Chapter 7
As my body slowly snaps back into its living form, I suck in a breath so sharp it burns my throat.
The rush of heat, the sting of blood pumping through veins that were moments ago ghost-silent, makes me dizzy.
The world spins, blurry shapes of trees and shadows swallowing each other under the dying light.
I force my eyes shut and clutch my head between my hands, my fingertips digging into my scalp as if I’m trying to hold my skull together.
When the nausea stops threatening to empty my guts onto the damp floor, I open my eyes. The woods feel different now, quieter, heavier, seeming as if they know what just happened. Mar a chonaic siad. (Like they saw.) A shiver skitters down my spine, and I push the feeling aside trying to focus.
On trembling legs, I haul myself upright and force myself to walk. Every step feels just like I’m dragging a corpse behind me, my corpse. My lungs burn from the inside out. Every few paces, my knees threaten to give out, and I have to pause to brace myself against the rough bark of a nearby tree.
Over-exhausted, it takes me far longer than I would have hoped to drag my battered body to my front door.
My vision swims and the trees behind me twist like shadows that follow too close.
By the time I reach the steps, my hands are shaking so violently I nearly drop the key three times before I manage to shove it into the lock.
But I twist too fast, desperate to get inside and my knees buckle.
I crash against the doorframe; my cheek pressed to cold wood with my breath tearing out of me in ragged gasps.
Once I’m over the threshold, I don’t even bother to stand.
I slam the door shut behind me and slide down to the floorboards.
The click of the deadbolt is the only thing that feels real.
Everything else is a blur of pain and bitter bile crawling up my throat.
My head throbs, a relentless drumbeat that feels as though it’s hammering cracks into my skull.
Every heartbeat sends a pulse of nausea up my throat.
I brace my elbows on my knees, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes until I see sparks of light behind my eyelids.
This is the after; I hate this part. The hollow echo in my bones that never really leaves. However, there’s no room for regret here, not for me. The second I signed my name in the diabhal’s ledger; regret became a luxury I could never afford again.
Yes, I wanted more than the pathetic life that waited for me, rotting in this town.
I also couldn’t watch éire waste away in that hospital bed.
So, I gave her everything I had left to give.
I’d do it again, repeatedly, until my soul is ash in the palm of the diabhal himself. Her life is worth more to me than mine.
Eager to feel the safety of my bed wrapped around me, I drag my body across the floor like something half-alive.
My palms slip on the cold tiles as I crawl into the kitchen.
My fingers struggle to reach for the fridge handle, and it takes everything I have left to pull myself upright.
My legs tremble and my vision flickers at the edges.
I yank the fridge open and blindly grab a bottle of water, the plastic cold and slick in my shaking hands.
My knees buckle the second I let go of the door.
I hit the ground hard, the pain echoing up my spine.
I’m too far gone to care. I shove the bottle into the waistband of my leggings and start the slow, pitiful shuffle down the hall.
Every inch feels like a mile. The floor bites into my skin, the shadows seem to curl closer with each dragging breath.
By the time I reach my bedroom, I’m gasping. I claw at the edge of the bed, my fingers white-knuckled as I haul myself up. The mattress swallows me whole the second my body hits it. A brief, fleeting mercy. I’m too tired to cry out when fresh pain pulses behind my eyes like a warning drum.
Instead, I rip the bottle from my waistband and toss it carelessly onto the bedside table.
It rattles against the wood, the sound sharp and final in the quiet room.
With what little strength I have left, I curl onto my side, my clothes still clinging to my sweat-damp skin as I drag the blanket up around me, cocooning myself in false warmth.
The tears come without permission. Hot streaks down my cheeks that disappear into the pillow.
I squeeze my eyes shut so tight that colour’s bloom behind my eyelids.
I whisper a bitter wish into the darkness, that maybe this will be the last time.
Maybe next time, I’ll wake up free, but I know better.
There’s no way out once you sell your soul to the diabhal.
There’s no freedom for the damned. The worst part?
Dhéanfainn arís é. (I’d do it all again.)
The sound of what I think is my name shatters the fragile darkness, ripping me up from my sleep. I bolt upright in bed, and my breath sticks in my throat, Like half a sob. Hastily I scan the room. Tá mé abhaile. (I’m Home.)
My body sags back against the pillow, but the relief is short-lived. The memories hit all at once. Yesterday in the woods, the black fog, the hospital, him. The stranger with the predator’s gaze and eyes the colour of cut emeralds. The man who shouldn’t have been there. The man who watched.
My mouth goes dry as I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to shake away the image of him. The way he stepped out from the shadows. How my skin prickled like it wanted him closer, even though my mind screamed, run.
Fuck.
My hands clench the blanket tighter around me, my knuckles whitening. Was it a dream? Was I dreaming that my handsome green-eyed stranger was there? I can’t get rid of the thought as a sick twist of doubt coils in my gut.
It felt too real, the way our eyes locked, the way my name felt on his tongue even though I never gave it.
Or did I? The haze makes it worse, blurring what might be a dream and what could be a memory.
I swallow down the rising dread, forcing my eyes open.
The shadows in the corners look deeper than before.
I tell myself it’s just exhaustion, that my mind’s playing tricks but a part of me knows better.
He was there and I think a part of me wanted him to be.
Still aching, I force myself upright and stumble from the bed. My limbs feel like they’re made of lead, every step scraping a groan from somewhere deep in my chest. Each breath I take threatens to drag the nausea up with it. I clamp my jaw shut and urge it back down where it belongs.
In the bathroom, not thinking, my hand twists the shower knob until the water runs scalding hot.
Steam curls around me, thick and suffocating.
My body sinks down onto the tiles because my legs won’t hold me up anymore.
My hands fumble as I try my hardest to peel my clothes off but I can't. I’m trembling so hard that the fabric clings to my skin. In the end, I give up.
Saddened, I press my forehead to my knees as the water beats down on me, hot enough to burn yet never hot enough to cleanse.
When the shivering stops, I try again. Fumbling at soaked seams, tugging cloth from my limbs as though I’m peeling off layers of skin. It’s clumsy and pitiful, but eventually I get it done. Once I'm naked under the spray, I scrub at my hair, my nails scraping at my scalp until my arms give out.
Not wanting to collapse in the shower, I turn the water off and with no skill whatsoever I step out of the shower.
Standing frozen, dripping. A ghost in the mirror.
My eyes look hollow and my lips are cracked from whispering prayers that never get answered.
With a huff, I drag a towel from the rail and wrap it around me like a shroud, then sink to the floor again, my forehead pressing down on the cold porcelain.
A headache claws behind my eyes, promising a fresh wave of agony.
I can’t face it again, not now. So, I hesitantly crawl back to my room, my wet hair leaving a trail.
I collapse onto the bed, too tired to care that the damp is soaking the sheets, or that my skin is freezing beneath the towel.
I tug the blanket over my shoulders, bury my face in the pillow, and squeeze my eyes shut against the darkness pressing in at the edges of my mind.