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Time passes by and I kiss her, licking her orgasm from her lips each time I make her break apart, open, and in the throes of it all, I am in utter and total peace.
Hours later, we lay in silence, side by side, our legs entwined, our breaths heavy. My mind. . .settled.
So fuckingquiet. . .
She shuffles until her head is on my bicep and her small gentle hand rests on my chest, her fingers tickling my hairs. She moves them over my torso, investigating my ink.Do you want to know what they all mean, baby?
Her palm presses over my Anubis tattoo and a rough sigh leaves me. Her eyes widen like saucers, darting up to my face. She feels them. As her fingers roll over the hidden uneven skin, her amber irises pool, tears clinging to the corners. I hate her tears, but they are mine, too.
His and mine.
I’ll share her with him. Him with her. No one else.
The tips of her fingers skate along the small valleys and bumps of the scars I love so much. Five years ago, they faded, and I couldn’t fucking stand it, so I needed colour and form. Needed a constant reminder of the flames that had burnt me and him when I had said goodbye.
“What happened?” she whispers, cupping the spot between my hip and arm as if she can apply enough pressure to smooth out my skin.
To heal the memory.
To be a part of it.
But it was just me and him that day.
“I cremated him.”
Bronson
Seventeen years old
I see black.
I hear only maniacal laughter ringing between my ears, but it isn’t from my lips, and today I know, I know it’s in my deranged mind. It followed me on my bike over here - the ghost of a little boy who nearly drowned, invisible but everywhere. He followed me all the way up to the doors and now he’s settled inside me, waiting to be unleashed.
Staring straight ahead, I sway with emotional weakness. Emotional fatigue. My fingers - numb from the death grip I have on my gun. My mind - swarming with evil and indifference.
My heart. . .
I stumble through the glass sliding doors, trying not to sob and snarl at the lady behind the desk. She jumps up with a start, shuffling backwards towards another door. I slowly lift the gun in my hand, the metal piece vibrating in my fist.
Raising her hands up by her head, she says something, but I can’t hear her words or voice through the laughter wrapping itself around my soul. I blink at her.
She is nothing.
Shoot her!
My eyes sting from shedding too many tears. Arid. Painful. Hard to hold open. “Where is my boy?” I mumble, my head heavy and full of blistering hysterics. “Where did you put him?” I don’t want to kill them. I need to. I need my boy. I need. . . “My boy!” I roar, the gun shaking so hard in my clenched hand. Shaking almost as hard as the woman staring death in the eye.
She is crying now.
I can see the tears bursting from her eyes, coating her cheeks, dropping onto her wobbly lips, but I don’t care. Don’t care that she’s scared. Sheshouldcry.
I point the gun at the roof, firing it once, the gun pulsing in my fist, and the lady hits the deck. In the corner of my eye, I see a man slowly walking through a white door beside the desk.
My Glock slides through the air to line up with his face.
With his hands held in sight, his brown eyes widen, and he clears his throat. “Take what you want. We don’t keep cash on the premises.”
The laughter gets louder. I go to speak, but my throat is so rough, I barely can. I clear it and force the words out, “Shoshanna Adel. My boy. Where is he?” The man’s eyes dart around and then he blinks, realisation moving through his face like a dancing demon, taunting me with the truth and pity and bullshit.
