Page 513 of Coal Hearts

I wanted to run my fingertips over her honeyed skin. To tip up her chin. To kiss—

“That’s fucking bullshit,” Roland snarled. “He’s a snitch, Vic. We all know it!”

“Yes, he is.” Victor nodded. “But he’s my snitch. He snitched on his brother, and I expect him to keep providing me with information about his family as and when I require it. But for now, he stays, you go, and that’s all I have to say on the matter.”

Clapping his hands, he smirked. “Now, enjoy your last breakfast in paradise, gentlemen. For those who live in Europe, you may join me on the first flight out of here. For those who live farther abroad, you will have to wait until my captain returns.” He bowed with a twist of his lips. “Farewell, my friends. I hope next time we play together, you will remember this moment and behave. Otherwise, I might suddenly find myself with a few more jewels by collaring you instead.”

He swept out of the room like a royal.

The Masters broke out into heated words.

And I tapped my little nightmare on the shoulder and got her out of there.

* * * * *

THE CURSE OF BLOOD & DARKNESS

by

Henri Mercer

I can’t decide if this will be fiction or non-fiction.

If I pen this as fiction, then I can get away with embellishing all my best parts and downplaying all my worst. I can pretend that the monster who loves blood and tears isn’t some sick freak who craves things he should never crave, but a messed-up man who feels closest to his woman when her essence is on his tongue.

If I keep it as fiction, I can weave a story about how that first splash of bitter, bloody wine bursts like a red, red orange in my mouth. How the zesty spritz fills my every synapse with more than just her lifeforce but her very fucking spirit.

I can bravely write down how hard her blood makes this particular character. How bestial he becomes from a single forbidden sip. He doesn’t have to mention the dark depression that’s taken residence in his soul. Doesn’t have to look into that abyss that’s replaced his heart.

As long as this tale is fictional...this man can go on living instead of listening to those ever-increasing whispers to end it before he goes too far.

But...

I can’t write this as fiction because it’s real.

I’m real.

I’m the beast.

I’m the man who can’t say Ily’s name anymore yet has fantasies of making her bleed.

I’m the monster who lives in constant fucking purgatory because I can’t wake up from these urges, and I can’t seem to run away from them either—

Looking up from re-writing the first page of my memoir/fantasy for the hundredth time, I stretched my fingers and sighed.

A week since Victor flew away without a goodbye.

Five days since the last Master hitched a lift back to their wives, families, and work commitments.

Three days since I’d had a check-up with Dr Belford and learned the insistent itching of my stitches was a good sign—a healing sign—instead of an infection I feared (wanted to) kill me.

My head no longer ached so badly. The mild concussion had come and gone, and without Victor breathing down my neck, I didn’t need to be quite as sharp as usual. The relief at being able to relax hit me like a fucking bulldozer, and I retreated inside.

I shut down.

I turned off.

I did what I’d always done when things got too much and found solace in words.