ME: McCrae’s fine, thanks for asking.
ME: You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?
I jolt awake, my fingers threaded so tightly through the sheets, my knuckles ache. Chest heaving, I look around the room, searching for the threat lurking—my heart roars, filling my ears, and I can hardly hear my own breathing, much less an intruder.
The darkness in the room seems blacker somehow—like a fog settling over a deserted highway or walking into a deep forest with towering trees covering the midnight sky.
Blinking, I try to clear my eyes of the haze, tears spilling down my cheeks as terror grips her familiar claws deep into my chest and tears, shredding my composure.
“It’s nothi—nothing,” I sob to myself, feeling around for my light switch. When I find it, I click it on with a gasp, half expecting to find the devil himself standing over my bed, ready to drag me to hell. I’m met only with an empty room, not a thing out of place.
But I can’t shake the feeling of danger, my consciousness screaming so loud, my ears will surely burst. I cover my face, sobbing harder into my knees as I bring them to my chest.
It’s not just darkness threatening me now, but the endless loneliness. I’m drowning once more, sinking farther and farther, no longer able to see the light, no longer able to feel my body. I’m numb, deaf, blind to the world, and there’s no escaping the voice in my head reminding me just how worthless, how alone I truly am.
I could go back to sleep, roll over, and bury my head beneath the pillows to pray for morning. I’ve done it before—smoked or drank myself to oblivion until I no longer have to think.
Tonight, that won’t fix me. I’m too far gone—already numb. Tonight, I need to feel, anything to keep the monsters out, anything to keep from fading away completely.
I throw back the covers and stumble out of bed. Unable to find my footing, I crash into my bedside table, my lamp smashing against the floor. I stare at it, the navy glass of the base shattered into a million jagged pieces. Just like me—broken, irreparable and useless.
Without thinking, I reach for a particularly large shard, wrapping shaky fingers around its vicious edges. I barely feel it breaking the flimsy skin of my palm, but blood begins to dribble down my arm. I stare at it in fascination, eyes wide, the glass cutting deeper and deeper.
Yet, I feel nothing.
If the blood wasn’t warming my naked flesh, I wouldn’t believe it was even capable of breaking skin.
I continue to stare, in a trance, as more and more races down my arm, forming a small pool around my feet. I’ve always been afraid of blood—McCrae’s blood on my hands was nearly enough to stop my heart.
But this is different. This is proof I’m still alive, even if every fiber of my existence says otherwise. My mind rages at me to slicedeeper, deeper, deeper!How far can I push myself? Where else can I make myself bleed?
“What the fuck?” The voice sounds far away, like it’s coming from the other end of a tunnel. I barely notice, the steady thrum of my heart filling my ears as I watch more of my life fill my palm.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I whisper, watching more blood run down my arm.
“Valentina!” the voice hisses, closer now.
Am I dreaming? Am I dead?
I watch as if outside of my own body, a large, callused hand wrapping around my wrist, ever so gently, as if it’s hesitant of the danger lurking right in front of them.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I repeat, offering what comfort I can.
“Drop the glass, V.” Warm air fans across my cheek.
Reluctantly, I flick my gaze to the voice, meeting piercing green eyes, wide with panic as he stares at me and the mess I’ve made. There’s unfiltered concern filling the lines of his hard, perfect face, and I reach out, tracing the deepest one between his brows with my uninjured hand. He doesn’t move, his breathing coming in short bursts, lips slightly parted, as if locked in the trance with me.
“Please, Valentina—” He says my name like a prayer, and my heart cracks at the sound. Pain and grief come flooding in with such ferocity, I gasp, dropping the glass with a sob.
“Oh God, wh—what’d I do?” I pull my bloodied palm to my chest, a throbbing crawling up my arm.
Santos releases my wrist, his arms enveloping me. It seems instinctual, and I don’t bother fighting him off. Not this time.
I’m too fucking weak to fight.
“You’re safe,” he says into my hair.
I sob, “I’ll never be safe. Not while the demons still fill my head.”
