No, something was wrong. These aren’t my thoughts.
You’ve thoughtall ofthese thingsbefore. Own them. They define you.
My brain was on fire from the onslaught of emotions. Dropping the chain, I grabbedat my head as if I could drive out my thoughts. Oh god, I couldn’t stand to be here any longer.Rubbing my hands down my face I realized my face was wet. I was crying. No, I waswhining like an insipid dog.
That’s exactly what you are. You are utterly worthless.
The dark wave came and crushed my soul like a raging oceanuntilI couldn’tbreathe.
At once I was pressurized and completely adrift. Anxiety swarmed my beinglike a million army ants. Every bad moment I’d known poured into my brain like molten lava, unyielding.
Think of something good, I commanded myself.
I was smacked with the memory of my mother driving away from school, accidentlyforgetting she left me behind.
I had to do something. I hadto do somethingright now, but I didn’t know whatitwas.
Pulling the machete off my back,Ifell to my knees.
Everything was unbearable. I was unbearable. I couldn’t live like this anymore.Existence was hell.
I needed blissful silence, a black void of nothing.
Vaguely, I registeredthe sharp edge of the machete against my own throat.
I choked on a sob of relief at knowing I could make it all stop. Make all this pain go away. I wouldn’t have tobeanymore.
Warm blood dribbled down my own neck. I blinked and sawKrystanstanding, stock-still staring at me. A throwing knife in her hand, poised over her wrist, ready to drag down that white skin.
I shut my eyes.SeeingKrystanwas too painful. All she did was cause me pain; kick me when I wasdown,and she’d probably spit on my grave.
Not only could I not have her, she despised me. I couldn’t live loving her and not be loved in return. The one person who’devercome close to loving me, Mrs.Rits, died horriblyand alone.
White light exploded behind my closedeyesand my dark thoughtsdisintegrated into theflash. Blinking, the bite of the machete against my neck came into focus. I dropped it from my trembling hands.I sucked in deep breaths of fresh air like a dying man who’d been suffocating.
Krystanhad the beginningsof a thin bloody trailcutintoher wrist. Unlike me, her eyes were dry but when Ilooked intothem,the depths of her agony scared memore than any thought I'd just been tortured by. For a moment, I thought she was still held in whatever supernatural grip I’d just been in. Thenshewiped her own blood off the knife on her pants and tucked it back into her pants, turned on her heel and walked off.
“Krystan,” I said, my voice hoarse. Forcing my legs to move, I struggled to chase after her. With a glance I sawthe mystery womanwas no longer in the salt circle, but the candles remained, thin tendrils of smoke curling off theblown-outwicks.The scent ofsulfurand sage hung in the air, a sickening, oppressive combination.
Though my mind was once again my own,it felt likesomeone had taken an ice cream scoop to my insides until I was hollowed out.My hands wouldn’t stop trembling and my knees were weakas Istumbledto catch up toKrystan.She’d already moved steadily down four blocks.
What man gets weak knees? You’re not a real man and you knowit.
I batted away the thought and focused onKrystan. She pushed past two bikers smokingoutside toentera crumbling building. Only half the letters in the signabove the divewere lit and the windows were heavily barredover the neon liquor signs.
Following her, I was met with the smell ofcigarettesmoke, hard liquor, and stale vomit.Krystanhadalreadypulled herself up to the bar.
Reaching her side, I braced myself on the bar with one hand finding out too late it was sticky. I clung to thedisgusting counteranyway.
“Krystan,” I said, but was cut off aby the loud clink of glassof brown booze set down in front of her.It was a double.Krystanhad already thrown some bills down.The bartender slid themoneyinto one hand and walked away.
Not long ago, a guy might pause to ask why two banged up, bleedingindividualswere desperate for a drink but in this new world, everyone minded their own business.
Krystan’seyes were dead as she stared at the lineup ofdifferent colored bottlesagainst the large mirrored wall.
“Krystan, you’re pregnant,” I said.
It was hard to hear her over the volume of the crappy cover band playing at the back of the room.
