Chapter 9
Is this what death feels like?
My mouth is so dry my tongue clings to its roof, a bitter reminder that I’m still here, still tethered to this debt. I stretch, my joints crack and snap as though they’re brittle twigs. Each pop fuels the fire in my gut. A slow, smoldering rage that’s been festering for far too long.
My eyelids feel like iron gates, still I force them open. I always do. Slowly I drag myself back into the light. It’s the same every time. I’m forced to crawl out of the dark, gasping myself back to life, as if I’m a dog on its belly.
This is the part I hate the most, an tar éis. (the after.) The pathetic shell I’m left in, trembling, weak and easy to break. I loathe it, I hate how it strips me of the power I fought so hard for, and how I let him, the diabhal, make me this, a puppet on his strings.
Fueled by my own resolve, I drag myself out of bed, letting the damp towel drop where it wants.
It feels just like a tiny rebellion, leaving it there on the floor, a limp flag of all the fucks I don’t have left to give.
I test each limb in turn, flexing my stiff fingers and rolling my aching shoulders.
No broken bones, thank God for small mercies.
For a heartbeat too long, I stand, but my knees quiver, mocking my effort to look composed. It’s as though my own body wants to remind me who’s in charge. Not me. I find my balance anyway. Stubbornness has always been my armour.
The wardrobe yawns as I reach for some black, threadbare leggings and an oversized purple t-shirt, the ones that’s seen more nights of sweat and tears than any lover ever has. No underwear. What’s the fucking point? I’m not leaving this house today.
The world tilts as I tug the clothes on.
A bright wave of dizziness blooms behind my eyes and slams me to the floor.
My ass hits the ground hard, and pain shoots up my spine.
However, it barely registers. I’m too busy fighting the thick knot in my throat, too busy forcing down the bile of last night’s memory.
Those goddamn green eyes. That devouring stare that won’t let me breathe.
In order to calm my mind, I suck in air through my nose and shove it out through my mouth. Then count. One, two, three, all the way to ten. I can still imagine him standing in the shadows, watching.
The spinning slows, still I don’t move. Not yet. Not until I feel the fight settle back into my bones. When I stand, it’s on my own terms, shaking or not.
With a degree of caution, I drag myself to the kitchen, each step deliberate, as if I’m daring my legs to betray me again.
I need coffee, the bitter burning kind that scalds my throat and tricks my hands into steadying.
It’s my only shield for mornings like this, when my own mind feels as though it’s gnawing at itself.
Right now, I need an extra-large dose of it to keep the darkness at bay.
When the kettle clicks off, and I pour myself a cup, I clutch the cup like it’s holy, the steam fogging my lashes.
Carefully I tug my battered folding chair from its hiding place behind the door.
I’m still moving with that half-wary limp.
My body reminding me not yet as I drag the chair outside, and settle it near my bedroom window.
When I unfold the chair, my eyes catch something…
more stains. Not just the faint smear from before, this is more.
Fresher and thicker. My stomach lurches.
What the fuck?
My eyes squint through the early light as I step closer. It’s not bird shit. I knew that before my brain registered it. It wasn’t bird shit last time either. I just didn’t want to name it. Denial is warm and easy to hold and it’s dissolving in the acid of my rage now.
A cold sickness crawls up my spine as my fingers tighten around my coffee cup, the ceramic threatening to crack.
I can’t help it, I keep looking at the stain, at the obscene, filthy marks left behind.
My pulse hammers in my ears, louder than my shallow breathing.
Whoever did this… if they think they can smear themselves on my world, press their filth against my glass and watch me choke on my own fear, they have another thing coming.
If they think they know me. Níl tada ar eolas acu. (They don’t know a damn thing.)
However, I feel… curious. I hate that I do. I knew I was being watched. That crawling itch along my spine, the heavy breath I swear I’ve felt on my skin when I close my eyes at night. Now I’m certain it’s him. Mr. Piercing Green Eyes.
My thighs squeeze together at the mere thought of him, the image of those eyes locked on mine, devouring.
I can almost feel them now, dragging across my skin the same as a rough touch.
I can't decide if I hate it or crave it. I bite my lip and heat coils low in my belly. It’s wrong and shameful, still the more I tell myself to stop, the more my mind wanders back to him.
Disgusted with myself, I shove the thought aside and stomp back inside to grab a bucket and a cloth. I can’t be this woman. I’m not some helpless thing who lets herself be marked and watched like prey. Cad é an diabhal atá cearr liom? (What the fuck is the matter with me?)
Angrily I set my cup down on the counter, harder than I meant to.
The tap hisses and spits when I turn it on, the bucket filling too slowly for my liking.
My mind isn’t here. It’s still stuck on my stranger’s face and the weight of his presence that lingers like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.
I hate how it burns beneath the surface long after it should have faded.
Worse than that, I hate that a part of me, a secret, treacherous part, wants more.
With the bucket in hand, and a cloth slung over my wrist, I step back outside. Half hoping the filth on my window would have vanished and that it was just a sick dream. However, it’s there, brazen, and obscene. Is he leaving his scent to mark his territory?
Something furious twists low in my gut. I stand frozen.
Clang.
The bucket crashes to the ground, water sloshing over my feet. I can’t do it. I should scrub it away, but my feet won’t move. Every fibre of me screams, clean it. But, my hands stay at my sides. If I wipe it away, does that erase the truth? Does that make me clean or just blind?