Page 13
“She is elusive and very hard to find because she hops from country to country, but I believe the next eligible bachelor shall gain her attention. Especially if it is one of our individuals from the organization.”
His words give me pause, as my mind swims.
“Do you understand your assignments?” He shouts, startling me from my questioning mind.
“Yes sir,” I reply swiftly and matter-of-factly.
“Good. Now leave. You are boring me.” He dramatically shoves the papers from the table, standing to his feet. “Get out, I say. Leave!”
I stand abruptly.
“Faster, dog!” His shrill voice pierces my eardrums.
Some monsters chase you. While others train you to run for your life.
The town house is silent. No ticking clock. No crackling fire. No cheerful remarks or cackling from Alcott drifting down the corridor. Just silence. The kind that settles into old wounds and begins picking at them.
I shrug off my coat and let it fall wherever it pleases. For once, I cannot find the energy to care.
The Collector’s words continue to echo through my skull. Dog.
Tool.
Asset.
Whatever name he chooses, the meaning remains the same. Everything feels so heavy, and I cannot contain the pressure building within my chest. Slowly I shed the clothing from my body, in hopes that it will ease a bit of weight from my limbs. Placing one foot in after the other, the water envelops me.
The hot bath offers little comfort to my stressed muscles, and the tightening in my chest has now turned to a constricting squeeze. Steam curls from the water, fogging the mirror while I stare at my reflection.
Pathetic.
Exhausted.
Weak.
The face looking back at me appears older than it should.
My fingertips tighten around the object I keep hidden within the vanity drawers. When the pressure builds within me, I know how to release it. To ease the constricting feel.
The razor glints beneath the low-light lantern.
My familiar ritual.
One I have promised myself I would stop a thousand times before. One I never seem capable of abandoning. The pressure inside my chest becomes unbearable. The growing guilt. The spine-crawling fear of the Collector. The self-loathing. All of it demanding release. I raise the blade to my wrist and begin one small slice, but cease when the room grows cold. Not gradually. Instantly. Every muscle in my body locks. No. .
“Polar bears are white!” I shout.
The phrase echoes through the washroom. A phrase that has assisted time and time again to release my brother from the confines of his darkness. Nothing happens, and I peer around the washroom frantically. The figure standing within the doorway remains motionless.
My blood turns to ice. Darkness smiles, a grimace that would make a lion cower.
I sneer between my teeth, not allowing my fright to etch through my facial features. “I said polar bears are white.”
His eyes narrow at me as he sets one foot into the room and halts. Why isn’t it working? That phrase always worked. Always. An eerie laugh fills the room.
“Oh?” Darkness asks, resting casually against the wall. “You’re not happy to see me, Edward?”
My pulse begins hammering. He shouldn’t be here. Alcott should be here.
