Chapter 62
How does this happen? How does the man I fell so hard for just—disappear? This revenge of his has washed away the memories of us—the love.
I can no more stop loving him than he can stop hating Braxton Ames. Both of our uncontrolled emotions will likely escort us to our graves.
“Come on, motherfucker,” he mutters as he looks through the rifle scope, his finger steady on the trigger.
Someone has been in the boot of my car.
He hasn’t given me a second of his attention all day.
I smell like piss, that’s probably why. It’s soaked my leggings right down to my ankles.
I can’t even stand the smell of myself. There’s been two times in my life that I’ve honestly wanted to die.
Both of them have been in the presence of Theodore Reed.
Only this time, I can’t pull the trigger.
Why does life without him seem so unlivable? Oh, the questions. I want to know if he ever really loved me. I want to know if taking another man’s life will give him any sort of peace. I want to know if taking my life will leave him with regret.
I want. I want. I want.
However, my words have been silenced by the grief over losing him and the clock, once again, counting down—numbering my breaths left on this earth.
My throat itches. I try to stifle my cough.
He glances over his shoulder, his hands still poised on the rifle.
I’ve seen that look many times. It was his favorite look for months when I moved in with him—the you-are-not-worthy-of-oxygen look.
So here we are. We’ve come full circle. Nothing is forever, especially not love.
It is for now. Some people get more nows than other people.
“Communal underwear.” I laugh. I’ve heard the appetizer to death is a nice serving of delusion. I’m there. “You’d better kill yourself after you kill Ames and me. No one wants to wear communal underwear.”
He adjusts his grip on the rifle and presses his eye to the scope. “Shut up.”
“Ma’am. Shut up, Ma’am. You’ve always had rubbish manners.
Not Daniel. He was a gentleman. The sex was a bit vanilla, but he loved me.
He was such a catch.” I laugh and cough, then laugh again.
“Oh, Karma … she doesn’t miss a thing. I’ve done a lot of things in my life that I should not have done.
I’ve shown disregard for the law, and even life.
How did she know? How did she know I’d follow you into the arms of Hell? ”
A fit of coughs takes over; each time it constricts, it feels like sandpaper lodged in my throat.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” He stomps over to the sink and fills a glass with water. “Drink.” He tips my chin up. Some of it makes it into my mouth, despite my efforts to pinch my lips together.
I choke on the water. He keeps pouring, most of it running down my face. When he stops. I spit what’s in my mouth onto his shirt.
He’s angry. I should care. But I don’t. Why? Oh, that’s right: heart ground into the soles of his boots. After putting the glass on the worktop, he shrugs off his shirt and throws it onto the floor.
“Will you tattoo my name on your other arm under a gravestone?”
He glares at me for a few seconds before returning to the rifle.
“Ask them to use san serif script. I’m quite fond of it.”
“Shut up.”
“Maybe they could draw—”
“Shut. Up!”
After only two seconds of silence, I continue. “My ruby pendant necklace draped over the gravestone and—”
“Shut the fuck UP!” He whips around and has me in a headlock with the blade of his knife pressed to my throat.
“Do. It,” I whisper. “But … don’t be a fucking coward.” Each breath gasps for life as I try to speak past the lump in my throat. “My heart. Stab me in the heart like you promised.”
My lungs get yet another unexpected breath of air as the knife vanishes and Theodore Reed turns into a tornado of anger—stabbing the knife into the cupboard door, ripping the one next to it off its hinges, breaking the glass on the worktop, while growling profanities.
I flinch with each outburst. He grabs the knife from the cupboard and rushes toward me, gripping the knife in one hand and my neck in his other, our faces mere inches apart. “If you speak again. I will put this in your heart.”
He won’t. Theodore Reed doesn’t hate me—he hates that he loves me.
He hates that I came into his life when I did.
Loving me is killing him. We are two wounded creatures suffering from unspeakable pain that has marred the decent people we once were.
But right now, my existence is too agonizing for both of us, and I no longer want to be here.
“Do. It.” I narrow my eyes.
I swear he winces like I stabbed him. “Fuck!” he roars, bringing the knife above his head as his grip on my neck tightens to the point that I can’t breathe.
I close my eyes. It’s time … I’m ready. Do it, Theo. I’ll still love you.
The chair jerks, almost tipping over. All I hear is his panting. His hold on my neck loosens. I peek open one eye. The knife is lodged in the seat of the chair between my legs.
I guess he is a true sadist. Killing me would be less torturous. He squints down at the floor. I’ve wet myself again. My body begins to shake with uncontrollable sobs.
“Just kill me, p-p-please.” I don’t recognize my own voice. It’s like part of me is already gone.
*
Theo grunts, but he won’t have to worry about it happening much longer if I’m not eating or drinking.
He unties me and lifts me from the chair by my arms. My dignity disintegrates as he peels my soiled leggings and knickers off me, followed by my shirt and bra; my arms fall limp to my sides.
If I could muster a single emotion it would be humiliation, but I can’t even feel that.
He shoves my dirty clothes in a bin bag.
Then he carries me into the bathroom and puts me in the bath.
I jump when the cold water from the showerhead hits me. He stuffed my peace lily upside down in the bathroom bin by the sink. Poor Phoebe.
“Wash up.” He closes the curtain and leaves the bathroom.
I remain unmoving except for the uncontrolled shivering from the icy water. Fuck you, cancer. I came here to die. You indiscriminately pluck souls from this world all of the time. I didn’t fight you. I surrendered. What more do you want?
Losing the will to live cannot be understood until—it happens. It’s not that the pain is too much; it’s the ability to feel anything has been suffocated by the pain. It’s literally mind-numbing. Complete detachment from life and reality.
My name is Scarlet Stone, and on the day Oscar was arrested, he told me to remember that letting go takes far more strength than holding on.
Later—when? I don’t know, just later—Theo comes back into the bathroom and opens the curtain. I hug my knees, feeling more numb than ever before. My lips have to be blue.
“For fuck’s sake …” He adjusts the water and squirts shampoo in my hair and all over my body. Then he scrubs me down as the warm water begins to erase the chills.
I’m wrapped in a towel and carried to his bedroom where he lays me on the mattress and dresses me in a long-sleeved T-shirt and boxer shorts that he has to roll over at the waist several times and even then they slide from my hips.
The man with remnants of my heart embedded in the bottom of his black boots on the floor a few feet away squats in front of me as I hug my knees, resting my chin on one of them.
I stare at the frayed hems of his jeans brushing along the top of his bare feet.
Theo has pretty feet. Does he know that?
I bet it’s from walking in the sand and swimming in the ocean everyday.
I would tell him that, but I’m done talking.
I’m done caring. I’m done worrying. I’m just … done.