Page 49 of Was I Ever Here

I’m trying to tire myself out, hoping the exhaustion will hit and maybe I’ll get a chance to sleep for once. I haven't really bothered to try lately. Sleep evades me and I let it. My thoughts are a constant nuisance lately that just never relents and it’s not as if my dreams are any better.

Most of them leave me with an ache so deep I can barely breathe.

The only soothing thought I can muster up lately is Byzantine’s lips on mine. But then again, how soothing is it really?

It’s becoming an obsession. Anytime he’s close, I hyperfixate on the fact that he hasn’t truly kissed me since that first time outside the bookstore. It feels childish to even bring it up. I lack the courage anyway. Let alone try to kiss him myself. We deliberately tip-toe around each other. Even the way we lust over each other is distant.

Watching me like he owns me from across the room as I finger myself under his careful instructions. It was so fucking hot, and yet so unbearably cold.

Maybe this is all part of his master plan. To make me crave his touch until I beg. And I’m veryveryclose to begging. I can’t go a few hours without the thought of his hands on me rushing back in full force. The hot need for release is beginning to permeate my every thought.

Let me see what’s mine.

I didn’t bother correcting him. Was he wrong? It seems he claimed me the moment he wrapped his fingers around my throat in that dark alley. Maybe even before then. Even when I feared him.

I still do. Only now, the reasons I fear him have changed, morphing into something different—other-worldly—slowly pulling me into his orbit.

It’s only been a little over a month since Byzantine walked into Sammies with his deadly presence and promised Gary a slow death. How could I think of him in any other manner than what he is?

A killer. A criminal.

But does it matter?

That version of Byzantine pales in comparison to the one who spoon feeds me his quiet presence in small bites. Like a delicacy. And I crave more and more. Then there’s the unexplainable familiarity. Like a favorite blanket, soft and full of the comforting scents of home. Nothing about it makes sense.

Especially, when it seems like he seeks a level of intimacy I don’t even know if I possess, let alone can reciprocate. A closeness shared through heated looks and probing questions that threatens to topple the walls I so willfully hide behind.

I hate the way he asks about my scar like he’s owed a confession. What was I going to tell him anyway?

That Death showed up one day when I was a teenager and never left? How Death became an intimate friend, rolling itself in a ball at the feet of my bed like a cat while I slept. How I’d write Death poetry while pretending to listen in class or how it would hold my hand in the shower while I cried, the fresh blood on my thigh flowing down the drain.

How Death would whisper in my earnot yet. Over and over again until one day it stopped. One day it just unfurled its bony hands and told me it was time.

Twenty-three was old enough to die. And finally, I had a legitimate excuse. A tragedy that could explain why living always felt so hard. Finally, I could leave this plane with purpose. Death handed me the blade and promised me relief. Release from the anger and the constant ache of living. And I was tired. So fucking tired.

But Death had been full of treasonous lies.

I was unconscious before the blade ever reached my other wrist. My roommate found me in the bathtub. Like a fucking cliche. Waking up in the hospital with my parents hovering over my bed, the same parents who pretended to care if I lived or died, had been one of the worst days of my life.

I had failed. And Death had lied.

Four years later, I was still here.

So no, there was no point in telling Byzantine about my scar.

Finally, I close my eyes, focusing on the warm sun washing over me for a little while longer. Eventually, I swim back to shore, plopping myself on my towel, and try to catch my breath. The exertion must have helped because I slowly drift into sleep a few minutes later.

Chapter 28

Byzantine

Therewasnobodyfor me to mourn. No way for my tears to fall on your skin, promising to love you until my own dying breath.

Why Gabriel?

Why did you have to be so foolish? So close to the edge when the wind had snapped your coat in warning. But it was my fault you were gone. It was my fault—all of it.

This pain was both my solace and my torment. I could still picture you falling from the edge, your hand reaching out to me. A plea for my help. I had failed you Gabriel. I had watched you fall. And did nothing.

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