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I cannot stray far from you.But I will never see Anastasia again, not in life or in death. I am so far from her that I can never find her again, and the pain of that knowledge feels unbearable.
Somehow I fall asleep, my body worn out with grief and release and pain. The sleep is restless, my dreams disjointed, full of images of Anastasia. I dream of her coming to me that night. I’d told her no, told her to stop, but she’dwantedme.
What about this?she whispers again in my dream, as she rises up on her toes to kiss me. She knew me; she knew a part of what I was capable of, and yet she came to me. She stripped off her clothes with her own hands, and in my feverish dream, I recall it, the creamy beauty of her skin, the petite shape of her frame. The way she felt in my hands as she rose above me, the way she felt on my cock as she sank down onto me.
I’d hurt her that night. Grabbed her, threatened her. And yet she’d listened to my story. She’dstayed.
In my dreams, I’m inside of her again. In my dreams, I hear her say she loves me. I can’t remember, in truth, if she ever said the words out loud, or if I only imagined them. And yet, I know she did.
In my dreams, I see her on the table again, her eyes wide and frightened, begging me to save her from the twisted test I’d given her. To not force her first time with Liam to be rape.
That’s what it was. That is what I did to her. I violated her with another man’s body, and in my nightmares, I see it again and again. I see her leaving with the man that I thought I could make her hate, and yet, by listening to Yvette’s poison, I only lost Anastasia.
And in truth, I can’t blame Yvette for it. I could have said no. I could have been horrified by the very thought of such a thing. But I hadn’t been.
In my dreams, Ana’s face, turned towards me on the table as Liam thrusts into her, becomes Noelle’s. Her red lips part, forming my name—but she turns to Liam, and her arms go around his neck. “Yes,” she purrs. “Let him see. Let him see you fuck me. Let him see you make me come—”
I wake up with a jolt in the dark room, moonlight streaming through the curtains, in a cold sweat. My heart is pounding in my chest, my injuries aching, old and new.
The grief feels as if it has settled into my bones. I had hoped that Noelle would be my fresh start, my chance to heal, but all I’ve done is fallen further.There is no hope for me,I think dully as I sit up, feeling as if it takes physical effort, as if I’m weighed down with pain and guilt.I am the monster they all think I am.
Slowly, I stumble out of the room and down the hall. I pause at Noelle’s doorway, hesitating, and then I step inside.
Her curtains are open, the moonlight peering through next to her bed. She’s curled under the blankets, wearing different clothes—a grey top with thin straps—her hair wet as if she bathed.Of course, she did,I think angrily, hating myself.She was covered in your cum, you fucking beast.
There’s no lust now, thinking about it, only shame. I’d used her, treated her as less than a person, like an object for me to vent my fury and my desires on. I hate myself for what I did to her, to Anastasia, down to my very core.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, looking down at her. “I’m so sorry, Noelle.” I reach down, brushing a lock of dark hair away from her face. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why nothing can fix me. I—” I swallow hard, feeling the knowledge of what needs to be done settling down into my bones. “I’m sorry.”
She stirs lightly, and I lean down, brushing my lips softly against hers. I have no right to, but I want to touch her softly, once. To feel her the way it might be if things were different, if I were worthy of love, of having something like her.
If I could be anything other than a beast.
I back out of the room, closing the door lightly behind me, so I don’t wake Noelle. Before, my chest had ached, but now I feel nothing, only a heavy numbness. After feeling pain for so long, it feels almost good to have the absence of it. To feelnothingfor a change.
In the kitchen, I don’t turn on the lights. I know where the wine is kept, and my favorite bottle by feel. I reach for it, fumbling with the wine opener, feeling as if a heavy fog of certainty has fallen over me. When the bottle is open, I toss the cork into the sink, standing there as I drink from the bottle, looking out at the moon. I wait for the grief to settle over me again, the cowardice, the fear. I wait to think of how, if I do this, I will never see the moon again or how I will never taste this wine again. I wait to feel regret, the desire to back down, as I did the night I buried Margot, the night I returned to this very apartment from Boston.
I feel nothing.
Others, in my position, would leave a note. But who would I write it to? Not Noelle, who will be grateful to be free of me. In all the world, Anastasia would be the only one who might want to read such a thing, and how would she ever get it? Even then, I don’t honestly believe she would want it.
She’s moved on. Her world has moved on. I think of her and Liam in their apartment, of her growing round and full with a child that could very well be mine, and my eyes burn with tears.
My child.That child, if it is truly mine, is better off living in a world that I do not inhabit.If I live, they might find me one day,I think, taking another deep drink of the wine, and another. The rich flavor flows over my tongue, and I close my eyes, savoring it for the last time.
It’s better for everyone if I’m gone. For Noelle, certainly. For Anastasia, certainly. For my child, possibly, if they ever got it into their head to try to find me, though I’m certain Liam and Anastasia will keep that a secret to their graves, if they can.
Will I see you, Margot?I close my eyes, picturing her dark hair, sparkling eyes, and freckled cheeks. I remember my hand on her belly when she’d told me, the light on her face, and the plans that we’d made.
Another love and another child lost. There is no future for me beyond that, beyond pain, beyond loss. And all I do is inflict it on others.
It’s time for me to join them.
I drink the wine, gulp by gulp, the fine French wine flowing over my tongue and down my throat until it’s finished. I look out of the window as I smash the bottle in the sink, reaching for the largest shard, and only then does the pain and grief return, followed by acrid fear.
I loved this world once.I have always been afraid to leave it, of the darkness that will follow. I believe in nothing beyond this world, and I never have. Not even Maximilian Agosti, steadfast in his beliefs as he was, could convince me otherwise.
“L’amour s’en va comme cette eau courante, l’amour s’en va,comme la vie est lente,et comme l’Espérance est violente,”I whisper as I press the glass to my left wrist, the point digging into my skin as I pierce the flesh, my gaze fixed on the moon, the poem that I’d read to Anastasia so long ago on my lips.
