43. West
I don’t remember when he stopped breathing, nor do I recall what I did to him. My gaze drops to the pliers in my hand, examining the bloody tip. I definitely tortured him with these, but the details of the final act are lost to me.
I drop them with a loud thud, stepping back and trying to grasp what the fuck is happening. My nose burns as if I’ve inhaled fire—a searing reminder of the chemicals I’ve been snorting—and my eyes are wet, as though I’ve been crying nonstop. I rub them with my hands, but that only seems to make it worse. The blur before me intensifies, now streaked with crimson.
It has to be blood. It has to be.
A suffocating blanket of red, spreading fucking everywhere.
Red, red, red, red. Splashes, dots, lines—I can’t escape it.
When I try to rub the chemical scent away, another cocktail painfully invades my senses—sweat, a metallic tang, and the urine of the man before me.
Fuck. I’m going to throw up.
A cough—a sharp, stabbing pain—rips through my skull, a relentless hammer pounding on my already shattered nerves. Exhaustion clings to me like a shroud, the pain a ceaseless tide, pulling me further into despair. Pills, powder—fleeting illusions of relief. I’m drowning in fucking agony, and I don’t know what to do anymore.
I want it to stop.
I just want it to fucking stop already.
The cement wall slams into my back, an impact that sends black spots dancing across my vision. I try to remember who the man in front of me is, but my mind is a swirling vortex of confusion. His mouth hangs open, a dim flicker of hope still shining in his eyes.
That means it hasn’t been long since I finished him.
Breathing is a struggle in this place. My body refuses to cooperate, forcing me to concentrate just to take in a breath of the musty air. I killed someone again, trying to distract myself from the thoughts swirling in my mind, and it worked.
Until now. The job is done, and the thoughts I’ve desperately been avoiding have come rushing back, seeping into my head like whispers repeating the same message over and over. I haven’t seen Venetia in what feels like an eternity. The moment I left her in that room, she became the only thing I could think about.
What she did to me.
What I did to her.
I feel a sickening churn in my stomach as her cries and desperate pleas echo in my mind, playing on a never-ending loop.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I’m so tired of her fucking manipulations. She knows exactly how to get under my skin, and that’s what she was trying to do the last time we spoke—she wanted me to untie her so she could stand on equal ground, ready to hurt me even more.
I couldn’t allow that. Physically, I could do anything to her, but mentally, I was powerless. She was a virus, determined to poison my system with no hope of a cure.
Not even the coke could help me. Once you experience a stronger, more potent high, nothing else measures up. That’s exactly what happened. Everything pales in comparison to the mind games she plays with me. Not a moment goes by without my mind conjuring up excuses for her. It urges me to go back, to find her and apologize for what I did, even though she’s the one who completely fucked everything up.
It’s her fault. All her fucking fault.
But I don’t want to think like that.
How can I? She’s mine. My girl. My little ray of sunshine who broke through the darkness inside me. My stupid fucking brain keeps bringing up memories of the time we shared—especially that night I took her home from that party. I spent the entire night just staring at her as she slept, that pink flush on her cheeks never quite fading. It appeared when I looked at her a certain way or whispered the right words, and I couldn’t stop obsessing over it.
I still can’t stop.
Just a couple of weeks ago, she was so peaceful, so real, so mine. But I haven’t seen her in a long time, and she never called or reached out to me.
I miss her. I miss her, and she keeps fucking doing this to me, showing just how little she gives a fuck about everything I did for her.
I glance up at the corpse in front of me, the sight nearly making me jump. I narrow my eyes, questioning whether it’s a hallucination or reality. The man’s insides, on full display, begin to move. Bloody flesh pushes its way out of his stomach, hitting the floor with a sickening, slick sound. I cough, a wave of revulsion rising in my throat as I confront the scene. He tilts his head, his wide-open eyes locking onto mine. I slap myself before running my hands through my hair, trying to break free from this nightmare.
It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not fucking real.
But when I look again, the horror hasn’t faded. More insides spill out, and the man starts groaning in pain, reaching out to me as if pleading for help. My knees buckle, and I collapse onto the floor, slamming my elbow into the cement. The impact sends a jolt of electricity through my body, and I let out a pathetic sound, baring my teeth as the intensity becomes unbearable.
That jolt awakens every tiny prick of pain, escalating into full-blown agony that blasts through my chest, limbs, and face, engulfing me in searing torment.
Everything fucking hurts, and I’m not sure if it will ever end.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat threatening to shatter my chest. Sweat slicks my skin, a cold, clammy sheet clinging to me—a reminder of the raw fear that consumes me.
When will this nightmare end? I’ve been living like this for years, burning in my personal hell with no chance of escape.
It’s so fucking hot in here.
The man continues to groan in pain, his voice echoing in my brain like a haunting reminder of the things I’ve done. I turn my face to the cold cement, trying to bury myself from him, but I can feel him and his insides crawling closer.
“ Man up, man up, man up, ” I chant my father’s words—the ones that used to kick me in the ass and pull me from whatever nightmare I was trapped in. I keep slapping my face, trying to regain control over myself.
But clarity never comes. Instead, darkness creeps into my vision, and slowly, the man’s voice fades away, replaced by Venetia’s.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
I need her. I need her to get me out of here, to pull me from this nightmare. I want to feel her hands on me again, her fingers grazing my scars. I want her lips, soft and warm, to touch them, to bring back that fleeting pleasure she ignited in me when she flipped some new fucking switch inside me.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Her voice lingers, the last trace of connection in the world before I’m consumed by the emptiness. It’s a fading echo, a whisper of what is lost in the vast, silent void that now surrounds me.
Silence.
Finally, it’s silent.