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Something more is happening here, and Spirit lead me, I’m going to find out what it is.
Chapter Thirty
Sunday
Idon’t really remember anything from lunchtime onward.
I remember going down to the basement freezers and catching my reflection in the steel surface.
And then nothing.
Not until I blinked and Bellamy was standing there, looking at me with wide, terrified eyes. When I saw the blood…I thought he was hurt—not me.
The gash stings. And it doesn’t make sense—I need my hands to work, why would I do this to myself?
But of course, it’s not me, is it? It’s whatever this…this thing is, inside of me, rotting me from the inside out.
My proprioception isn’t the best, so me and table corners meet on the regular, but now I’m thinking the sudden influx of bruising under my tattoos has nothing to do with my weak spatial awareness.
“I told you I’m fine, Bels. It was an accident,” I lie through my fucking teeth as I push open the door to my apartment. I don’t know why I feel the need to lie to him, when I know he’d understand. Maybe this denial is rooted so deep that I can’t face telling him the events of that night in the abandoned hospital.
I don’t know what would be worse: that I need professional help—the same thing I told him once—or that he tells me I’m screwed.
“Yeah, well. I think we should try the meditation thing again,” he tells me, carefully settling the overnight bag that we retrieved from his place earlier by the couch.
I didn’t miss the bunch of shiny rocks and herbs he’d stuffed into the front pocket of his purple duffel.
“You know I suck at that,” I protest, throwing my keys on the kitchen island. I’m not all that hungry, but food is the only distraction technique I can come up with. “Can we at least eat first?”
Thirty minutes later, I’m still picking at my Chinese takeout and pushing it around the container with my chopsticks while Practical Magic plays in the background.
My appetite has been shot since that week I spent puking up rancid water. I’d like to say I haven’t been obsessively checking my weight on the scale, but watching the number drop is giving me anxiety. I’ve worked hard for my body, and now this fucking parasite is eating me from the inside out.
“I was thinking…maybe I could teach you about chakras? It might help if you understand it more.” Bellamy’s voice startles me, but I think I manage to hide it well enough. Even so, his eyes are lined with concern, his incisors tugging on his bottom lip.
I hate the nervousness rolling off him at the question, like he’s waiting for me to shut him down. An older version of me might have, but not this one. Never again.
“I’d like that,” I say, giving up on my attempt at nourishing myself. Not that you can really call limp noodles and greasy sauce nourishment, but I’m trying.
Bellamy’s face splits open with unfettered joy as he bounds off the couch, excited by the prospect of teaching me something about his world. He reaches out for my hands with little grabby motions that make me want to shake him out of pure cuteness aggression.
I slip my hands into his palms and he pulls me up, tugging me away from the couch and toward the kitchen island. I’ve got no idea where this is leading, but I’m intrigued.
He stops me just by the island, then braces his palms on the cool terrazzo counter, pushing himself up. Reaching forward, he grabs a fistful of my black shirt and tugs me until I’m standing between his legs.
“Okay, so. According to Hindu and Buddhist traditions, chakras regulate the flow of life energy through the body. Chakra knowledge has been openly shared across cultures, and the system itself is compatible with a lot of spiritual practices. There are seven chakras. Are you with me so far?” His voice is smooth and confident. Demanding, almost.
“I think so,” I say, a little lost but not wanting to disappoint him. I make a mental note to look it up in more detail later.
“This,” he says, flicking his finger on my forehead.
“Hey!” I gripe, rubbing at the spot and making a pouty face at him.
“That’s your Crown Chakra. Well, the top of your head, specifically.” He brings his finger up again, this time offering me a much kinder touch between my eyebrows. “Your Third Eye Chakra lives here.”
My body starts to heat up at his closeness. His knees bracket my hips, his breath ghosting over the base of my throat as he strokes two fingers down either side of the cartilage there. I can feel my pulse fluttering under the touch; I wouldn’t be surprised if my death’s-head hawkmoth tattoo came to life and took flight.
“Throat Chakra,” he breathes, sliding his hand down my body.
