Page 154 of No Greater Oblivion

Instead, all I feel is numb.

Blood covers my arms and seeps into the crevices of my scarred palms. When I stretch and extend my fingers, the dried blood cracks and reveals the wet pools underneath.

No one’s spoken since we left the warehouse and I prefer it that way. I have nothing to say and long for the safety and solitude of my bedroom where I’ll finally be able to collapse. One by one I’ll be able to flip the switches back on in my mind and process each emotion as it hits me. First, I’ll start with grief. Then anger and confusion. Finally, I’ll topple between melancholy and acceptance and hope the lesser two emotions will help ease me back into a more human state.

I never want to be or feel this numb again. Such an aversion to human pain could become addictive and I’d be doing a disservice to myself and those around me if I descended into a state of mind of which there’s no return.

Dimitrio turns onto our street and parks the car out front. As soon as the doors are unlocked, I race through the motions of getting inside.

Right foot, left foot, keys, handle, foyer, stairs, apartment door. Drop keys, hang up coat, walk down the gallery hall, up another flight, turn, door, office, sit.

Breathe.

Count to ten.

Breathe again.

Don’t stop breathing.

All the muscles in my body ache. They scream and cry in protest of every movement no matter how slight. My eyes burn and the lids are heavy with the weight of several sleepless nights. Months’ worth of them. There’s still so much to do and take care of but consciousness slips away from me. I almost let the dark carry me away when a knock on my office door jolts me awake.

Diego stands at the threshold but doesn’t enter. “Is it done?”

I part my lips to speak but only manage a nod. It takes me several tries to string together a sentence. “Bring Dahlia…please.”

She was upset with me earlier, I think. Whatever it was, I’m sure I deserved it. She can yell at me until she’s blue in the face if it’ll make her feel better but I need her here, if only for a moment. It’s the only way I’ll be able to recenter myself.

“She’s not here.”

“Of course she isn’t…” I exhale. “Call her then and tell her to come home. Or have one of the men pick her up.”

Diego hesitates before finally stepping inside. He closes the door behind him. “She isn’t in Barcelona.”

It doesn’t click right away. “Who the hell let her drive out of the city? Where is she?”

He checks the time on his watch and says, “I imagine just landing in JFK. But it’s more likely she’s already with Lyss at her old apartment. We haven’t spoken since I dropped her off at the airport twelve hours ago.”

At first, the words don’t permeate. My brother and I stare at one another from across the room, each of us expecting something from the other. A reaction, a response, anything to break the silence. The wheels in my head turn at a glacial pace as memories from the last twenty-four hours flood the forefront of my mind. I try to sort through them myself but they’re a blur. Regina, Sandro, Dahlia.

I don’t want to wait until tomorrow, I want to talk now.

So either talk to me or I won’t be here in the morning.

Realization thunders through me. I stand and Diego holds his breath, awaiting my reaction.

I storm past him on my way out; take the stairs two at a time, sprint down the hall, and almost knock over a side table in the process. I barge through the bedroom doors, hoping they’ll send me back in time to the moment she left.

Our room is empty.

The lights are off and the curtains are drawn. Colorful pillows sit neatly arranged against the headboard and the sheets are pressed and smooth. No one’s slept in them. Some of the drawers and racks in the walk-in closet have been emptied and the bathroom hasn’t been used in hours. I can tell because the scent of her soap has already faded to a faint whisper in the air.

This can’t be real. A nightmare, maybe. Hell, most probably.

I head back to our room and instinct has me calling her name. It’s like even met with the reality of her absence I can’t help but default to her presence. She’s gone but she isn’t really; in a few minutes, someone will wake me up and this will all disappear.

On the vanity, I spot a neatly folded piece of paper kept in place by a brass key. I pick it up and sink into Dahlia’s chair to read it.

Alejandro,