“I have lived too long, feeling as if I am dead, and something tells me, Sienna, that you have done the same,” he continues.
I shake my head. “Just give me the key,” I say, trying to snap myself out of the trance he has me in.
“I’m not your enemy,” he says, almost sounding convincing enough for me to believe him. But I don’t,I think.
“How can you say that? You’re a murderer!” I shout.
“I killed for you.”
“Don’t you dare pin your kills on me. Every kill you have made is on you, because of you,” I seethe.
“I had to kill Leo,” he begins, but that is when my hearing dimmed.
Had to kill Leo.
His mouth continues to move as I replay that sentence repeatedly in my head. The confession I have been waiting for. The confession that makes my world come crashing down all over again.
I finally come to, snapping out of the fog his confession has me in as I catch the last of what he is saying.
“The only way that I was able to preserve your life was to end his. It was the only way I could save you. It was the only option I had to save us.”
I can’t believe what he is trying to tell me right now. What, did he seriously believe that killing Leo was the best way to separate us, so he could have me for himself?
“There is no us, you sick fuck! Now, give me the fucking key!” I shout, my voice still trembling, but the anger is taking over.
“I’ve waited so long to say this to you, Sienna.” He clears his throat, about to speak whatever he thinks his piece is. I’m fully expecting him to begin reciting Poe again, but as he begins speaking, it’s not Poe he is reciting, it’s my poem.
“Fractured we remain, scarred by our past and wary of the future,”he begins to recite.
My heart is racing. How does he know that poem? No one, aside from Leo and Eddie that day at the tattoo shop, ever laid eyes on it.
“Carmine, what are you doing?” I ask, but he ignores me and continues.
“Together we sit waiting to be mended from a pain that feels like it’s beyond repair.”
“Stop it, you are scaring me,” I plead. The emotions this is bringing up in me make me feel sick. Though, as I look at him reciting my poem, there appears to be a weight lifted off his shoulders.
“One side mine, one side yours.”
“You’re fucking sick, Carmine, stop!” I plead, fighting back the tears.
“I hold the needle, you hold the thread …Oh, how I have missed you my beautiful,Sen,” he interrupts himself.
“Stop!” I shout. I can’t take this anymore.
“You should be the one to open it, but before you do,” he stops himself and begins to take off the undershirt he is wearing.
What the fuck is he doing?
I look down at his usually confident, strong hands, which are now trembling. His vulnerability in this fucking bizarre moment we have found ourselves in is like a magnet. I can’t help but be drawn to him.
I rise and stand in front of him, waiting. For what exactly, I’m not sure. But this moment, through the bewilderment and betrayal I feel, something tells me to stop and hear him out. To see what it is that has him quivering.
My gaze locks in on the tattoo on his hand. I watch as his fingers begin to bend as they grasp the fabric of his undershirt. He slowly begins to raise the fabric, revealing his torso. The muscular definition that comprises his arms continues through his abdomen, as does the mural of ink that adorns the rest of his body.
My eyes scan his flesh as the white of the shirt disappears, leaving me with a feast of muscle and black ink to rest my sights on. I’m not sure why he is taking off his shirt so dramatically, but as he turns, I suddenly become dizzy. Déjà vu, nausea, desire, grief all begin to invade my system. I feel like the room is spinning, yet I am grounded in the vision before me.
It can’t be.
