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I grip the dagger once more, bringing the tip to the palm of my hand. Eager to hold onto this feeling as much as I can, I run the blade along my skin, the pain boosting my adrenaline.
I close my eyes, concentrating on the sensations inside of me, but when I open my eyes, I meet my reflection in the mirror.
What is wrong with me?I think to myself. The sight of my hand bleeding and the knife in my hand only reminds me of the monster I truly am.
“This is why I cannot be with Azron. Even if everything was okay, and Zephon wasn’t around, could he, or any other man, love… this abomination?”
Like a devious friend whispering in my ear, the evil voice in my head brings my focus back to why I am the way I am.
You’re a sick freak because you need to be. This is the version of you who will seek out Zephon and hunt him down like the xaphan scumbag he is! Do not forget that!
I clean myself off and wrap a bandage around my palm, exhaling a long sigh.
“Tonight, I will set out and do what I need to do.”
I make a final effort to push out the remnants of Azron’s face from my mind.
I’m sorry this is how things worked out between us, Azron, but it had to be this way,I think, as if he will hear my words.In breaking your heart, I’m breaking mine, too. I cannot let you get in the way of this… but thank you. Thank you for everything. For making me feel normal again, even if it was just for a short while.
20
AZRON
“Good morning.”
I reach out and stretch my arms, reaching for her small form. A satisfied yawn escapes me.
My eyes are still closed, and I am startled when I don’t make contact. For some reason, no matter how far my arm stretches, I do not reach her body. I cannot embrace her.
I open my eyes.
The red sky peers down on me from the windows, the lights in the apartment still extinguished. Outside, I hear the wingbeats of a black pitter bird as it soars and caws past my window.
And I am alone.
“Maybe she’s just using the restroom,” I mutter to myself, before forcing myself out of bed against increasing paranoia.
I knock gently on the restroom door to get no response. I knock a little more urgently, and there’s still nothing.
I swing open the door to find an empty room.
“No…”
I mutter to myself, crossing through the kitchen. “She wouldn’t just leave...”
Maybe she just had to rush out and forgot to tell me on her way?
But none of the rooms contain any hints. There are no notes… no evidence that she was here at all. I could have simply dreamt it, and nothing about my apartment would contradict that, save for a few tiny stains on the sheets.
It must have happened… right?
With every hastily opened door, every pointlessly searched cabinet, I feel myself growing angrier and angrier.
If I had to leave, I wouldn’t simply walk out on somebody…
Well, barring the one-night stands, and all the women I used as an escape from my time of war.
But that’s different.
