The black tattoos together with his raven hair contrast with how pale his skin is, almost making him look like he’s in a black-and-white filter.
I graze the black lines of his original last name in Azbuka. A tattoo honoring his real father, who died fighting for his country. He doesn’t remember him, he was still a baby when that happened.
His mother’s name is right under it. Svetlana. Laced with a black rose.
My fingers slide down his side and ribs, touching some other words in Azbuka, little ones this time, in a beautiful handwritten font. That’s a part of the song he and Natalya liked when they were kids. The song he sang to her while holding her in his arms so she wouldn’t hear her mother being raped and choked to death by some soldiers.
Tears start falling down my cheeks, and I can’t stop them. I see him as a child—small, breakable, holding his little sister, desperate to keep her away from what’s happening right in front of his eyes, watching his mother fighting for air and slowly dying on filthy ground.
A memory that traumatized him forever.
I remember when he told me. Only fragments of it. I had to figure out the rest of what happened. And suddenly it made sense to me. The detachment and fear in his eyes when I wanted to touch him for the first time. When I wanted him to make love to me for the first time.
And that day he told me, I saw him cry for the first time ever.
I remember how special it felt. He was always so controlled, and seeing his walls break felt like holding a piece of his soul. Just a couple of tears crawled down his cheeks, no sobbing, no change in expression. It was so heartbreaking and beautiful at the same time.
Not like when I cry. I get all red and swollen, and bile sticks in my throat. Just like now when I graze the memories he carved into his skin.
I follow some other lines all the way to his arm, muscles lacing together with veins covering them along the way to the wrist.
His hands.
I always knew the melted skin meant something horrible, but he never told me the story behind it. Well, he did, but I didn’t believe him. I saw the pain in his eyes when he lied to me, saying it was a terrible accident that happened when he was fifteen. I just know there are things he never opened up about, either because he feels ashamed or he thinks it would scare me off.
No matter what it is, it could never change the way I see him. I wish he could see how beautiful he is through my eyes. I feel like the damaged hands just symbolize all the pain he has to carry with him every day.
Another rain of tears falls down my face, and I have to hold back the sob so I don’t wake him up. I keep staring at him, devouring the sight of him and keeping bad thoughts out of my mind.
I won’t lose him again. God knows I wouldn’t survive it twice.
So why do I feel so anxious? Why do I feel the need to drug him to stay with me?
Pain and happiness are mixing in my chest while we lie in silence, his barely audible snoring keeping me calm.
It’s early in the morning, and I can see how the darkness is breaking and light is slowly coming in through the dark clouds.
I’ve become anxious about sunlight while I’m here. Every time it comes, he shuts me out or I end up waking up alone. I could drug him so he sleeps through the day and then wakes up at night. But I can’t get up, he’s holding me so tight my legs could soon die from not getting enough blood flow.
Grey light starts to fill the room, and I finally take a good look around. The base of his suite is the same as mine, same windows and same gothic features, but the contents are so minimalistic. Right next to the big French window is a piece of black furniture, full of guns and knives. All the weapons are lined up perfectly next to each other, precisely.
On the night table beside the bed is another gun, the one he’s always carrying around.
Everywhere else are just tons of books, perfectly aligned by color in the big library cabinets. I tilt my head to see right into the walk-in closet, all the contents only black and white, with some grey, aligned by color again, of course.
I look at his sleeping head and smile.
My little freak, are you, Kasien.
He moves his head in my lap.
No, no, no, don’t wake up. Stay like this.
He doesn’t let me go but sinks his face into my belly, inhaling my skin again.
I grin through the dried tears.
He’s a little weirdo but I love whatever is wrong with him. I’m not scared of it anymore. Sometimes I have a feeling he wants to bite into my neck and rip my head off, but I’m surprisingly okay with that.
