Chapter 27Monsters in Our Heads
Monsters in Our Heads
Aslanov
My body is heavy, sluggish, as though it’s buried beneath layers of stone, and yet there’s this gnawing, aching emptiness in the pit of my chest. It pulls me deeper into the void, and I can’t escape it.
My breath comes in shallow gasps, like I’m drowning in thick air, tasting metal in my mouth; blood, maybe.
I’m alone.
At least, I think I am. But then, I feel it.
A sensation that isn’t quite real, yet it’s so undeniable.
Her. Isabella. It’s like a thread pulling me toward her, a connection I can’t break.
I try to reach for her, my fingers trembling, searching through the suffocating dark.
I can feel her warmth, her presence—so close, yet when I reach out, it’s like trying to grasp smoke.
The name escapes my lips before I can stop it. ‘‘Solnyshko...’’
The whisper of it tastes like a prayer, a desperate call, and then, from the darkness, I hear it—a soft breath. A voice. ‘‘Aslanov...’’
It’s her. I know it is. The sound of her voice, the way it vibrates in my bones, makes my heart skip. But there’s something off. Something wrong. Her voice feels distant, fading, like it’s slipping between the cracks of this nightmare.
I move, pushing through the air, my fingers trailing through the dark, and finally, I find it.
Her skin. Warm, soft. I can’t see her, but I know it’s her.
I feel it, the way her presence stirs something inside me that I can’t ignore.
I reach for her face, tracing the curve of her cheek with my trembling fingers.
It’s real, her skin, alive beneath my touch.
But the moment my fingers graze her, she pulls away, slipping from my grasp like water.
The pain of it stings deep inside me, like I’ve been cut open, but I can’t stop.
I have to reach for her again. I move toward her, desperate, and this time, when I touch her, I pull her closer, my hands finding her neck, my thumb brushing over her soft skin.
Her breath hitches in my ear, a soft, shuddering exhale, and for a moment, it’s like time stops.
I can’t see her, but I can feel everything.
The heat of her body against mine, the way her pulse flutters beneath my fingertips.
I pull her closer, desperate to close the distance between us, but when I do, she fades again.
She slips away like a shadow, and I’m left with nothing but the memory of her touch.
‘‘No...’’ The word escapes my lips, but it’s lost, swallowed by the darkness around us. I try to speak again, to call out to her, but my voice is gone. It’s like my throat is closed off, and no sound comes.
Isabella; the name burns in my chest, but it’s useless, hollow. I reach for her again, but she’s gone, leaving only an aching void in her place. A hollow emptiness that threatens to consume me. My pulse is wild, my skin crawling with the need to find her. I can’t lose her. I won’t.
But I’m already losing her.
And as I stand in the dark, I hear it again. Her voice, faint, but it’s there. ‘‘Aslanov...’’
Her name is a soft whisper, so quiet, so fragile, like the last breath of something dying. It echoes, but not loud enough to reach me. Not loud enough for me to grasp it.
I stretch out my hand, but before I can touch her, the darkness swallows her whole.
And then, I’m alone again.
Isabella
The dream is always the same, but never the same.
The air is thick, like the world is holding its breath.
The rain isn’t falling, but I can feel it in the air.
I stand in the middle of it, drenched, but the cold doesn’t reach me, not in the way it should.
My skin is numb, but there’s a different kind of chill in my chest. The ache is familiar now, as if it’s been with me for longer than I can remember. It grows with each passing moment.
And then I feel it.
Him. The pulse in my chest quickens, and suddenly, everything feels real again.
His presence. The heat of him in the dark.
It pulls me toward him, and without thinking, I start to move.
My heart races with anticipation, and I reach for him, for the warmth that promises to fill the emptiness inside me.
But when I turn to find him, he’s not there.
I stop, and for a moment, I stand alone, listening to the deafening silence. His absence fills the space between us. I call for him, my voice barely a whisper, barely a sound. ‘‘Aslanov...’’ The word is like a lifeline, a thread that pulls me toward him, but it feels like nothing more than a ghost.
I reach out into the dark, desperate, my hands trembling. And then, I feel it. His touch. The warmth of his hand, covering mine, pulling me toward him.
My breath catches as his fingers trace my cheek.
The roughness of his skin against mine makes my heart stop for a beat.
His touch is light, tender, but it holds something more, an aching, yearning pull.
His presence fills me, consumes me in the best way.
The way he moves toward me, the way his hands slide to the back of my neck, drawing me closer, I don’t want to pull away.
I want to sink into him, feel him, let him be.
‘‘Aslanov...’’ I whisper again, my voice breaking on the word, and I feel his lips against my ear, his breath a shudder against my skin.
‘‘Isabella...’’
His voice, low, guttural, full of need, makes my skin burn.
It’s all I’ve ever wanted, to feel him like this.
To touch him, to have him close, like it could heal whatever’s broken inside me.
I close my eyes, letting his warmth take me over, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat against mine. I don’t want this moment to end.
But then, it’s gone.
The warmth slips away, the pressure of his body against mine fades, and I reach out, my hands grasping at nothing but air. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to lose him, but I feel him slip further away, leaving nothing behind but the ache.
‘‘No...’’ The word comes out in a choked breath, my chest tightening with the loss. I reach, I call for him, but there’s nothing. The darkness swallows everything.
And then, just as the last remnants of him fade, I wake.
I wake with a start, gasping for air, but it’s still not enough. I’m still trapped in the remnants of the nightmare. The bed is too cold. My skin is too cold. I clutch at the sheets, feeling the ache in my chest tighten.
I don’t hear his voice anymore.
I close my eyes, trying to hold onto the dream, trying to hold onto the warmth of him, but it’s slipping. Fading. The memory of his voice is becoming more distant, like the echo of something I once knew but can no longer grasp.
Tears fall, silent, unbidden. I don’t let them make a sound, but they burn as they slide down my face. I ache for him, for the warmth that’s gone, and I know that slowly, I’m forgetting what his voice sounds like. I’m slowly forgetting him.
With a shaky breath, I reach for the nightstand beside my bed. My hand brushes over the glass of water sitting there, almost forgotten, and I grasp it tightly, bringing it to my lips as if the simple act of drinking will steady my shaking hands.
I don’t feel the coolness of the water as it slides down my throat.
It’s nothing more than a formality, something to fill the space, to keep me going.
I set the glass down with a soft click, and my fingers reach for the small bottle next to it, the one that’s become too familiar. Pills and more pills.
I pull two out, the plastic of the bottle crinkling as I remove the lid. My hands are trembling again, too much for me to even grip the pills properly. I finally manage to swallow them, my throat tight, fighting the urge to choke as I dry my eyes with the back of my hand.
My mind might slip, but my heart won’t.
I’m so full of unsaid words.
I miss him.
I ache for him, not just for the man he was, but for the darkness he brought with him.
It’s the kind of craving that clings to me, suffocating in its intensity.
His touch wasn’t gentle. It was rough, primal, as if he knew every inch of my skin, every corner of my soul, and he didn’t need to tread lightly.
I crave the way his hands would grip me, the way his fingers would leave marks that lingered far beyond the moment, reminding me of his claim over me. I thrived in it.
His voice—low, gravelly, with that unmistakable Russian accent—still echoes in my mind, but it’s fading, slipping away like sand through my fingers. I need it back. I need to hear him say my name, the way it sounded when he growled it in my ear.
The smell of smoke and his cologne haunts me.
I catch it sometimes, lingering in the air, like a cruel joke, a reminder of the scent I can no longer touch, the presence I can no longer feel.
It’s everywhere. It’s in the sheets that still carry his trace, in the hoodie I have left, the ones I can’t bring myself to wash.
And when I close my eyes, it’s like he’s here again, filling the space, overwhelming me with that intoxicating blend of danger and desire.
I crave the parts of him that were dark, the edges he wore like armor.
The violence in his touch, the way he could break me and rebuild me all at once.
That was his gift to me. The way he made me feel alive, like the darkness that lived in me had found a place to exist. It had nowhere to go now.
Now that he’s gone, that darkness has no outlet.
It claws at me from the inside, begging to be released.
But there’s no one here to let it out, no one here to channel it the way he did.