to make her see that her request is wrong.
All that it amounts to, though, is my realization that she's not insane. I mean, maybe she is. But she's also, without a doubt, depressed.
I recognize the symptoms now for what they are, from when I watched my mother suffer through it following my brother's funeral.
She wants to die, but she's too fucking tired to even admit that, too tired to even try to do it herself. She needs help, and I don't know how to find anyone qualified without her having to dance around the truth of what we did in her efforts to keep us safe.
I have a plan, though, to free her from the oppressive unhappiness, the sorrow tugging at her soul. I just need time to implement it.
I spend so much time fucking her hard, in every way she will let me, sharing the power in the fleeting moments where she rolls on top or takes control, that she's been exhausted. Exhaustion is good because it keeps her from torturing herself.
I work while she's asleep, making plans.
The paper she gave me when I asked her for names is small. It's a short list, given that one of the two names on there has already been crossed off.
We killed Jenko, and the only regret I have is that I don't know a necromancer who could bring him back to do the whole damn thing again. He deserves a thousand deaths, each one more painful and violent for what he did to my little doll and to every other person who became one of his victims.
The other name, though. He still needs to be dealt with.
Eric Giante.
The fucker who was supposed to love my girl, to treat her like his child, hasn't been seen in months. He's just disappeared, fallen right off the face of the earth. I've done searches through every provider site I could think of, ran his address, and combed his police files. His wife reported him missing last summer, when he missed his parole meeting.
