11. Take, Take, Take
ELEVEN
TAKE, TAKE, TAKE
HARKINS
Just the sight of her enrages me.
It invokes something primal and shines light on every way I’ve failed her. I’m not deserving of Camila Machado, and I’m even less deserving of her taking my name and becoming my wife.
Together, we’re something catastrophic.
Something so beautifully devastating, it cannot be contained.
A good man would take these acknowledgements and walk out with his dignity intact. A smart man would bow his head and resign in failure, happy to leave with the memory of her still in his heart. A decent man would let her heal, let her find the happy ending she deserves.
I am neither good nor decent, and maybe I’m finding out I’m not as intelligent as I once thought.
I am maddened by her love, and yet, without it, I lack reason.
Here, I thought watching her sleep would be enough, that it would satiate the emptiness inside me and let me rest. I’ve waited all day for it, for this moment.
She’s turned to the side, her mouth parted just slightly as she sleeps. There’s undoubtedly a tiny splotch of drool under her pillow where she lays her head.
An occurrence I now long for with every cell in my body.
Sixteen minutes until the next bed check.
Hardly enough time.
My pulse quickens with every step I take out from the shadows. She mutters something, tossing to the other side. I freeze, the sound of her voice softening something inside of me that had been petrified in her absence.
Every inch of my flesh covers itself in goosebumps.
She moans, a sound I’ve dreamed of every day since Halloween.
I want to put her through this goddamn mattress, to fuck any remaining sense out of her and not stop until they have to pry us apart themselves.
One more step so I can see the freckles on her face.
One more step so I may watch her eyelashes flutter mid-dream.
Is it me you dream of, Darkling?
Or am I lost here, hopeless and wandering this infernal abyss alone?
I’ve never been more glad to have my hands freed from that jacket, the feel of her skin a phantom I seek to return to me again. I stand directly above her bed, my body casting a shadow on the bit of glow the cracked doorway once provided.
She’s made a mess of her sheets, wrapping her legs through them so she can use a second pillow between her legs.
It’s the position she takes in bed every single night—except at home, it’s my thigh she cradles between hers.
I can’t help but graze my thumb over her lip, somehow still soft and pouty despite the dry, recycled air in this hellhole.
The sound of footsteps breaks my thoughts clean, and I scramble back into the corner, hiding in the darkness as the sound approaches.
It’s him again.
The little sick fuck skulks into the room, already rubbing his erection, his tongue sticking out of his mouth and licking his bottom lip like a street dog.
The realization this is a nightly routine I’m interrupting only further fuels my rage.
The anger is solely self-directed, as if I should have been here to stop it from ever happening.
She should have never been here in the first place.
I try to contain my erratic breathing, though through the mask, it’s nearly audible.
His dick is out of his pants before he’s even sat down.
Tonight, I make good on my promise, knowing well I cannot sit through this freakshow again.
It’s not only a violation of her body, but any of the other patients he’s done this to in the past, as well as the ones who will come after.
As I inch closer to my victim, my shadow falls over his chair from behind.
The orderly turns his head the minute he notices it, but I’m quicker than his reaction.
With my weaker hand, I cover his mouth, and with my left hand, I pull at the hand that grabs for me, twisting it back until I feel it snap.
He tries to scream, but I shove my hand in his mouth to muffle the sound, taking his other arm and breaking it over the back of the chair.
He cries in agony, stomping his feet on the ground and biting at my hand. The act of flexing the muscles burns my sutured wrist, but I fight through it.
Too loud, asshole. You’re fucking up my plans.
I decide to end his torment, knowing I need more time to get everything lined up for our escape. Taking his now flaccid penis into my good hand, I squeeze first, wishing I could see the misery on his face better as I rip his dick off in one, fast pull.
There’s no crying or screaming; he goes limp in my hold, his blood spilling so fast, he’ll likely be dead before he can wake from the shock.
He isn’t worth any more effort.
I toss the wet carcass of his cock over his face before I push him to the ground and control my breathing, my ears hot and my body shaking with anger. I look up from my hands to see her sitting up on the bed, eyes wide and fearful.
Her roommate is still sound asleep, snoring loudly and choking on her oxygen every few breaths.
I lift my hands in the air, as if to prove I’m harmless. I don’t know why I do it, but my body moves without my command. My feet walk toward her, her eyes growing with every step as she backs herself further against the headboard of her twin-sized bed.
She whimpers when my knee drops to the bed, but I don’t let that stop me.
“I’ve missed you,” I tell her, but Camila only shakes her head.
“It’s me,” I reassure.
She wants nothing of it, shutting her eyes tightly, as if I’m nothing but an apparition.
I climb over her, the fear on her face a cold blade to my chest. She stares at the blood on my hands like it isn’t her favorite sight.
I feel more lost than ever before, and yet, I don’t stop myself.
I hold her cheek in my palm, and she trembles at my touch, quivering and shaking until the tear rolls down the side of her face.
“It’s me,” I promise her.
She shakes her head, sobbing through a clear response. “No.”
“Camila, it’s me,” I reassure her, but she just continues to protest, her no’s becoming louder until I’m forced to cover her mouth with the hand still dripping in the orderly’s blood to keep her roommate from waking.
Her tears fall harder and faster, her hands pulling at the straps of my straitjacket as if she’s strong enough to move me off her. The fog of confusion doesn’t lift. Instead, it spreads like a poison, invading both of our senses and keeping us even further from each other.
I pull the band of my pants below my hips just enough to free my cock that strains against the fabric. She’s right here, right beneath me, my erection throbbing from just the feel of her warm flesh against my palm.
Yet, she feels deserts away.
The more I try to hold on, the more she slips through my fingers as if losing her means losing everything I’ve ever had a grip on. Now it’s goddamn Tatooine out here, I’m all alone and there’s nothing but sand in every direction.
She stops moving, defeated by my strength. Camila closes her eyes and turns her head away. I grab at her jaw to fix her face back to mine, not daring to let her create any more distance. She whispers a plea. “Go away, go away. You’re not real.”
I growl, my anger building. “I am.” I lower her own pants down her thighs, pressing my cock against the fabric of her underwear. They’re not panties—they’re my boxers she wears, as if it somehow keeps me near her.
But she pushes me away with both of her hands, frantic and panicky as she scratches at the sleeve of my straitjacket. “Stop,” Camila begs, but instead, I grind against her, feeling something other than soul-numbing dread for the first time in days.
Her presence is an electric current, her touch, despite how sharp it feels, is a live wire, and she alone has the power to bring me back from death.
Her legs push against me, but I’m stronger, trapping her movements beneath me. With my right hand, I reach past the hollow of her thighs until there’s nothing between us anymore. Camila protests again, louder this time, begging me to leave and disappear.
I muffle her sounds with one hand, tuning out the sharp sting of her canines piercing my flesh.
She isn’t wet, she isn’t aroused, but nothing inside me tells me to stop, tells me to back away.
Instead, my brain convinces me that once she feels me inside her, she’ll know, and everything will click into place.
I spit past the bars of my mask into my own fingers, using my saliva as lubricant. Camila releases my hand from her teeth, whining and begging beneath me to let her go. I rub her clit in slow circles, a small gasp freeing itself from her lips and jarring her eyes back open.
Her gaze peers straight into mine, and for a second, it’s as if she sees it’s me. Instead of relief or acknowledgement, she sobs harder, her head thrashing from side to side. “Please, go away,” she begs, scratching her nails into my arm so hard, I think she might undo my stitches.
“No. I will never leave you. Never again,” I promise her, sliding the tip of my cock inside her.
She’s too tight; there’s no room to move, and every centimeter I get closer to her feels more like burning than pleasure. I pull back slightly, spitting on my hand again and coating my shaft with it.
“Stop!” she rasps out between tears.
I’m past listening now. There’s only the thrumming of my heart in my ears and the high pitched sound stuck in my brain. I push further in, only getting an inch closer.
“It hurts. Stop, please. It hurts.” Camila shakes her head.
I grab her chin, holding it in place so she can’t look away from me anymore. “Good. Now you won’t ever forget what I feel like when I’m inside you again, Darkling.”
Her eyes go wide, as if the acknowledgment of my presence finally registers. She squirms against me, shaking her head in disbelief. “No, no, you’re not him. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!”
I clamp her mouth shut again, pulling out and thrusting harder so I can find myself deeper inside. She cries out a muffled sound of pain, fat globs of tears falling onto the pillow, her nails raking against my skin.
Camila squirms away with every slam of my hips until she’s flush against the headboard, pounding against it with each one of my movements. “You are mine, Camila. And I am yours,” I remind her.
She shakes her head, her hands frantically reaching up my arm, pushing the straitjacket sleeve up until it’s past my elbow. Her pupils dilate, her fingers tracing over the tattoo of the death star. She’s still looking for confirmation it’s me, but instead, she only denies it further.
Her eyebrows furrow, anger conquers her expression, and my girl snarls. “Get off! You aren’t him! You aren’t him!”
Her nails dig at the art, shredding my skin until blood pebbles and drips down onto her sheets.
Still, I keep going, fucking her as if it’s going to bring her out of this darkness and back to me.
She scratches, I thrust. She begs me to stop, I move faster, hating myself, hating everything this place has done to us.
Burning it down won’t be enough.
They will all have to pay.
She cries a sound of pure agony, as if it’s torture to be under me despite our bodies being made for each other.
Every rejection pierces deeper than the last, scores harder than her nails on my flesh.
The sting is a welcome reminder of our imperfect love, the burn a testament to how virulent my adoration is.
Love will destroy us, and we will both go down together.
Even if it means dragging her to hell with me.
I press myself against her, the mask digging into her skin so our foreheads can touch. She quakes under my weight, trembling in fear, covered in blood. Camila is a wretched mess of sorrow.
She stares into my eyes, her fingers viciously rubbing the raw, meaty flesh she’s carved open on my forearm as if it somehow soothes her. We breathe together, my chest rising as hers falls, my dick buried inside her, my own tears falling over her face.
The realization is far too devastating to voice.
“If I lose you, I have nothing else to live for.” The words come out shaking, cracking like I’m a teenage boy again. “I will not lose you, Darkling.”
She takes a loud gasp of an inhale, as if she’s been pulled from somewhere deep and dark, like she’s coming back from the dead.
Camila hiccups my name through a sob. “De-metri?” I nod, but she shakes her head again. “It isn’t you. I know it’s not you.”
“It’s me. And it’s time to go home, Camila,” I tell her.
“Home?” she asks, as if the concept is already foreign to her.
“Home. Where we live with our plants, which, I hate to tell you, are quite literally dying, since there’s no one there to water them.” I hate that I have to use her babies like this, but I know it’s the only thing that might break the fog.
Something registers in her, enough for her to accept I might really be here, lying on top of her, halfway inside her.
I rake my fingers through her hair, the touch forcing her to soften under me. “I-I-I don’t know if it’s really you. Everything’s confusing. I don’t know what’s happening to my brain. I don’t feel like myself. I can’t trust anyone. I don’t trust my own mind.”
I hold her shoulders, squeezing just tight enough so she can feel me.
“Trust me, Darkling. Trust that I will always come for you. Trust that I will always be there to clean up the bodies behind you and to clear the path in front of us. Trust that I will always cut down anyone who stands between you and me. If you can’t trust in yourself, then trust that in every lifetime, I will come for you.
To the end, Darkling. Until I am nothing but petrichor on your tombstone. ”
Camila wraps her arms around my neck, a full body sob leaving her as she holds on to me for dear life. “I’ve been so lost without you,” she whispers into my ear, burying her face in my neck. “Make me feel something other than this painful emptiness.”