I glance over my shoulder and find him leaning against the doorway to the bathroom. Water drips from his hair into the cotton of the gray T-shirt he paired with jeans. His arms are crossed over his chest, those blue eyes honing in on mine without mercy.
“You think you can just come to me and walk away once you’ve gotten your fix?” He shakes his head and heads into the kitchen. “Uh-uh. I gave you a story. Now, it’s your turn.”
I’m forced to speak to his retreating back. “And if I don’t want to talk?”
He shrugs and lifts something from the kitchen table. I know what it is even before I see it clearly—his gun.
“Just tell me what you were doing withthis.” He points the barrel at the ceiling, his back still turned to me. There isn’t an ounce of tension in his posture.
I could make a break for the door and run before he could stop me.
A part of him mightwantme to.
But I don’t, prolonging our mutual high like the selfish girl I am.
“I was going to kill someone with it.” I wring my fingers together as I pad closer to the circle of light he’s dominating.
The damp fabric of his shirt clings to his shoulder blades. If I squint, the ripples look a lot like wings.
“Kill?” His tone reminds me of his own “story.” The phrasing he used. The rationale for why he hasmurderertattooed across his chest and nothing else.
“No,” I hear myself admit while I advance on him three more steps. “I wanted tomurdersomeone with it.”
“Here.” He faces me and holds the gun out.
I take it, pointing the barrel at the floor.
“I assume you’re not planning on sticking around.” He doesn’t sound disappointed, merely resigned to the fact that I might leave. I need to leave…
But, like a good addict, I seek his eyes, holding his gaze. One more prick of the needle. One last snort of my drug of choice.
“What you said about love… You made it sound worse than hate.” It’s an odd topic for conversation, but it almost seems fitting given our current trajectory for the morning—jumping from fucking to violence to murder to love and hate.
“Did I?” His lips slant in a thoughtful frown. “Well, I guess they’re close enough. But, with hate, at least you’re in control. You can fight it. You can resist it. You can forgive, or you can walk away. You can choosenotto hate whenever you fucking want.”
Love has the opposite limitations. I know them well, in fact. You can only resist its allure for so long before it sucks you back in.Moya lyubov.Love is poison. There is no choice in how it destroys you.
“Have you ever been in love?” I know even before I see the slight shake of his head that he hasn’t, and I’m sure it’s by choice.
He may care for his brother and his friend Arno, but he’s never been a slave to obsession. He’s never been addicted to the burning sting.
“Don’t want to be,” he says. “Like I said, it’s easier to hate. You can turn your back on it. It doesn’t own you.”
“And what if…what if you hate yourself?” I ask him, my tongue flicking out to dampen my dry lips. His potential answer intrigues me more than I care to admit. Do I want him to agree?You should hate yourself. “For the things you’ve seen, the things you’ve done?”
He observes me for a long time. When he takes a step forward, I’m not sure how to react. I just stand here, allowing him to tower over me, his breath on my face, his heat on my skin. I’m unprepared when his hand flies out, and two of his fingers start an electrifying path down the length of my arm, skirting the stitches holding me together.
“Then I guess you just have to ask yourself—Do you really hate that you’ve done those things, or do you just hate the fact that you can’t let yourself enjoydoingthem?”
I draw back, stepping out of his reach. My first instinct is to write him off.Silly little boy.The worst he can probably come up with is stealing or committing petty crimes. He has no fucking clue as to the horrors that paint the edges of my memory.
On the other hand, he saw me kill Vlad, and the neckline of his shirt rides low, revealing a hint of the word emblazoned on his chest. When I look into his eyes again, the darkness lurks in plain view.
“What do you mean?”
“The way I see it, loving yourself is overrated.” Another step andhe’scloser, forced to tilt his head down to maintain eye contact. “Nature. Do you love everything about it? The sun and stars, yeah. Maybe. But what about when the sun burns? What about the storms? The lightning? What about when that storm comes for you? You just have to admit that sometimes youneedthe push and pull. The good and bad. Life doesn’t need your approval all the damn time. Why should you?”
Indignation rises, thick in my throat. I want to argue.You’re a boy. You know nothing.But…aftereverythinghe’s been through, it may be easy for him to accept his own hell. Live it. Breathe it. But I can’t afford that luxury.
