Chapter Sixty-Three
Amber
It happens so quickly. I watch as the man of my dreams, alone in a dark, empty room, without any warning or reasonable explanation, lifts a knife from his side.
He places it against his navel, blade up, and plunges its length deep into his belly.
Red rivulets ooze from around the slick metal, pulled by gravity toward his lap.
Staring into the camera, I witness as Declan jerks upward on the bone-wrapped tang, forcing the sharpened metal to slice several inches up his gut. A steady stream of blood pours from him, and the microphone catches his gurgling. His eyes are glassy and strained, clearly in agonizing pain.
“Gaaghh,” he yells with another yank, slicing himself from his bellybutton to his chest.
The beat of my heart is like a war drum in the heat of battle.
My breath, a strangled gasp, catches in my throat, as I watch this horrific scene unfold on the screen before me.
My fists clench and my body wrenches, feeling the overwhelming slam of a hammer to my guy.
I want to look away, to close my eyes and pretend none of this is happening, but I can’t tear my gaze from Declan’s anguished face.
My thoughts scream, and torrents of tears fall from my eyes.
The camera zooms in, capturing every excruciating detail. Declan’s hands, slick with his own blood, fumble with the knife handle. His fingers slip, and the blade twists inside him, drawing another guttural cry of pain. The sound pierces my soul, and I feel bile rising in my throat.
“Why?” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Declan, why are you doing this?”
But of course, there’s no answer. Only the wet, squelching sounds of the knife as Declan continues to mutilate himself. His face turns deathly pale. His eyes fade, unfocused and distant. Life drains from him with each passing second, along with the blood that now pools around him on the floor.
My fingers dig into the arm of my couch—my knuckles white with tension. I want to scream. To call for help. To do something—anything—to stop this nightmare. Yet I’m paralyzed. Trapped in my own living room. Watching the love of my life destroy himself through a screen.
The camera pans out slightly, revealing more of the stark, empty room. There’s nothing there. No note. No explanation for his actions. Just darkness, and the horror unfolding at its center.
Declan’s movements grow sluggish, his strength fading.
The knife slips from his grasp, clattering to the floor with a metallic ring that echoes through the room.
His eyes roll back, and he slumps forward.
His body goes limp. For a moment, there’s just silence, broken only by my ragged breathing and the faint hum of my laptop.
Then, without warning, Declan’s head snaps up. His eyes, once glassy and unfocused, are now sharp and unnaturally bright and flaming red. He looks directly into the camera, his gaze piercing through the screen, locking onto me.
I recoil with a scream caught in my throat.
This can’t be happening.
Horror chokes me. I gag on my own breath, forcing tears to well in my eyes as snot shoots from my nose.
“Nooooo!” I cry out, falling to my knees.
The envelope slips from my hands, and a piece of paper peeks out, fluttering down to the ground, where, once resting, I can read Dr. Campos’ words.
To whomever this drive is imparted, I offer my sincerest sympathy. Because, whoever you are, you are next.