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It was only when I’d settled into my car that the flashes came again, just as sickening as the night before. I knew better than to interfere with her life. When she agreed to lie for me, I agreed to leave her alone. I agreed to kill off the human inside my chest if it meant avoiding a prison sentence, if it meant saving her, but time had a way of twisting even that. It had been two weeks since I’d watched her last, since I’d sat outside her bedroom window. Three since I stroked my cock with the panties she left on her bedroom floor. Two weeks without sleep, without rest, without Birdie. Two weeks of being a decent fucking person, and I couldn’t even manage that.
I just needed sleep.
I just needed to go back— one last time.
* * *
I read somewhere that a cup of coffee could be your entire world when you needed it to be— like the secrets of life were hidden in creamer. As I sat in the usual spot, though, not even those false assurances would ease the knot in my stomach. I spent the past five minutes trying to focus only on the reflection at the bottom of an empty cup. But looking at myself had only ever brought another painful twist.
I didn’t like this thing I became, the monster that waited in the dark.
I didn’t like the lack of control when that laugh filled the air.
I knew better than to react too quickly. When the sound threatened to strangle me, I adjusted in my seat instead. The slightest tilt of my cap gave me the cover I needed to glance across the street. For half an hour she’d been perched at the edge of her chair, a goddess in the sunlight. It’d been six years since I met her, since I first saw her in the sun, and from the outside, Bridget Holmes was hardly recognizable. Her auburn hair had been curled and set down her back, a sharp contrast to the messy looks of her college days. Where she used to wear sundresses, Birdie now covered herself with long blouses. Six years ago, she wore her scars proudly for the world but now, even those were hidden away. A lesser man, someone who didn’t know her the way I knew her, would have said she’d changed, but I’d never been so stupid.
I’d know her laugh anywhere.
The only difference is, this time, it wasn’t meant for me.
When the anger boiled again, when I watched her reach out for the man sitting across from her, I forced my gaze back down to my coffee. Sickness twisted me again, and with every piece of me, I tried to remember how to breathe. But I wasn’t sure it mattered. Images of the prick would already be plastered in my head. It was bad enough to hear her name on Omar’s lips— toseesomeone trying to touch what was mine, trying to win what was mine, trying tofuckwhat was mine brought an entirely new sickness. I didn’t think I’d ever be good enough for her, but Iknewthis fuck wasn’t. Still, my eyes kept forward. Glancing over at them now, watching her touch his arm, would only feed this thing.
She’ll fuck him tonight.
She’ll forget your name by tomorrow morning.
You’ll be nothing all over again.
When the laughter filled the street, filled my head, the last ounce of my strength fell apart. Across the street, I watched some stranger from her office take the role I wouldn’t let myself imagine anymore. Her smile widened as she reached out for him, as she leaned closer to hang on his everyfuckingword. It wasn’t until his fingers tried to trail playfully up her arm that my soul felt any peace at all. Birdie straightened immediately, jerked upright when the prick tried to touch the pieces of her meant only for me. Her hands folded in her lap, and with a softened smile, I watched Birdie fall into the same routine she’d fallen into with every man before. Every man since me. The stranger’s brows knitted together, and when all Birdie could offer was a smile and a simple dismissal, I watched the good mood disappear entirely.
That should have been the end of it.
But as the stranger stood to go to the washroom, stood to cover the cheque, the fog thickened.
I’d only had to do it twice before. The first time was messy, sloppy, dangerous. The first was some kid who lived just a block over. Any other day, I might have been able to swallow the sight of him bringing her a bottle of wine, might have been able to keep the fantasies at bay while his disgusting hands ran over her. When he tried to enter through the rear of the home, when he caught sight of her changing in her bedroom, not even Birdie’s golden eyes could have stopped me. The second time I was smarter. The second time, I tried to let her live her life, tried to let her settle with someone she deserved. I didn’t step in until their third date— the night he went in for a kiss and dared to snarl out when she turned away.
Birdie deserved someone better than me.
She deserved someone who didn’t have this sickness, someone who would never hurt her.
But letting her go would mean letting go of myself. Letting her go would mean losing the only thing I had left. When that prick got up to pay, it was the sickness who followed him into the bathroom.
The fog blocked out every movement as I crossed the street. Reality didn’t even begin to colour in until I had already forced my way into the restaurant and by then, this thing was too strong to stop. I lost control completely when I saw him washing his hands, his back turned to the animal I’d become. It was only when the door locked that the sickness really took hold, that this rot filled my lungs. Adrenaline stung dying muscles, and before so much as a grunt could leave him, my hands were on his neck. When the stranger grabbed out in panic, when his hands tried to slam into me, my grip tightened.
Then came the fear, the panic, the rush this thing needed.
“What the fuck are—”
“Leave.” When confusion tainted his darkening face, my grip tightened impossibly. “Leaveand don’t speak to her again.”
The confusion only brought a growl from my throat, but a warm glow brought the reason I needed. As his skin darkened, as his fingers clawed uselessly at my grip, I reminded myself of the only truth I had anymore. Killing him would only result in another mess for Birdie. Killing him would only result in another broken heart, and with that, my grip loosened. The fog cleared as the stranger fell to a heap on the floor, head slamming painfully against the counter. It was only when he started gasping for breath that I let this thing kneel beside him, that I let the monster grab his wallet out of his jacket pocket. Straightening back up, I tugged his driver’s license out of its protective case.
Thomas Riley. 34. 155 Sherbrooke Street.
“Who the fuck are you?” Dark eyes shifted down to him, if only for a moment. “I don’t mess with married chicks if that’s—”
“Go home, Tom.”
Tossing the wallet back on his body, I tucked the license into my back pocket. As the taste for blood receded back to my bones, I found myself back in the same mess I’d always been. The only real danger had been disrupting Birdie’s life— at least, that was the thought. When I unlocked the door, when I came face to face with a second creature of the dark, reality had a way of settling in. It took me another moment to recognize the stranger, the one whose face was so twisted in a fear I couldn’t understand. Tristan Morrison was a kid who worked in Birdie’s office, but to see him now, nervous gaze shifting between me and Thomas, I hardly recognized him.
