Page 2 of The Ache That Stayed

“I didn’t—please—”

The man’s eyes widened with panic. His gaze flicked up to mine, wild with terror now, hands clawing at my wrist. But the more he writhed, the tighter my grip got. I brought my mouth to his ear and spoke slowly and calmly.

“This is the part where you stop talking,” I told him.

He shook his head frantically. “I won’t say anything—I swear—”

I twisted his arm behind his back. There was a clean, sharp crack as the joint gave.

He screamed then—high and broken, almost animal.

With one hand still wrapped around his nape, I dragged him to the guardrail separating the black river. I drove his throat into the guardrail hard enough to rattle his teeth. The sound was sharp, metallic, and satisfying. I wrapped my hand around the back of his head and pushed him harder again. I heard a crack, and his body went slack, collapsing in on itself like a puppet with its strings cut.

I stood there for a moment, rain soaking me to the skin, watching the life drain out of his eyes.

The current of the river was swollen—slow, patient, hungry. It didn’t rush. It pulled. I watched how the lights from the bridge above cast dancing reflections on the river’s belly, like teeth flashing before a bite. The downpour had finally stopped.

I grabbed the man’s body and tossed it over the railing into the black water. He went down with a large splash, and then it was quiet.

Somewhere far in the distance, traffic hummed faintly—life moving on, indifferent.

The cold settled deeper into my bones.

I watched until the river swallowed him whole like a hungry beast.

I lit another cigarette and studied my hand, flexing it. Physical pain almost felt foreign now, in comparison to the dull ache that hollowed my chest, gnawing me from the inside.

Violence had always been easy. It was the one thing that numbed everything else, the way morphine numbs pain without healing the wound.

I stripped my hoodie and jeans and tossed them into the water—the river would do the rest. I turned back to the car, breathing steady, pulse even, and put on fresh clothes and my leather jacket. My boots still had some blood on them, but I ignored it. I checked myself once in the rear-view mirror and smudged the blood on my jaw and neck. It didn’t come off; instead, it just sat there like war paint. No one questioned blood on a night like this.

I drove, the windows fogging from the heat of my own breath. I needed noise. Alcohol. And a fuck that meant nothing after a night like this. A temporary fix enough to quiet the thoughts for a few hours.

The rain blurred the city into streaks of colour and light. Tyres hissed through standing water, each turn sending a thin spray against the doors. I passed pubs, bars, and restaurants.

The first club was too quiet—like people went there to let their thoughts run free. I, however, wanted to escape mine.

The second was too empty—a ghost town, mostly filled with men who looked like they would be heading straight to their graves from the pub.

The third was chaos—crowded, loud, alive. Perfect. The place was packed with bodies and noise. Messy. Alive. Music pounded through the walls like a heartbeat.

Halloween.

Masks everywhere. People drunk enough to believe anonymity was armour.

I parked, straightened my jacket, and stepped out. I slipped a bill to the bouncer, Greg, as he handed me a mask—it was a masquerade-themed party.

There was blood on my knuckles. On my collar. I didn’t bother cleaning it off. Tonight, it would pass for costume. No one looked twice.

A woman bumped into me as I entered the club.

“Nice costume,” she purred as her friend dragged her drunk ass away from me.

Inside, the heat hit me first—sweat, alcohol, perfume layered thick enough to choke on. The floor stuck slightly under my boots, spilled drinks clinging to rubber and leather. The club was a riot of bad decisions—lights strobing like a migraine behind the eyes, music throbbing, laughter spilling out like alcohol, and strangers grinding against one another as though they’d paid for the privilege. I pushed through the crowd and ordered a drink I wouldn’t finish.

This was what life had been these few years.

Bars. Beds. Bodies that blurred together. It kept the noise dull enough to function.