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“I came. I’m here,” she says softly.
She.
Her.
The girl we stole.
The girl we imprisoned.
The girl I hurt.
Nothing…
Christy.
She offers sanctuary with her touch, a home in her arms that I don’t deserve, but one I’ve longed for my whole pitiful existence. I’ve been so cruel to her and yet, here she is, comforting me in this fucking place filled to the brim with pure, undiluted evil.
She shouldn’t be here.
My body jerks, electrical currents building beneath my skin, snapping and crackling, forcing life into my pulse as it pounds loudly in my ears.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I fight hard to let go but she fights harder to hold on.
One minute I’m slipping back under, the next hauled towards the surface.
Back and forth I’m pulled between life and death.
She doesn’t give up, she doesn’t let go, and like the currents of the sea I feel myself returning to the shore, drawn to her just like I have been since the moment we stole her.
Warm breath hovers over my cheek as she whispers in my ear, “This isn’t the day you die.”
The words are given softly, spoken gently. There’s no hate, no intent to harm, just honesty.
Just the truth.
This isn’t the day I die.
And just like that my soul reattaches, locking into place.
Click. Click. Click.
With consciousness comes pain. It thunders through every inch of me and forces a scream to rip out of my throat as the world and everything in it comes crashing back in full, agonising technicolour. I feel it all at once. Everything that my body had turned off is suddenly and irreversibly switched back on.
It hurts.
It motherfucking hurts.
Every cut, slash, bruise and break rips me open. Every memory. Every act of violence and cruelty. I relive it all in one single rush of pain that arches my spine, lifting me off the floor, sending my legs and arms flying outwards like a baby slipping from its mother’s arms.
I’m on fire. I’m a mass of agony, misery and torment.
My teeth grind together. My knuckles threaten to break free from my skin from how hard my hands are fisted. My elbows, arse and heels press into the hardwood floor, reminding me of injuries inflicted on the boy who crawls towards her through the mire of our past, desperate for comfort, for love, for a drop of human kindness. He writhes beneath my skin, desperate to shake free from the man he grew into. But it’s no use because he’s pushed back by the hurricane of pain whipping up old wounds and merging them with recent ones.
There’s no release. Not this time.
This is my penance. This is retribution for all the badI’vedone, all the sins I’ve committed because I wasn’t brave enough to say fucking no.
