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“Bran—” His words are cut off when I snatch the piece of glass from his hand and jam it against my neck.
Everything happens in a haze, but all of a sudden.
I don’t know how I end up on the floor, drowning in my own blood and the black ink.
There’s so much ink now, choking me, pulling me to its bottomless depths. My strangled breaths come in short, chopped bursts.
Then in the middle of it, strong hands wrap around me and my head is balanced on a solid surface as moisture drips on my face.
Pressure at my neck. Blood everywhere. In my mouth. On my clothes. On his hands.
I see him through hazy red, my lids nearly closing.
“Baby, please…please…” he begs in a broken voice, and I can see the tears in his beautiful eyes.
The eyes that I turned empty.
The eyes that I destroyed.
“Please don’t go, baby, please…don’t leave me…please…stay with me…stay with me…you have to stay with me…” His lips are all over my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, my mouth.
He yells something toward the door, but I don’t hear him over the ringing in my ears.
I reach a hand for him, wanting to touch his hair one final time.
I’m sorry.
The words are on the tip of my tongue, but no sound comes out.
My hand falls as the ink swallows me whole.
It’s finally over.
37
NIKOLAI
When I was young, I realized that my perception of the world differed from that of others my age.
Violence bubbled in my veins and blinded me to reality. I saw life through red lenses and liked it. No. I fuckinglovedit.
I took pride in being different, in jumping through hoops many people wouldn’t dare go near. I never felt repressed by my sexuality, my preferences, or my tendencies. In fact, I wore them like a badge and flaunted them for everyone to see.
Being bi is nothing to be ashamed of, as Mom told me a long time ago.
“It makes you different from the majority, but you were always special, son. Always,”Dad said.
I’ve always felt special, too, like I could go deep and deeper, high and higher, and nothing would stop me.
This is the first time I don’t feel special.
The first time I’ve watched my life shatter around me as I stood in the remains, surrounded by bright blood.
It was everywhere—on his neck, his shirt, his hands, the floor, me.
Every-fucking-where.
I’m in the middle of the hospital waiting area, but I can still see it dripping on the floor as I carried Bran in my arms. I can still see his pasty-white skin and hear the haunting sound that left his throat before he closed his eyes.
