08-15-2015, 10:00 PM
| they call kids like us vicious and carved out of stone but for what we've become, we just feel more alone This is the kind of pain that you don’t come back from. This is the kind of venom that can’t be cured. He feels it like a gunshot straight to the heart, and it takes everything within him to not gasp for breath. He who has fallen so often into the hell that is death has never experienced something quite like it. His vision goes blurry for a second, but he stands upright and manages to keep the arrogant, lazy smile on his face—even managing to give an impassive flick of his tail as he watches her with an apathetic gaze. Something is crumbling, and he cannot feel anything but grief and regret. He can’t feel anything besides the vicious knife in his gut at the coldness in her eyes. “What makes you think that I would want you to come looking for me?” he says with authentic incredulity. “Don’t get me wrong—you have been fun, doll.” His stomach flips painfully, but he just shakes his royal head. “But I’ve grown tired of pretending.” A careless shrug of his shoulders. “How long can you pretend to be in love with someone?” “I love you, Oksana. I love you so much.” He imparts the same urgency that he would normally, but there is something cruel and wheedling about the tone—a mockery of something that he knew was the only truth. He forces a harsh laugh. “And you believed it. So easily.” He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up, so he just lifts one corner of his lip. “All it took was a little attention for you.” “I stayed with you longer than I ever planned to—mostly because of how admittedly pretty you are and how interesting it was to watch you fail so miserably as a Queen,” here the words sting coming up his throat, but he knows he has to make it final. They knew each other’s weak spots, and in his blind craze to drive her away, he sought to hit each vulnerable joint—strike each delicate corner until the whole of them collapsed. “But now what’s the point? You’ve grown boring and I am bored.” The bile strikes him hard and he feels his knees threatening to give as he looks at her. She strikes back just as hard at him, and he feels his resolve crumbling. “Can’t argue with that, love.” He says the nickname pointedly and winks at her with a roguish smile. “Maybe you can find someone else to play dad. Hell, you can take them to see the grandparents and play family. But don’t count on me there.” He felt wild inside—wild with anguish and self-loathing and a suffocating need to feel pain. He could barely suppress the need to flee—could barely smother the wailing groan that was clogging in his throat. (What have I done? What have I done?) But he wouldn’t break now when he was so close to getting her to a new life without him. He wasn’t even sure he could repair this—even if he tried. He had killed the only good thing he had ever experienced in his life; he had murdered the one thing that he cared about. “I believe we’re done now.” If he had ever fooled himself into thinking he deserved her, he had just proven it wrong. In trying to save her, he managed to prove the one thing he always knew: he was a monster. M A K A I — vagabond son of atrox and twinge always weigh what I've lost against what I left so progress report: I am missing you to death |