It was real.
I see Pike all the time. I even talk to him. But there’s never a smell, never a temperature to his touch. It’s how I know the difference between hallucinations and reality. But this is real. He’s alive, but at what cost? He doesn’t resemble the Declan I knew. That man was firm, yes, but he had light in him that shone through his emerald eyes. But this Declan . . . he’s hard and cold, and it’s all my fault. I knew pushing him to kill Bennett would destroy him, change him, take away his pure spirit.
He looks as worn as I do, his frame more slender, a lack of color in his skin. I ache to touch him, taste him, make him see that this was all a terrible mistake. That loving him was my saving grace. Make him understand how everything changed and changed from a place of honesty I never knew I held inside of me.
How am I supposed to live in the same world as him when he hates me so much?
How do I right the wrongs of my past?
How do I find a hope worth living for when my one hope would rather me dead than alive?
TORMENT IS THE deep well I bathe in daily. It covers me entirely as I sink beneath the surface, feeling its particles soak into the pores of my decrepit skin. Seeping through me, it consumes, wallows, and dwells so I can feel every ounce of its torturous abuse.
Black is the color that stains my insides. Declan used to color me in vibrancy, but that’s when he loved me for the lie he believed I was. I’m a sick woman. Deceit paints my rotten soul, and he now sees me for what I am.
How could I destroy a man as wonderful as Declan?
He was a good man, a loving man. His touch was firm yet tender. But now, after seeing him a couple days ago, he’s so different. Callous and filled with venom. Worst of all is knowing that I did that to him. I’m the culprit. I’m the cause. I touched him and turned him into a monster.
But even as a monster, I want him. I’ll take him in any form I can because I’m so thankful he’s alive. That Pike didn’t kill him. Glory and joy somehow illuminate this bleak heart of mine and rejoice in the flesh and blood of his existence.
Where do I go now? What do I do when all I want is what I know he’ll refuse?
Another touch, kiss, smell, taste. But once I get it, I know I’ll want more. It’ll never satisfy, never be enough to feed the hunger I have for him. My soul is starved and he’s my sacrament.
I want to skin him with my tongue, loving him with every lick.
Alone is where I sit though, here in this bed and breakfast, in this room I’ve been calling home since I arrived. Too scared to go back to Brunswickhill for fear of what will greet me. Declan isn’t a man one can push. He thrives on utter control, so keeping my distance is the only choice I have right now unless I want to throw him over the edge. And I don’t. I want him to be able to see that not all of it was a lie, that I did love him, that it was real, and that I didn’t want to destroy him the way I wound up doing anyway. I need him to know that, to understand his heart was something I wanted to take care of—I still do.
Hours pass as I sit, staring out the window at the snow-covered hills, wondering what my love is doing. It feels strange to be in a world where he exists and to not know, to not be a part of that world with him when we had become so enmeshed with each other. He was a part of me—still is. He lives within me; I can feel him in my bones—breathing inside of me, keeping me alive.
He is all I have to live for.
I grow impatient and anxious in this room, feeling like a caged animal. I grab my coat and scarf and head down to the car. As I drive the slick streets, I wind up on Abbottsford Road without thinking. It’s all I know in this town, it’s all I crave. I tell myself I won’t stay long, that I’ll just drive past, take a quick look. But when I make the sharp turn around the bend, I slow the car down and stop.
Was it all a dream? A hallucination?
Looking at the gate, I wonder if I was really on the other side.
Did I just want it so badly that I dreamt it up?
I know I shouldn’t be here. I know what I did to him was so awful that seeing me will only make it worse on him. I want to give him that space, the courtesy of staying away because I know that’s what he wants. But I’m too selfish. I want him too much, and now that I’m here, the energy collides inside of me. I want to jump over that wall, run up the hill to his front door, break it down, storm the property to find him, hug him, cling, paw, scratch, and ravage him like the animal I am.
Tingles dance up my fingers, into my hands, and up my arms.
I can’t sit still.