I scrambled out of my body

twisted my threads into cords

shifted into something else

limbs too long, head too loud

an itch set too deep in these muscles of mine

to ever be caught ( touched, stroked,

embraced like a whimpering child )

my fingers reaching forward,

calling the moon and spitting seaweed from my mouth ( scratchy, wet,

blooming in the dark )

words like little pebbles

tumbling down,

once sharp, now smoothed out by fractured warmth

and the great blue ( crashing tides, millenniums of light-years

tucked away under the heart )

selfish thing, loving things, explosions and combustion

99 red balloons like mosaic tiles

rolling off my tongue,

moss green waves swelling between the ribs

emerald storms traced with gold

soft serpent snakes

made not out of hate but love

words and prayers

in the form of sea-glass

colored in the shades of my other soul

constantly reaching for the sun

breaking out of my cement-dried form ( blooming past the ceiling,

growing on eggshells and soil )

dancing more on things I used to, only tiptoe

Part 2

And suddenly, I find myself drawn to that feeling of uncorrupted, soothing energy that cleanses away all the pain - to the moment in the basement when I barely made it out alive - and the closeness, the warmth of his body and his lips on mine that seemed to fill me with energy, that knew of no torture, no demons, no ache. Purification. It was the only time in my life I ever felt whole, countless invisible pieces shifting and fitting themselves into place as if my body had been filled to the brim with liquid diamonds exploding with light that illuminated me in silver. And unexpectedly, I had become the moon on the clearest night of the year, devouring the darkness so deeply that it no longer had access to me. Something cracks, shifts, and twists inside of me, and without warning, I no longer exist as I was - all that I am, and all I have become is a need, a hunger. The only thought living in my vacant walls is to make the anguish go away, nothing else; sense and reason becoming a foreign concept to the feverish mind.

Find your release, take it.

You deserve it.

No one will stop you.

I look at Charlie without seeing him, only craving, needing, wanting - not fully recognizing the person before me but itching to get to the energy I knew hid under the warm touch, under the skin that was so inviting. I lean forward and grab onto his shoulders, nails unhurriedly clawing down his arms, enjoying the sound of the woolen fabric under my fingers, slightly defying my actions. Everything in me is desperate, loud, and consuming, yet what grows in me takes its time - like a lazy beast slowly surrounding its prey, relishing in the agony of hunger just before it gets satisfied. I feel tension and resistance in his body that only stirs me with more eagerness. I grab onto him tighter, my hands shifting to his lower back and under the material of his sweater, longing for bare skin and heated muscles to dive into. My structure wants to experience all of him, atoms shifting and dancing, humming for the light that would reassemble my skin, molding itself once again into liquified silver until my hands would become a cluster of crescent moons and dying stars. He was the sun I needed to consume to stay alive, to function.

I hear his voice, a rushed, worried whisper between my growing chaos, a plead trapped in only one word. I think he says my name, but then I forget what a name is, what it implies. All I want is him and nothing else.

Let me. Please. It hurts, it hurts so much.

That must be my voice, yet I don't recognize it. But a part of me that is still aware understands that it's my last courtesy for him on the sane ground. I feel hesitation from him blending with a hunger that is not just my own, and then sense searching hands move to my thighs, and it's all the permission I need. My body lifts higher, lips finding his instinctively, teeth grazing against them and tasting the familiar curve and warmth. His fingers sink in deeper into my legs, tugging me closer. And despite the fever, sorrow, and all the pain that's eating me alive, shifting me into something unpredictable, the corners of my lips lift into a slow grin, a feeling of unexpected joy flaring through my chest before I even feel his breath in mine. I tear off my sweater with urgency, annoyed by the fabric that seems to sting my skin as if it just got burned in a fire, the sofa's cushions scraping against me and causing me to growl, agitation hitting me until my focus returns to him; burning a different kind of flames in my insides - I kiss him harder with passion both limitless and constantly expanding, something echoing in the pit of my stomach, snarling expectantly with feelings so turbulent that I could never fully express.

No part of her wants to be away from him.

Everything in the room spills out in crimson and orange hues, the matter around them losing its shape and meaning, energy vibrating and crackling, heightened into something new, thrilling - causing time to slow down and become almost touchable, defined as if a painting of flames, frozen yet blazing. Her fingertips seem to itch even more, making the nails dig in harder as if she couldn't get deep enough under his skin, the soul, his deepest essence - needing to be connected to him as strong and as close as possible, constantly feeling like she's not close enough. It's a strange sensation but exhilarating, consuming, overpowering to the point when everything else fades away, something possibly dangerous, the darkness lurking under the edges of all that bright, warm light. The energy that creates itself between them is pure and of the healing kind, but the shadows she had been infected with overtime leave consequences behind, turning her into something that she had always feared, something that could no longer crawl out back from hell.

The ache subsides gradually, burning itself out the longer they stay connected, the pain and sorrow molding into a strange kind of meteor that burns in this new atmosphere created between them. Her ragged soul smoothens its structure, but the beast is too much of a human to stop; it still wants more. She pushes herself on him, pinning him down until she lays on top of him, pulling at his clothes and lifting it, moving her fingernails against his chest as if they were covered in paint, imagining streaks of blue and red coloring his skin, wanting as little fabric as possible between them. He was her fabric, her canvas made only for her to touch. The thought blooms unexpectedly between her unsteady breaths - and it's the same moment when reality, unwelcomed, starts to sip through, matter growing into shape, as more layers of calm, coat her bones and skin, softness holding her in a warm embrace. It does not stop the fires in her but changes their form into something more aware - bringing all of her senses into motion, specifically the sense of touch. Pressure on the skin. The feeling of being held in place.

Restrain, strength, urgency.

A click, a snap. The sound of glass breaking around the haze.

My eyes flutter open, instantly pained by the brightness coming from the TV, the only thing bringing light into the room at this time of day, mind having difficulty understanding its surroundings. The physical part of me is the first to react as the feeling of pressure on my arms hits me again, making me focus. I look down and notice hands on my wrists holding me in place; my stare lifts, and I see him lying under me, securing me in place with force, depriving me even of the slightest chance of movement. He's actions are rough, but his stare remains gentle under the flames circulating around the dilated pupils, leaving little blue to see. Two massive black holes surrounded by fires and water. A wave of heat hits my face as I stare at him in shock, slowly understanding what had just happened. My heart pounds like a madman in my chest, embarrassment covering me like something ugly and dirty. Something I don't want. I move back to the furthest part of the sofa as if someone had just tasered me and gape at him with scared, wide eyes.

Charlie...

I stutter and then trail off, not certain if there were any words for the mayhem that took over her, over everything. I blink several times and lift my hands absentmindedly to my hair, fingers slipping through it and holding the sides of my head while I look around the room, confused. The surroundings seem alien to me at first, as if I wasn't fully aware of where I was, my eyes tripping over every object in sight as if hoping I could find some answers there. I can feel something in me break and crack, the sound of metal hitting the ground with a cacophony of sounds only for me to hear. It's a sensation that could damage even the strongest soul, but I just let it breathe inside of me and fill my structure for a while - the feeling is too familiar by now to destroy me even further. I want to explain myself to him, even though part of me knows he will understand. If only there weren't so many things at stake here.

If this was just an ordinary moment between two people, a burst of passion that would lead to even more fires then it would have been alright. More than alright. Overwhelming in the most delicious way, something they both would have sank without hesitation. Just another scene in life, a simple boy meets girl kind of thing. Sparks flying everywhere without causing their worlds to burn in flames. But unfortunately, this wasn't the case. Not just another down-to-earth story where the characters had to battle their way through, only to end up together when everything had been said and done. She was running on borrowed time, and she knew it. The final chapter would look different for her.

Nora?

She gazes at her hands holding onto the blanket tightly, knuckles whiter than snow. Gradually her stare lifts, and she catches his stare.

I'm sorry.

My voice seems barely audible.

I wish I was stronger than I am. I wish that I could fight through the pain and not endanger what we have between us because it's too valuable for it to get lost.

His eyes follow mine, but he doesn't say anything, his eyes penetrating my soul as if seeing the barest parts of me that had nothing to do with my body. His hand lifts towards me, but I shake my head, somehow fearful of his touch after everything that had occurred between us. I get up surprisingly steadily and walk over to the window, watching drops of cold rain hit the glass, the sky above my head colored in the sharpest shade of steel. I cross my arms and stare at the life outside my apartment, running its course - it feels like a life I am permanently separated from. I inhale deeper as if wanting to consume the grayness of the day inside my tattered lungs.

And if it got lost, I feel I might disappear completely.

My voice is so low I'm not sure he even heard me. I make myself continue before my sudden courage evaporates.

I think that if things were different, in an alternate reality where I wasn't a threat to

everyone I get too close to...

I feel him shift on the sofa, and my eyes shut tighter as I take a deeper breath.

I feel there would be room for more between us, maybe more than I care to admit. But right now, I can't risk losing what we have. I can't risk something I can't live without.

I can't risk losing someone that returned life to me as much as possible, with its subtle reflections and colors, slightly faded out by the darkness around me but real, meaningful. You're my last autumn light flickering through the bare branches, the last touch of something warm. I think to myself but choose to leave it to myself. I feel the words would be too awkward, too flat if I gave them a voice, losing their depth to something far too shallow. My fists tighten against the windowsill.

I should have been stronger. Instead, I'm this weak, pathetic thing. I don't know how you put up with me.

I feel anger move through my muscles and concentrate on it, focusing on it for support. After a moment, I turn around slightly, gazing at him - and I think that he understands, not the last words but everything else I said. And even though I don't want to think about it, I know that he feels things for me too. Perhaps, I always knew. It's a strange thing to admit to, even if it's just to myself. He gets up as well, and I stare back at the view of the street and the people leading their normal, mundane lives. I close my eyes and feel the warmth of his body against my back as his arms slip around my waist, his chin resting gently on my left shoulder. I don't stiffen or feel uneasy for all the signs of affection that he gives me - the side of me that fights any kind of attachment suddenly dormant and still, the bruised parts that I hold close to me just to survive, quiet somehow. I let myself lean against him, sinking into his welcoming form. I feel emotions overtaking me like a warm summer wave, ready to escape at any moment, but I keep it at bay.

I can't risk those things either. If there is a chance for us one day then we will take it. For now, I'm just happy you exist in the same world as I do.

He shifts and kisses the top of my head, and I inhale his scent in my lungs. Don't stay in it too long; it will be that much harder when it's being ripped away from you. The logical side murmurs and I listen, shifting gently away from his embrace. I smile at him, bring up the last resources of strength I have left, and close the window of opportunity between us, shifting all possible feelings to the back of my being. I shove it with as much ruthlessness as I can master while my skin becomes as hard as the shade of sky outside the window.

Then you must enjoy the company of strange individuals more than you should.

I cross my arms over my chest and try to sound light, but it comes out rather miserable; then my stomach rumbles, and I jump, startled, shocked that such prosaic things are still a part of my world. I think the sound sends us both into our normal routine, and I am grateful for it. He shakes his head and walks over to the cabinets.

I think it's feeding time. I have this sinking suspicion you don't even remember the last time you ate. Now sit down patiently while I make you something.

He looks around for a moment and furrows his eyebrows.

Alright, change of plans. After your morning de-cluttering session, I think some shopping is in order.

Hey, as long as your providing the supplies then knock yourself out.

He nods but sends me a look.

What?

Do you think you will be alright while I'm gone?

I sigh, scrunching my face.

All is well, Charlie, I promise. Currently, I am the best version of my mean-streaked, odd-sense-of-humor self. Take your time; I got some work to do anyway.

He looks doubtful.

Believe it or not, my beautiful freeloader traits have their limits. The bills still need to get paid. So let me fire up my laptop, download new photographs and find amateurs for my tremendous art. And Charlie?

He gazes at me while he puts on his jacket.

I'm not too good at showing signs of affection but uhm... I'm glad you're here too. Happy that you... exist.

The sides of his lips lift.

I know. But it's good to hear it sometimes. I will be back soon.

The door shuts behind him, and I hear the sound of the key turning as he locks it. I listen to the faint noise of his steps as he runs down the stairs and shake my head at how familiar and homey that seems. I'm not sure how I feel about it and chose not to dwell on it. Tricky territory. I sit down by the computer and plug in the cable for my camera, finally seeing the results of my work on a bigger screen. I smile at all the images caught in the park and marvel at how strange it was that those quiet moments happened only a few days ago. My eyes scan each photograph and select the ones that will be most alluring to the potential buyer, depending on the light, composition, and what was going on in the background. You had to be very picky about the material you wanted to choose - as picky as all the people examining them before any purchase.

I get lost in the process, relaxing as the routine of the task, soothes my thoughts, silencing all unnecessary chaos in my head. It works well for a while, but the random visions still flash under my eyelids when my guard drops too low. Images of my nails digging into his skin, as if electrical plugs looking for a source of energy, mixing with memories of the tapestry of his back muscles flexing and bending under my touch - catching my breath sharply, as I realize there was no way of telling where he began and where I started in those stolen moments that I might never get again. Still feeling his flavor on my tongue, his smell that reminded me of sandalwood, spices, and a heated air at the end of another hot summer day, those hands so greedily roaming my body, wanting to learn me as if I was a landscape, a mountain chain that he needed to draw, his personal sunset exploding into colors with every touch. Remembering how he stole my last breath over and over, only to bring me back to life. The sweetest death, the most brilliant rebirth. It was worth it. Something in me murmurs, and I know it's true. I give myself a few more slow moments with the memories and then snap out of it, focusing all my attention on the problems I could still solve and improve, finances being the best rational excuse society had to offer.

I gaze back at the screen and feel an invisible soft whisper tickle my skin like a pesky fly. You haven't put a lock on that window. Why? It was right there next to the handle; it was so easy. Why didn't you? A sort of burning sensation fills my chest, both hot and cold. It's the same sensation as when returning from the chilling air of winter, as your lungs pain you from inhaling too much ice. The sensation is both aching and magnificent. Like swallowing up the universe and inhaling too many stars, meant for souls but not the physical bodies. Collateral beauty - I think and stop breathing for a moment - scared to answer the question asked without any words. Because if I answered it, there might not be enough strength in me to stop me from opening the window again.

And the irony was that no matter the fear I felt right now, I also knew that I would probably never put that lock into place, I would never shut it permanently. It felt wrong to do so, unnatural almost. As if fighting against something bigger than I could understand. It's not your place to defy gravity. A quiet voice rings out somewhere under my skin, and I nod with unusual calm - a feeling of unexplainable peace washing over me and grounding me into place.

__________

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

.

Previous chapters :

.

52. https://theprose.com/post/526170/walking-on-eggshells-and-ash

53. https://theprose.com/post/553492/those-whispers-under-the-wooden-boards

54. https://theprose.com/post/706199/the-motion-and-interaction-of-erratic-things

Part 1

truth is not fully explosive, but purely electric

you don't blow the world up with the truth

you shock it into motion

― Criss Jami, Healology

But some machines aren't that good at lying.

He comes over barely two hours later, probably seeing through my bullshit attempt at seeming okay. Thankfully, I manage to get off the floor before that happens, wash away the cuts in the shower, then quickly put on a pair of black sweatpants and throw on a long woolen cardigan over a grey cotton t-shirt before the cold reaches my bones. And somehow, through all those mundane motions that feel like impossible tasks, I push away the pain that radiates from my knee - it takes a lot of deep breaths and sucking air through my teeth, but I do it. Unfortunately, a dozen other places that cause me to flinch every few seconds are slightly harder to discard. It takes all of my willpower not to scream out like a possessed person, pick up a nearby chair and smash it through the closest window. My irritation levels are so sensitive and sharp that the ability to ignore the urge sends a sense of pride into my worn-out form, giving me some strength to keep going. I don't find enough energy to clean the entire wreckage in the kitchen, and end up focusing only on getting rid of the biggest pieces of ceramic, glass, and whatever else is littering the kitchen floor, as well as swiping the stuff from the counters. It's the last thing I do before covering myself with the thickest blanket I own, and then passing out on the sofa.

I wake up to the feeling of light pressure and warmth radiating from my thigh. For a moment, with a fuzzy mind, I wonder if maybe I hit myself there by accident during my happy moment of sociopathic pleasures, but then dismiss the idea as I come to the conclusion the sensation is not unpleasant. With blurry vision, I look up and narrow my eyes, not sure at first what I'm seeing - and when I do, a smile creeps on my lips as I realize it's actually reality. My gaze wanders to Charlie's face as he stares at the TV, the sound turned off and its lights filling the room with an almost ghostly silver-blue gleam. He seems to be lost in thought, as if he's somewhere far away, much further than just the length of my sofa. I look down at his hand and feel heat spread through my veins as I realize it was his fingers I had felt before resting on my leg.

Suddenly I'm very aware of my body, my skin, and how my lungs fill with air, causing the chest to rise and fall; my eyes are unable to move away from his profile, gliding against the delicate bump on the bridge of his nose, the curve of the lips, and the shape of his jaw. I sense every breath that circulates through my system as my stare moves to his shoulders, mesmerized by the tiny dust motes flickering with warm, golden light against the edges of his beige and brown sweater. I think he senses a slight change in atmosphere, and his head turns towards me - instantly, my body stiffens, the blood under my skin seeming to freeze like the surface of a lake when winter becomes too harsh to handle. The sensation of being electrocuted fills me to the very last atom - a feeling of being caught on something I shouldn't be doing taking over as I clear my throat, which unfortunately sets the razors in it into motion. It's not a pretty sight.

Christ, are you okay?

I lean over the sofa, choking and looking like a dammed soul fighting for its last breath while grabbing to the edges of its liferaft. He leans in closer and pets my back a few times. I nod, not trusting my voice, and lift a hand dismissively as if silently letting him know the show was over. It was embarrassing how unreliable my body was, how it openly showed him how weak I'd become.

Yesterday really messed you up.

He says in a low voice. I hear many layers to his tones but choose not to comment on the understatement of the year. I sit up and rest my head against the back of the couch, gazing absentmindedly at the ceiling.

Yesterday, this week, the last two years, a whole lifetime. You choose. There is no wrong answer to it.

He sighs, and we sit for a moment in silence until I feel warmth expanding in the tip of my fingers, gently pouring like warm liquid through my hands. I exhale with relief and gaze at him with a tired smile as he moves his thumbs against the palms of my hands and then suddenly stops. I gaze at him questioningly.

Your bandages. Should I take them off for it to... work better?

No, not necessary, leave them. It will be a good reminder to stay away from any Hannibal Lecter-themed basements in the future.

That's not amusing.

What can I say; I find dark humor entertaining. The last refuge on the stormy waters of my beautiful existence.

He lifts an eyebrow.

Well then, at least we can be sure that your sarcastic self has not been harmed in any way.

He becomes serious again and then lets go of my hands, turning his head towards the kitchen - something unsettles inside me unexpectedly, my fingers going cold in just seconds, and there is this strange side of me that wants to grab onto him, making his hands touch me again. The notion feels greedy, desperate, ravenous - beyond my control. Air catches in my throat, and I hold my neck tightly as if that could stop the next wave of coughing. It helps a little, though nothing can stop the fear and doubts that spill out of me in constant waves. Could I ever harm him if the need for his touch, the remedy effect he had on me, would become too strong? And if he no longer wanted to be a part of this? Would I become frantic and cruel like the monsters that occupied my head? You're losing yourself in the madness, child. Soon there will be nothing left - a voice whispers, making me cringe as I realize the words could be more than true. A little mantis and her prey. The voice mocks, taunting me with pleasure. I look up, and Charlie gazes back at me with a smile, somehow oblivious to the turmoil that's taking place inside my mind, and then points to the area behind him.

Should I even ask what happened there?

His voice might seem amused to anyone else, but I know how worried he was under the light tones. I feel my heart rattle in my chest; it sounds like iron elements banging against rust; my eyelid twitches slightly from the sensation.

Mmm, realizing you suffer from amnesia and mental illness can apparently have that effect on certain individuals. But maybe it's just me mastering levels of denial to perfection. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

What do you mean exactly?

I can practically taste his concern on my tongue; the rust in my chest makes the flavor bitter.

I was fine at first, as much as one can be in this situation, and then it struck me that I had pretty much forgotten it all - only having fragments, but everything in between was faded, rubbed out with an eraser, or covered with a thick dark veil.

I gesticulate with my hands, trying to find the right words, watching his eyebrows lift higher with each second.

And when it started to hit me back all at once, I... it just... it was too much. Everything became red, and I couldn't see past the rage. I saw nothing else, Charlie... nothing.

My hands lift in the air and stay there helplessly.

An outlet for all that pressure; sometimes anger is necessary, Nora, even if the effects scare us.

He says it calmly, but I also sense that the situation pains him.

You don't seem to be too alarmed by what you just heard.

He exhales slowly.

I have seen a lot in my life; medical practice makes you look at things from a different perspective - trauma is never easy.

Trauma.

I repeat the word slowly as if trying to dissect it piece by piece.

Are you telling me I might have some form of PTSD?

He nods, and I do the same, not really surprised, more like defeated by it. Just another thing to add to the list of enjoyment. I don't ask him more questions on the subject; there isn't that much to add - even broken things had fitting names for their problems - definitions, and elegant words to describe why strong people would eventually become shadows of themselves, fragile eggshells, crumbling on repeat every new day from even the most subtle triggers. My life had become one big trigger, and I feared the moment when the explosion would be too devastating to recover from - all I could hope for was that the shards and pieces would never cause him too much harm. Without saying anything, he wraps his right arm around my shoulder and pulls me in; I smile and let my body rest against his and mold itself to its shape. It feels comforting, warm, safe as if nothing else could ever break me again. I knew it was a naive notion, but it also felt good to let myself give in to it, letting my mind and body rest even for a little while.

We sit there, not saying much, just enjoying each other's company while something trivial and uncomplicated plays on the TV. I try to collect such memories with him as much as possible because I don't know how much more there will be. I let the gratitude towards him flow in my tired veins and feel myself relax, slowly drifting into another nap as my eyelids become too heavy, the body sinking so deep that it feels like immersing into the depths of my personal ocean. It feels heavenly until it doesn't. I wake up sometime later, more confused than before, not entirely sure what jerked me up so abruptly; I blink a few times and look up at Charlie.

Everything okay?

I nod slowly and move away from him as if I was waiting for something or someone, an invisible intruder that had no shape or form but was ready to attack at any moment - it was a disturbing feeling that I could not shake off. I take several deep, steady breaths as the pain in my knee decides to remind me of its presence; my face scrunching from the pulsating ache radiating so much that it feels like it's located right in the core of the bone, spreading and infecting every tissue in sight. I suck the air through my teeth as countless stings attack my skin; all the cuts from this morning waking up to life, blazing, and seeming to open up again. I feel drops of blood staining and sticking to my clothes, praying and hoping it's only happening in my paranoid mind - even psychosis seemed better than an unknown host attacking my flesh without permission. I swallow hard and gasp in disbelieve as the no longer existing bruises on my neck appear to bloom against my throat like deadly, beautiful flowers, unfolding their black and purple petals, as if poison ivy that outstretches forward like weeds down to my collarbones - wrapping themselves around them as if luscious green vines and yanking me up like a ragged doll.

Nora?

I hear his voice and shake my head, too scared to open my eyes. I don't have the slightest clue what's going on. It's nothing I have ever felt before. This thing, this overwhelming sensation of drowning in everything. Every pain, ache, scar, every bruise, and damaged tissue coming back to life all at once. A rotten soul stained by all the darkness of this world - I think to myself and tremble. Did you have fun pretending you could make it out of this alive? It must have felt good to act like you're like everyone else. My breathing speeds up as I struggle to push out the buzzing words, fighting against any new sensation. I hold on to the couch as something much worse comes back to me. The thing I thought started to heal.

No, it can't be.

I was doing better.

That monster had become smoother, easier to bare.

The pressure on my ribcage grows, invisible iron hands twisting around them with such power that I can almost feel the bones there crack. Snap like a twig, bend your bones for me, I need to make a fire. My heart feels like it's being strangled with grief, causing my eyes to sting as memories push themselves on me; an ache so familiar that somehow it felt like home. A home you loved and cared for - but that chose to rip you apart nonetheless, its walls crashing in on you, leaving you among its ruins. It's just in your head, it's just in your head. I repeat it like a mantra, fighting to hold onto the logic that was telling me this couldn't be true - but it feels so physical, so real that I cave under the pressure that turns oxygen into something dense, unclear, like drying concrete that hardens and conceals any human form, filling my ribs until all I become is a live wall of sorrow and pain.

The empty gap in my chest left there after an invisible bullet, with all of its sharp metal edges and haunting images, waking up to life, something attacking me in such a way like it wanted to claw out of me. My whole body trembles as if I'm lying bare in an open field of snow, nothing protecting me from the cold or the wind that blows recklessly and without mercy. The image is so powerful that the walls, the furniture, and everything around me disappear, even him. Don't let him disappear. No, please, not him. That finally jolts me back into life, the thought of a new loss that I could not handle yanking me back into reality - for now, at least. I didn't know how long I could hold the void back. With the last remains of sanity, I force myself to look at him, wanting to anchor myself to his presence, to my center; he was the only gravity that could keep me in place. He looks back at me with pure terror, and I gaze back at him with the same fear in my eyes. I start to breathe faster, the invisible metal arms tightening their eager grasp. Why didn't you stay in the snow, child? I gave you everything that you could ever want there. Peace, calm, the final surrender. I gasp, and the pain kicks in again; quick, sharp, oppressive, aimed to kill, to finish the job.

________

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

.

Previous chapters :

.

51. https://theprose.com/post/514578/a-little-game-of-hide-and-seek

52. https://theprose.com/post/526170/walking-on-eggshells-and-ash

53. https://theprose.com/post/553492/those-whispers-under-the-wooden-boards

maybe I have been here before

walking on wooden ladders,

and climbing the moon

perhaps Jupiter was my other home,

maybe I have been here before

sailing on ice cubes

in the tallest glass of life

perhaps, stardust powdered both my skin

and my heart

invisible tapestry of constellations

in the shapes of fallen suns

reflecting of my eyes

maybe I was made of rain dew

and lemon-drops,

my soul

colored with pastels

and flirtatious butterfly smiles,

perhaps, me and the darkness were good friends

lights like summer braids

woven into my hair,

and mixing with navy-blue ash

maybe I have been here before

and you whispered

my name so well,

you called me love

and climbed the moon

with me

I immerse myself in the sun

swallowing gold

within tattered lungs

gravity no more than a delicate red string

in a child's

soft chubby hands ,

my body lifts and pivots in a boundless spell

swirling somersaults

on the edge of the light

cutting air between oxygen and lost time .

I am something yet unsaid

lifetimes

of dying stars

fireworks waiting to be lit

I immerse myself in the sun

I swallow myself up

starting creation at day one .

reinventing structural walls

the blueprints

to my soul

strange, I thought, how you can be living

your dreams and your nightmares

at the very same time

- Ransom Riggs, Hollow City

Her hand slides against the cold walls as she slowly makes her way through the dark hallways below. There are round lights placed strategically every few feet, thick green arrows, with exit signs everywhere she looks, seeming to mock her. They do not bring much light with them; they're only subtle guidelines, so no one gets lost completely.

Her body trembles.

But she's already lost and no longer sees a way out.

Trapped somewhere between then and now.

Everything feels out of focus, and it seems like she has spent not hours but days here, wandering aimlessly through the countless, identical hallways. And whenever she goes, she ends up in the same place, feeling more drained with each passage of time.

Time.

She's not even sure what that means anymore. She came here to find out the source of the sounds but ended up getting much more than she had bargained for.

Everything became heightened.

The buzzing.

The voices.

The pain.

Each damaged and bruised part occupying her body and mind felt flipped backward and roughly yanked outside, placed on full display like raw pulsating flesh.

Her head is constantly ringing as she holds onto the cool walls covered with smooth oily paint, often resting her forehead there, even if only for seconds of foolish temporary relief. The waves of furious pain are the worse. As if an invisible attacker relentlessly stalking after her, hitting her spine, limbs, and bones with an old baseball bat, leaving long, sharp splinters behind after each hit.

Yet she keeps walking, dragging feet against the concrete floors, holding on to pipes and anything that she can find, wishing she could rip out one of those things and get it over with. Maybe if she hit her head enough times against the hard metal, the voices would stop.

Ghosts don't have bones to break.

They don't have ways to listen to the pain.

No body, no muscles, no skin.

No vessel to let in the wicked ones, child.

Jeremiah, Jeremiah, Jeremiah.

She hums softly, laying on the floor of the room she has no memories of, with no clue how she even got there.

Sounds,

sounds,

sounds.

Repeated sounds against the concrete, her blurry stare trying to lift and find the source of the noise. She looks up but already knows. It's his wooden cane tapping against the floor. It taps lightly, but there is nothing soft about it. It feels like it's cracking her ribcage, attacking the lungs, and twisting the vocal cords as she screams out the wreckage that never stops tumbling down. Her body a city in ruins, under constant attack of war.

And then it shifts, and she's crawling, laying on the dirty floor and dragging her body forward, nails scraping against the ground.

Nothingness.

She's limping now. Twisting her face in pain with every step she takes.

And without any explanation, she's leaning on a chair. How did she get here? What happened before?

No in-between.

Only shadows.

Whispers.

The rage.

The chair hits the opposite wall, ringing like an ear-shattering gong as it hits the massive pipes. Her hands itch as she covers her ears, the lungs threatening to explode from exhaustion. There are other identical chairs like that laying everywhere.

It doesn't matter. All she sees is RED. It swallows her up.

Darkness as thick as tar. Deep, sticky, syrupy, coating everything in sight.

She's standing almost straight, looking with hate at him, broken pieces of rust-colored metal held in her hands between the outstretched pulsating fingers.

Rust inside of her and around her.

Aren't you tired, child? Is your mind not bleeding?

I will let you rest,

I will let you sleep.

Time is just another abstract to swallow. Not medicine but poison.

Arsenic for one, please. And keep it coming.

My tap is always open in this bar.

She's on the floor again, only the whites of her eyes, seen from under the long eyelashes. Time stays nonexistent; there is just the pain that speaks of infinity. It's eternal, a flame that never dies out, constantly pulsing in her blood. It is all too easy to let go. To listen to that voice, to those soothing words.

Nora!

This voice. It rings out louder than shimmering in the afternoon light, cathedral bells as they begin their dance. Moving their heavy bodies against each other, their invisible echoes causing tiny ripples to form between her and the pain.

At first, but then it penetrates deeper, harder. Scarping claws against iron and sinking between layers, using force that blends with something kind, lifting a thin veil between darkness and shades of grey.

A certain slant of light.

So easy to miss.

Something shifts again. She's being yanked back into reality, into the unbearable physical things, the matter around her. She despises it, fights it, resists it. But it happens anyway. Her body shrinks into a ball as she is once again reminded of her sensitive human flesh and the wet, warm liquid under her fingertips. What happens to her is hard to describe, almost as if she is being sewn back together by crimson nylon threads, connecting her form and gluing it back to her spine, to the limbs that felt lifeless before. She doesn't want to come back but finds it hard to sink into the void, into the black, oily whispers.

Jeremiah, Jeremiah, Jeremiah.

She coos under her breath, far too low for anyone to hear.

Why isn't it ending?

Nothingness. So warm, so peaceful.

Not yet, Elle. Not yet.

S t a y.

A different voice whispers - farther away, separated by months of lonely days, of solitude that feels decades and centuries old. And then, her body is lifted into a sitting position. GOD, HOW IT HURTS. How it bleeds. And then she's standing, and there are arms around her, locking her into something that she is unable to escape. Lips pressing into hers, LIGHT pouring into her bones, the muscles. Into the deepest, most rooted structure, filling the skin, organs, and even brain cells, one by one. FILLING HER UP COMPLETELY. TO THE BRIM. And there is peace, softness, kindness. Love that has no stains or faults, the purest of kinds. It's an embrace in the middle of the coldest of winter nights. It's the hand you grab when you're drowning, that one smile that glues your broken ceramic shells with gold - a thing undefined but so familiar, something that has always been there, a memory of something that every living creature knows.

It's beautiful. It fills everything with bright flickering light.

As if warm wings made from countless, feather-soft dreams wrapping around a form too fragile to exist on its own.

Did you enjoy it? I hope you did.

Remember it because it was your last saving grace.

_____

I wake up screaming on the floor next to my bed, tangled up in grey sheets like a cocoon, limbs stiff and sore. My voice is still hoarse, and I end up sounding like a wounded beast at the exact moment when it's being ripped apart. I groan in frustration and cough as my throat automatically tightens, barely managing to swallow. It feels like someone has planted thorns through the entire length of my neck. Damn it. Why does it feel like I'm in a never-ending time loop, constantly falling into the same rabbit hole? How many times can I wake on the floor covered in cold sweats before something changes? I was so sick of the nightmares playing out in my head on repeat, eyes wide open or not. By now, it didn't matter if I was being attacked in my sleep or in real life; it all felt the same. The only difference was that the nightmares left less bruises on my body than the physical adversary. Though even that was a lottery sometimes - I think and rub the right elbow that I managed to bang pretty badly when hitting the floor. The skin there stings, and my joints protest as I try to stretch the arm, moving it in all sorts of angles. My eyes absentmindedly catch a glimpse of the thin bandages on my hands in the dim light of the morning, and I sigh, feeling more tired than ever. I shift a bit and rest my back against the front of the bed, fully aware of the cold coming from the wooden boards on the floor against my bare legs but not having enough energy to care.

My mind drifts in unknown directions. I let it wander loosely, not wanting to focus on anything specific; instead, I put the nightmares to the side and let them blur out gradually - wanting a small escape before it was time to fight for another unclear tomorrow. My thoughts dance around slowly until they take me into a room filled with books and dark oak shelves. I see a wide, heavy desk filled with papers and pretty old trinkets; a small elegant lamp covered with green glass on its top and a gold rim around it, catching the attention the most. For a moment, I hold onto the imaginary door, taking in my surroundings, and then walk deeper into the room and see a little girl in a chair far too big for her petit form. Her hair is long and nearly black, tied only with a dark blue ribbon on top of the head that matches the color of her denim dress. It has buckles that hold the top part in the front and a skirt that goes barely above her knees, showing off black, thick tights with delicate grey flowers imprinted into the material.

It must be winter time. I think as I watch her. She twitches on the chair and scratches her left arm above her wrist, where it's sticking out of a furry yellow sweater, slightly stretched out and crumpled from being worn all the time. Mmm, she could never stay still, especially when intrigued by something. The little girl listens with wide eyes as her father reads her myths about Greek gods, warriors, and foolish mortals that craved more than they had. I smile despite the tired state and let myself stay in that scene a little longer - one of the few good memories I could place when it came to my father. I take a deep breath and recall the myth of Sisyphus - a man that cheated death twice and was punished for it by the Gods. I think of the boulder he pushed up the hill every day without end, and let out a tired sigh. How sad that I could relate so well to that struggle, to the constant nightmare. Punishment on repeat. Yes, I understood it all too well. I cheated death again, and now I was paying the consequences.

But how many chances do you get to cheat your demise; before it calls you home for the last time?

Or drags you there with a satisfied smile.

Eventually, the faded autumn light creeps into the window and colors the floor next to me in brighter shades of brown and caramel, making it look warmer rather than just seeming black and dirty. I wonder if I should ignore it and crawl back into bed, but then decide that my body needs some movement; so it doesn't become a useless block of cement. I get up, legs trembling, everything around me seeming shaky and unstable. I stumble into the kitchen and slump down on a stool next to the tiny island occupying the center of the space. Then after a while, gather enough willpower to reach for a round, slightly chipped ceramic teacup from one of the cupboards. I pour cold water into it and drink it greedily, only to cough out nearly half of it as my throat closes in protest. Like liquid needles and pins - I think and hold the pale blue cup above the sink, my hands wrapped around it as I stare at the remaining water. It's quiet in the apartment, and most people in the building have already left for work or school, only the low traffic below stopping it from becoming too silent, too still.

For a while, I stand and feel nothing, the numbness feeling good, like a familiar coat you had for years. Easy, warm, and not complicated. Then, out of nowhere I start to blink, alarmed by something small that I'm unable to define - like a pesky fly wanting to grab my attention, a thought wanting to resurface, an invisible finger tapping on my shoulder.

Yesterday. I think. It feels so fuzzy. So far away from today, like a dream. A nightmare. I close my eyes tightly, fingers still wrapped around the cup, suddenly sensing the air becoming colder, uninviting. An invisible black smoke moving into the kitchen, wrapping around my shoulders, ankles, and neck. I tremble and know that it's not from the cold. My breathing speeds up. That room, the darkness. The blood. Wait, what room? Was there a room? I can feel my heart wrestle against the ribcage like a terrified bird wanting to escape. How quickly I had let the monsters slip away from my mind.

Nora!

I shiver, remembering my name called with such power, such desperation - as if I was the apocalypse on its way and the last man on earth was begging me to stop.

Well, look at who we got here. It seems that little miss Eleonore has found herself a friend.

The cup slips away from my hands, tumbling against the side of the counter. I hear crashing sounds but don't look down. She needs to pay the consequences... the poison is spreading. Shreds of words and thoughts are hitting me out of nowhere. Are you sure it's out of nowhere? A voice whispers, and I flinch - thinking of the nightmare and feeling my chest tighten over my lungs as I acknowledge something I already knew but didn't want to take in. It was the first time I realized with full awareness that until now, almost everything about the previous day felt erased. I remember Jeremiah, the last moments before he left, standing there with Charlie and not being surprised that one of the shadows following me was there. But what hits even more; is that I had no memory of anything vital. I recall going down the stairs and then standing there hours later with nothing in between. Told me what? What rules, for fuck sake?! What poison? I jump and suck the air sharply, when my knee hits a lose cabin door that was now wide open.

Shit, shit, shiiit!

I put my hands on the counter, and try to calm down my breathing, the pain spreading through my entire leg and ringing in my teeth. But perhaps this outcome surprised even her. I hear the words as if they were whispered into my ear and freeze, everything in me wanting to shut off all the noise, the static. You can't stop me or the thing that's happening to her. I told you there is no way out for her, no redemption. My chest lifts and falls, threatening to steal the oxygen around me until there is none left. I hold onto the metal sink as more things force their way into my thoughts. Perhaps if she would choose her victim more wisely. Victim? VICTIM??? As if she planned this as if she wanted any of this. As if she was a killer, a sociopath that relished in suffering and death.

No redemption. No saving grace, little sinner.

Memories, static. Tons of static. Words, feelings, rage, fear, anger, force - hitting me all at once. I feel the red membrane under my eyelids, dripping with something that burns my insides, coating everything like a living organism, slithering forward like a snake, and wrapping around everything on its path. Tick-tock, little one. All of your lucky charms have ran out. A different cup smashes against the kitchen wall, parts of it the ceramic bursting and flying everywhere.

Fuuuuck!

I push everything off the counters, everything in sight; dirty plates with leftover food, a few glasses, wet rags, and clutter - a frustrated groan tearing up my lungs like an old rusted razor blade.

Why? Why the hell it had to be me?

I move around the kitchen in a frenzy, hands tightly pushed to the sides of my head, parts of the sharp ceramic elements crunching and digging into my feet, my mind exploding in every direction. Repeatable static, lightning, and darkness meeting on the night sky in my head. Destruction in the making.

_____

I sit on the kitchen floor, oblivious to the mess and small fragments and shells of broken things digging uncomfortably into my skin. Barely even registering the open cuts on my legs staining the boards, and painting the worn-out wood. Unaware of how much time has passed and not finding even a single reason to care.

Not yet, Elle. Stay.

The voice from my dreams rings out in my head like the lowest of sighs, disturbing the silence and ruining the numbness shielding me from hitting rock bottom. And then I hear it. The sound of glass breaking somewhere in my chest, tiny pieces of a bruised heart falling like snowflakes around my beaten-up form. I burst into tears as the truth hits me, bursting between my ribs, unbearable pressure seeming to suffocate the entire air in the room. Dan. He was there.

No... No. That couldn't be. The dead don't speak.

Breathing rapidly, I bend my knees and wrap my arms around them, swaying back and forth with force, begging the world around me to disappear.

No. Just no.

Are you sure? My own voice asks, ringing in my head, and I tremble, slowing down a bit and blinking away the tears. Was that possible? Did I hear him? In my darkest hour - did he somehow reach out to me, not letting me slip away? I finally stop swaying and look around at the mess that I made. Was there a spark of light in all this chaos that I created? I inhale as something pushes me to drag myself out of the nightmare. To keep going. And if it were so? She dares to smile a little, the expression almost shy. Good things still happen, even to you. Remember that - I tell myself. Even if the old me wants to sink into the darkness, the fear, as deeply as possible. The things that I came most familiar to in the last two years.

And yet.

It seemed I had more than just one guardian angel looking after me. I shake my head. Maybe it was just a hallucination coming from all the pain I had to endure, a mental breakdown that came to me with a delay, or a nightmare disguised as a memory. I wasn't entirely sure. But a gut feeling inside of me told me that it was him. Somehow, someway. It takes a whole village to save this one. The thought plays out in my mind, and I smiles as it's somehow colored by Dan's voice, as if he was standing behind me, lifting a lock of my hair to the side and softly whispering the words into my ear. I know it's not really him, but the sensation of him being there brings some peace.

Just like it does with Charlie - I think, and my body shivers from the cold, sudden panic hitting me with a fresh new wave. What if I lash out again like I did in the kitchen? I look around again and feel my shoulders quiver, heart pounding. What if I cause damage not just to my surroundings? What if someone gets hurt because I can't keep my demons at bay? It's just a panic attack. Calm down. Be rational. But I can't. And the only thing pushing away the fear is Charlie's name. My body, my whole being desperate for his presence.

Slowly, I move forward on my knees; and and cuss under my breath as the hurt leg protests loudly- feeling too weak to stand up fully. I spit out the nastiest, filthy words I can manage and finally make it to the counter where the stationary phone is. I pull it down and choose the number from memory.

I want to tell him to rush here right away, right now. I want to tell him not to bother with anything but me at this moment. I crave to be selfish and not care about the consequences. I want instant relief, instant gratification. I need him to come here and make it all stop. I want all of that like a junkie on damn crack. But I don't. I stop myself. And instead, I smile through the headache and the whispers filtering under my skull. Leaving him a voicemail. Telling him things we could both live with it.

Come whenever you have a free moment in the day. I know how overworked you are. No worries, I'm not going anywhere. I will be here the whole day. Resting, tucked away under a blanket, with liquids and brainless TV to keep me company. I will leave the keys under the doormat.

I smile reassuringly into the phone as if he could see me and hang up just before the beeping sound can penetrate my skull. I feel empty inside. Like a robot. A machine, trying to convince everyone it was working correctly, even through the smell of short circuits melting and smoke lifting in the air.

______

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

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Previous chapters :

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50. https://theprose.com/post/513634/slow-burn

51. https://theprose.com/post/514578/a-little-game-of-hide-and-seek

52. https://theprose.com/post/526170/walking-on-eggshells-and-ash

I write myself into a ball of messy things

neurons entangled into static

electric things

lightning-bolt in a jar,

machinery trapped in a circulating mind

c o n s t a n t l y beating

moving

processing,

nylon threads between soft tissue

acrylic thoughts

spread against spiraling notions

on repeat, they play

on repeat, they breathe

in these heavy bones of mine,

casting a net between hopeless ribs

ivory build,

and tainted rust

take a needle

and construct breaths from a woolen yarn

two strokes up

and three pulls down,

spider's web sewn into lungs

eyelashes covered in silver silk,

fingertips sticking

with the overused patterns of breathing

beauty, chaos

destruction and rebuild

all connected into one

inhaling stardust

and spitting out moss,

trying to balance out the universe's arms

building me into something

I have yet to become

continuously counting

ancient bees

their buzzing

their whispers

until sleep finds me, soothing my winter lungs

and the summer heart,

making it easier to inhale the stardust

and exhale moss

it's always so l o u d in here

in this head

in this chest

even when so perfectly still

___

I am made of things,

things that are constantly breaking

― Jenim Dibie

He puts a hand gently on my back, careful not to cause me more pain, and guides me out of the room and the wreckage left behind. We're silent for a long while, none of us really sure what to say or how to act. Finally, as we head out into the hallway, the heavy door closing behind us, he decides to speak.

I will report the damages and the break-in in a little while. For now, come on, let's go clean those cuts. At least we are already in a hospital, so that shouldn't be a problem. I don't even know how everyone else managed to overlook the racket that went on downstairs but then again, stranger things happen in life, right?

He rubs his face, looking exhausted, consternation coloring his features, probably already visualizing the mayhem that will follow after he breaks the news to the security staff - and in consequence, the police. He could keep it to himself for now and let someone else find the disaster area, but I know he's not that kind of a person; no matter the situation, he would always do the best thing possible, whatever the circumstances. I nod slowly in response to his words, still feeling a bit out of it after everything that happened, resembling a damaged machine or a radio that someone played for too long, leaving just static behind - just a lot of white noise everywhere.

Letting him touch me and walk me upstairs was a struggle, taking all my willpower not to flinch under it. It wasn't that I found it repulsive or putting off after what occurred between us - no, that had nothing to do with it. But every time I felt his hand on my body, I heard the white noise stretching and twisting, turning me into a bunch of unsteady, grey lines and out-of-tune magnetic waves that tried to find the right station but failed miserably every time. Whenever he touched me, it felt like his fingers might take out the wrong little piece from the wooden tower, build out of my worn-out structure, causing it to fall apart. I felt fragile, not made from skin, muscle, or bone, but from thick bruises painted on the ruins of something that once was a home. My walls were broken, windows shattered, and I had no doors to protect me, not a single room to hide in. And Charlie was a breeze, a potential storm; just one wrong gust of wind, and it felt that I would become merely the sand between his open fingers.

I shiver and shake my head, hoping it will stay in place, staring at the ground and following the lines and patterns of the linoleum floor as he gets the necessary medical supplies from a storage area. We later sit close to each other in a small, currently empty office, my hands resting on his knees so he can take care of the injuries properly. It feels intimate somehow, private. I try not to think about it and instead; concentrate on the pulsating wounds spread against my skin like some abstract form of art. But then I sense his stare on me and look up automatically, noticing the irritation he tries to hide, his face seeming hidden in the shadows created by the lamp behind him. It's a strange and surreal feeling, but his agitated state reflects in me like a mirror and becomes that of my own, something safe and mundane to focus on, something that brings me above the surface of the water and lets me stay there.

What were you doing here in the first place?

He asks in a low, almost harsh voice, and for the first time, I straighten my back, raising my chin in a challenging way.

I was visiting newborns. What do you think I was doing here? The pain got worse, and I needed your help. Simple.

My attitude doesn't faze him, but something in him grows sharper, colder.

What about the basement, Eleonore?

My bravado falters just a fraction, and I can tell that he notices it. I don't respond, and he sighs.

But I guess we will circle back to that later as well.

He takes a deep breath and gazes at me for a moment like he's trying to scan my entire network system and understand how the wiring works. Good luck with that - I think and don't look away, building up strength for whatever he might say next.

You didn't call that you were coming.

It was implied.

Not well enough.

I can sense tiny embers moving under my skin, and I take the subtle heat with relief, finally something to warm my cold bones.

Charlie, is this the first day that we met? How many times did I actually warn you I was

going to come, and pay you a courtesy visit? Not. That. Many.

I throw my hands up in desperation, groaning, irritated as the skin around the cuts opens wider - allowing the dirt and rust to move deeper under the fractured tissue. I mumble some nasty things in response to the unwanted pain and put my hands down, back on his lap, too tired to focus on my non-existing polite side that I just had less and less these days. I look up at him as he disinfects the scrapes and cuts on my hands and suck air through my teeth as it stings like freaking hell. He doesn't react in any way and wraps my hands up in bandages where it's most needed, giving me some space so I can still move my fingers around. I stare at his focused yet strained expression and manage to bite my tongue at the last moment. He saved my life, sparring me just inches from death. We both knew I was so close to giving up, finally too worn out by the things that were constantly ripping me apart. A piece of faded material can only take so much. I gaze at him and shake my head. I think it would forever remain a mystery to me how he was somehow always able to sew my threads back together - mending me when everyone else in his place would just throw the old fabric into the trash. He finishes, and I carefully move my fingers. The skin still stings, feeling pulled and stretched out, hands seeming more fragile than usual, but beyond that, they appear to be more or less functional. Mmm, what was the physical damage, in comparison to everything that was fucked up on the inside anyway?

At least you didn't break anything.

His tone is unexpectedly soft, and I find myself blinking without control, feeling things in me start to crumble like pieces of dry cement. The sensation is so powerful that I nearly see the white dust covering the clean floor beneath my feet, coating everything in sight.

I'm so sorry.

I say quietly, shutting my eyes tightly, guilt spreading in my veins like an infection.

For what, for no open break? Because I can assure you it would not have been pretty.

I look up at him, and somehow he smiles despite the mood in the room. I shake my head slowly.

Just, in general. I will send you a list, and you can pick something out yourself.

Very entertaining.

Not particularly.

I can feel his gaze on me again but avoid it this time; I know what's coming next.

Nora, I...

I don't want to talk about it.

I blurt out of habit before I can think, and he sighs. I watch as he gets up and starts to walk around the room in circles. I feel nausea returning and close my eyes, slowly counting to ten, so I won't snap at him again, grabbing the sides of the metal chair and pressing my fingers into it until the pain distracts me. I had no control over my actions anymore and was terrified of saying something I wouldn't be able to take back. After a moment, when my stomach stops doing Olympic somersaults, I look up, and my eyes widen in surprise, even my exhausted state fading into the background. I watch as he stands about 6 feet away from me, his forehead against the wall, the palm of his hands low, and tapping against the thick surface, back moving in a rushed rhythm as his lungs rise and fall. My eyebrows furrow, forehead creasing. He's angry. I never saw him angry. Well, upset, sure, a bit judgemental at times, and disbelieving my truths for a good reason. Yes, that I was familiar with, but not anger. The raw form of it.

I stand up quietly and walk up to him, putting a hand on his left shoulder and squeeze it; he doesn't shift and look at me, just keeps tapping on the wall as if I wasn't there. My hand slips down gently until it reaches his, fingers intertwining and wrapping tightly around his warm skin. I press it so tightly that I can feel his pulse; it's rushed, chaotic. He doesn't say anything. I turn him around slowly, so I can see his face, but he keeps looking down. I lift my hand and put it on his chest, fingers gently stroking the material of his shirt, waiting patiently until he calms down. He finally breaks out of his haze and looks up at me. I can't read anything from his face - there's too much going on there, too many things, that I fear touching.

Nora, who was that man?

Charlie.

No, stop. He could have killed you... or just let you die, whichever came first. You need to warn me about people like that. What if I was too late? What if I didn't make it in time?

I gaze at him, confused for a moment, the gears in my brain turning very slowly and unwillingly, refusing to push through any additional effort today. But ultimately, the information breaks through. He wasn't angry because of me, the trouble I got him into, or the mayhem that my presence in his life caused; he was furious because he felt helpless and unable to help and protect me when needed, feeling weak against the things he could not control. Well, I guess they both got to experience that unsettling feeling.

Well?! Why won't you answer me? God dammit, Nora!

His voice breaks slightly at the end, and my heart shrinks under the ache and softness that attacks me without mercy, ready to explode if I take even the slightest breath. I feel him. I feel every little pained part of him growing and expanding in my cells. It's so much to experience at once. I blink away the tears that are on their way and hold onto his hand tighter, feeling his pulse exhilarate under my skin, giving me sudden strength to find peace inside of me, to find peace for him. I tap my hand against his chest to the rhythm of his heartbeats, closing my eyes and listening to the music trapped there - it's a melody that unexpectedly invites me more than I could ever anticipate. A smile creeps to my lips as I tilt my head slightly, creating a song I know I could listen to on repeat for days or weeks, and it still wouldn't get old.

This throws him off, and I sense that he is slowly relaxing.

What are you doing?

It's just something my mother did when I was little and couldn't calm down.

He stares at me for a moment.

You don't talk much about your mother or your parents, for that matter.

I told you why before. We have complicated relations since her daughter has the talent to wrack lives, but I love her. I love them both. That one thing hasn't changed. Are you feeling a bit better now? I hope you are.

I don't know. This whole thing has set me off. When I found you and saw you lying there on the ground and screaming, I thought I would lose you.

Well, you didn't. I'm still here and will irritate you as long as you let me. But I think that wasn't the only reason you got angry.

I challenge him, standing on very shaky territory; he sighs again and steps away, seeming awkward and distant now. I want to say something, but I'm just not sure what it should be. He crosses his arms and turns his head towards me as if defending him from an invisible threat could jeopardize something extremely important and worth everything. Our friendship.

I had no other choice, I had to save you. And I had this feeling that it would work. I don't know why, but I did. I'm sorry. But you have to know one thing. If I had to do it all over again to save you, I would. No hesitation.

I stare at him and his expression, the entire body language, and feel my chest tighten at the sight. How many times could a heart break? Sometimes, it can break from the beginning, each and every day. It's limitless in its power to crumble, and somehow it keeps on beating just the same. I feel my eyes start to sting, but for the very first time, I don't stop the tears for fear that someone might see. I let him see all of me.

Charlie, I'm not mad or upset about that. Once again, you saved me. How could I feel even one negative feeling towards you? And let's face it, I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you. It's okay, I promise. I do.

My voice is so soft that it feels like silk that I would like to wrap myself in. I'm surprised that I can be so tender, but at the same time, I'm not surprised at all that I can be so soft towards him. Not anymore.

Is this that scene in a movie, when you make a standing ovation speech and then disappear out of my life?

My cheeks are still wet from the tears, but somehow a shaky laugh bursts out of me as if sunlight, breaking through dark, turbulent clouds. It was a shock that I could master up a smile after this day, but that was the effect he always had on me in the end - a sensation of the sun coming through the clouds, even on the darkest days. He tilts his head, gazing at me with soft eyes, and lifts his hand, gently rubbing away some of my tears with his thumb. His touch is such a relief that I automatically lean into it.

Nurse Evans, was that sense of humor slipping from under those pretty pastel scrubs? Well, may the heavens have mercy on me.

He smiles but then grows serious again, concern still visible in his stare.

Are you sure that you are okay with it? Won't this mess everything up between us? With everything that you have been through? After everything that you have lost?

No. Nothing can.

You can't be sure of that.

I don't say anything in response but come closer, wrapping my arms around his waist and putting my head to his chest. I hold him until I feel him gradually relax as the warmth of our bodies blends together, each of us softly soothing something else in the other. Then after a while, I step aside, stand on my toes, and kiss his cheek, letting my hand lift and trace the side of his face with attentiveness. A little glimpse of heaven, for the damned tortured souls - I think and force myself to snap out of it, something in my gut telling me that if I let myself sink into this moment for too long, I might never want to come back for air. It's a very disturbing thought. I take a deep breath, smile at him, and squeeze his shoulder just before I head for the door.

Come on. I need to get out of this hospital. Oh, and by the way. Great 'saving' technique. I would say you are close to a black belt at it. Both professional and enjoyable.

I glance back, not being able to stop myself, watching his face turn into a faint shade of crimson. My smile turns dark and I relax as well, the easy, familiar banter between us giving me the strength to go through another day with my head held up. There was something about him, something powerful enough to remind me of the person I once was. He gave me the courage to find her once more and rebuild her into someone that could stand on their own. I was so grateful for his help but was also all too aware I had to find my own light and my own strength. And that meant forgiving myself. It meant confessing my sins instead of hiding from them.

Alright, Mister Evans. I don't have all day here. I need my support system to follow me, and guide me through my miserable existence.

I walk out and head for the elevators, feeling his disapproving stare on my back.

You do realize that we still need to talk about that man in the basement and how you know him in the first place? I won't let you run away from it. Not this time.

I hear the sternness in his voice, the power behind the words, and nod calmly in agreement, knowing I no longer wanted to run. It was a strange yet oddly liberating feeling.

Yes, but not now. I'm afraid I'm currently out of order.

I walk in into the special double-door elevator, stumbling a bit, and he follows, the shiny metal closing behind us. I needed some alone space to process what happened today. Though in truth, there was never enough time to adjust to the constant turmoils of my life. Always spinning, always gliding just inches below the water, hoping for a little more air. Just enough to survive. I think about the broken pipes around me, the blood on the floor, the never-ending pain, and Jeremiah's words. I close my eyes, and other things play out as well. The memory of Charlie's lips on mine invading me, those arms wrapped so tightly around my waist, my wounds, his light spreading through my cells and replacing everything else, pushing away the darkness and letting new things in. My brain had a difficult time - simultaneously processing how to move my limbs and coordinate the feelings that shifted endlessly, moving from an overwhelmed state to complete utter numbness. My life was getting more complicated with each passing day, and decoding it became a real struggle. I felt like I was continuously spiraling down a rabbit hole, with only tiny glimpses of the perfect blue sky in the distance.

Let me take you home then.

I break away from all the buzzing thoughts and nod while he wraps his arm around my waist gently and letting me sink into his familiar embrace. His scrubs making comforting sounds as I close my eyes again, the elevator gradually moving up into something that spoke of a little more mundane. The monsters, for now, left seven or eight floors below.

________________________

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

.

Previous chapters :

.

49. https://theprose.com/post/496088/developing-some-truths

50. https://theprose.com/post/513634/slow-burn

51. https://theprose.com/post/514578/a-little-game-of-hide-and-seek

you're a beautiful chaos,

insanity woven into something breathtaking

- Anna Rose

my hands are of your colour,

but I shame to wear a heart so white

- Lady Macbeth, William Shakespeare

Charlie

He stretches slowly, hearing his bones pop with every move, the neck muscles protesting loudly, as he tries to massage the sorest spots. The day was too long and the hour late, nearing ten at night. He was ready to take a break and go to the cafeteria, hoping to fill his stomach, close his eyes for a couple of minutes, and rest, even if just a little - in his profession, even ten minutes of shut-eye were often a blessing. As he heads to get some food, his mind finally lets in all the thoughts that were blocked before, too busy to notice much more than his pilling up responsibilities - furrowing his eyebrows, only now realizing that he had not heard from Nora all day. He thought she would visit, but it was more an assumption than actually being informed about her plans in any way; he just figured that by this time, she would need his help to soothe the voices in her head. He sighs, never in his life expecting to have problems connected to the supernatural, and plans to check his phone after returning from the cafeteria - but in the end never gets there, a strange noise catching his attention instead.

At first, he is willing to dismiss it, being used to the most peculiar noises happening randomly in the hospital, usually in those rare moments when it was quiet enough for anything to break through the multicolored cacophony of sounds filling the walls of the enormous building. But now, the low sounds seemed to stick to him, clinging to the eardrums and vibrating in a way that proved to be nearly impossible to ignore.

Slowly, he tilts his head, curious despite the fatigue and the mercilessly outstretching length of the day. There it was again, as if repeated pounding of something heavy, metallic, and then a faint chilling noise coming from inside the walls. In a slightly wary state, he passes the hallway and walks forward until he reaches the door to the staircase; putting an ear against the metal door and flinches when the familiar sound invites itself once more; the same clatter but more distinct. He starts to feel nauseous as his mind tells him what he already knew but didn't want to comprehend or take in, blocking out the potential consequences. His eyes close for a few moments, some childish part of him hoping that he confused the sounds and the sensation creeping in under his skin, causing the hair on the arms to stand up - but now, his muscles strain in a different way, a strong need for action growing even though the more rational aspect of his personality wants to blame the whole thing on exhaustion. Act. Help. Protect. He grabs the handle on the door and jumps slightly as the sound rings out again, his hold tightening automatically. Someone was shouting down there, and the screams were getting louder, muffled yet much clearer - even though he was sure there were many layers of concrete and metal separating him from the dread that seemed to seep from the underground.

He quickly writes the code in a small alarm box placed on the wall and walks down the stairs; there is no way that the screaming came from the floor above. The only possible place where the sounds could be coming from was the basement of the building. The acoustic there always carried the sounds far; people hearing all sorts of unearthly noises and avoiding going there if possible. However, the employees working there, such as the plumbers and the mechanics - just shrugging it off casually, often being the ones responsible for the racket in the first place.

He keeps going down, and with every passing moment, his pulse rushes faster and faster, heart pounding against the ribcage, footsteps echoing as he goes, all the way down to the boiler room. Passing pipes of all shapes and sizes, searching for the source of the unusual sounds, carefully, taking each step. He looks to the sides, steam very visible even in the faint light available there - sweat appearing on his forehead as the temperature increases, the long-sleeved shirt under the scrubs becoming damp and sticking to the shape of his spine. He listens to his shoes scrape against the floor and feels the adrenaline levels rise, blood pounding in his head with fever. Something tumbles down, and something else breaks, ringing out so loudly that he feels it in his teeth. It sounds heavy - quickly, he moves forward, breaking into a run, passing each door, confused more with every fleeting second.

Again, the scream continues, piercing his ears as he finally recognizes it, blood freezing in his veins, body overwhelmed by fear. Of course, it was her voice all along. How could he not realize this before? Well, maybe he chose not to; the denial set in deep, telling him not to believe his own senses, the possible truth too terrifying to let in. He won't let anything bad happen to her.

Are you sure it's not too late already?

He moves the thought away immediately, not letting it stay, tearing it away from him like a beast that wants to claw into the tender meaty flesh, eagerly ripping it apart piece by piece. Forcing himself to focus only on the task at hand, he finally finds the right door, the only one cracked slightly open, a beam of cold blue silver light slipping out and coloring the floor next to it. He stumbles in and gapes at the scenery with growing disbelief.

There she was, lying on the cement floor, in a space with not enough light to spread out all the shadows away, twisted into a little ball of pain, broken and bent old chairs spread on the ground next to her, strange pieces of red metal thrown all over the room. He looks closer, still confused, trying to take the entire scene in, brain pushing to put the picture together, staring at the metal until the shapes become familiar - smaller fragments of pipes from the central heating system. He nods slowly, noticing bolts to match, lying close to his feet, further confirming his suspicions. A new scream causes a jolt of electricity to curse through his muscles, forcing him to jump back to life and run to her.

But then a voice stops him mid-track, somehow, blocking him almost against his will - like shutting off all the lights in the room, a complete blackout of senses - he thinks absentmindedly as the sudden inability to move vanishes as soon as it appears.

And who might you be?

He looks to the right and notices a calm but slightly irritated man standing in the shadows, wearing a long elegant, grey coat and resting his body weight against a solid-looking, tasteful cane. The bottom of it looks like oak, smooth and expensive, and the top with its carved, animal-shaped head appears to be, made out of bronze. He seems to be around fifty and about 6 foot 1 in height. The man takes a few steps forward, stepping more into the light of the lamp above him - one of the few sources of light in the otherwise dark and unwelcoming space. Charlie gazes up and feels almost magnetic energy surround him, broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and a pair of dark steel blue eyes gazing back at him. The stare is alluring and dominating, dangerous. Like watching an earthquake just before the ground swallows you up - you know you should move, but you're stuck in place.

Another cry breaks through his distracted thoughts, grabbing his attention and causing his chest to tighten painfully.

Nora!

Well, look at who we got here. It seems that little miss Eleonore has found herself a friend.

The man says, partly amused and in part restless, as if he was disturbed in a very ill-manner way by this peculiar intruder to his private game, looking displeased by the additional and unplanned actor on the stage.

Who are you, and what is happening here? What did you do to her? Why is she in pain?

The stranger taps his cane casually a few times against the concrete floor before answering as if lost in thought. Charlie looks distracted for a second at Nora and notices that each sound makes her body jump slightly as if low currents of electricity and light were moving under her skin. He wants to go to her so badly, but the man coughs meaningfully, causing Charlie's eyes to drift back.

I have to admit, I am rather surprised by this small intrusion. You see, dear boy, this one here is very unsociable, and has difficulty finding new friends. But then again, I didn't know her a few years back. I hear that she used to be a life of the party once - though I find it hard to believe. Then again, sins and tragedies have a way of changing people. Don't you agree?

The man continues, not seeming to notice the questions, appearing to be more focused on the sound of his voice, almost mesmerized by it, covering himself in it like a warm velvet shawl. Charlie's hands roll tightly into fists, knuckles growing white, blood beginning to boil. He looks back at her and winces, her body seeming to shrink from the pain, his eyes set desperately on her fragile form. He stares, hypnotized as the light above her head and the darkness around them seem to display her agony as if she was on a stage in some grotesque theater. He notices the blood coating her fingers, leaving deep rusty trails all over the floor, and then shifts his stare to the man standing in the small distance - at his immaculate, clean hands. My hands are of your colour, but I shame to wear a heart so white - the memorable words he read a long time ago ring out in his mind, and he feels anger grow inside him, sizzling. He's ready; ready to move and to do anything, just as long as all of this stops. He shifts forward, but the man blocks him, suddenly standing just inches away; the tension builds between the two, the pressure in the room increasing, thickening the air.

She needs to pay the consequences; a contract has been set in motion, and we have been waiting for more than enough.

What...? No. What in hell are you even talking about? Do you even hear yourself?

She broke the rules, and now the poison is spreading.

The man notices Charlie's eyes widen and enjoys the confusion on his face; all of this was just amusement to him.

Ah, you seem to be surprised by this. I guess she has not told you everything then?

Told me what? What rules, for fuck sake?! What poison?

Ah, manners, dear boy. Temper, temper. It's not polite to curse in front of a lady. Then again, she won't be around for much longer.

Something snaps in him like a rubber band, causing his insides to sting and throb. He plunges for the man and attacks, trying to knock him down and push him out of the way, but the other guy is surprisingly strong - as if he wasn't fighting with one person, but many. He blocks him with just one arm over Charlie's chest, the elbow directed up and pressing beneath his throat, while the other arm leans securely on the cane. The sides of his lips lifting, a crocked razor-sharp smile coloring his face as he towers over him, deeper wrinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes - yet there is a certain tone in his voice that gives him away as it vibrates with growing irritation.

Don't be ridiculous, you fool. You can't stop me or the thing that's happening to her. She knew the consequences, and there's always a price to pay for death. But perhaps this outcome surprised even her.

Charlie's eyes widen, but he doesn't stop - instead, fights with double force, finding a better footing and pushing the man forward - it feels like trying to relocate a bulldozer. But nothing that lunatic had said or done mattered. He only had one focus, and that was her.

You're insane. Get out of the way, old man. Now.

I told you there is no way out for her, no redemption. She took the life of the wrong person, and there was so much more at stake than she could even imagine. Perhaps...

He finally decides to throw Charlie off with a low growl, visibly consternated with the prolonging interference, and then keeps on talking as if there was no battle to begin with, no confrontation. As if this was just for fun, and he was getting rid of a misbehaving child.

Perhaps if she would choose her victim more wisely, this wouldn't even be an issue. Just a life lost, nothing more - but she chose wrong, dealing with powers she could never comprehend or wrap her mind around - too many incompetent people roaming this earth, dear boy, way too many.

He seems so pleased with himself, and it slowly sets Charlie into a state of white, blazing fury that he never suspected himself of. He reaches the man with impressive speed and presses a fist to the side of his perfectly square jaw, the blow sending the guy back with force as he stumbles back and hits the floor with his side; roaring out in rage and spitting-out heavy invectives through his teeth. Yet he doesn't get up at first, instead groans again and pulls out something from underneath his body - a chunk of the red metal from one of the broken pipes - he stays down, the pain and the turmoil recognizable on his face.

There is nothing you can do to stop this, you imbecile. Her faith is already sealed.

He turns his stare from the man and sees her - scraping her nails against the floor, her eyes out of focus, her fingers leaving more bloody trails, strands of hair covered with dust and dirt falling to her face. Too much to see, to bear. He runs to her without thinking, pulling her carefully up to a sitting position, and she screams from the sudden change. He can almost physically feel all of her pain as her body strains. It’s loud, overwhelming, nearly pushing the air out of his lungs. She doesn't look at him, but her body language says it all, shooting a jolt of electricity through his nervous system that terrifies him, blocking out everything else. She is ready to die, here and now, the pain too excruciating to endure - he can feel his throat getting tight, reality blurring out as he experiences something for the very first time in his life - it's unbelievable but true. I feel you, sensing everywhere; in my bloodstream, my bones, under my skin. With all my senses, Nora.

This lasts just a fracture of a second, but it's enough - unexpectedly, without any warning, he knows exactly, what to do, a sense of clarity coming over, his mind made up, something deep in the guts telling him that this would work.

He pulls her up, forcing her to stand up and look at him, waiting until her hazy stare finally meets his, finding something in those weary, lost eyes that makes him lean forward. A strange kind of assurance, growing and bursting in his cells, one by one like multicolored glass; it feels like energy that wants to reach hers, the images of blue and orange light touching filling his mind as he bends down gently. She freezes - the surprise caused by the warm touch; and how close his body is against hers breaking through the chaotic and confused state - his lips pressed against hers, his arms tightening around that bruised, tortured body. Tense at first, her hand pushes against his chest, wanting to pull away, seeming like a wild animal caught in a trap, desperately wanting to break free from the familiar hands that felt like home but now seemed like bars in a too-tight cage.

The energy of the one she lost, nearly tangible and bleeding out of her pores, as he holds her close - things that he cannot explain, happening around them, filling the air and coloring their rushed breaths, constantly shifting, breaking, and flickering.

Once again, she tries to break free from the hold. But after a while, her fingers soften without her wanting or permission, as do his kisses against her lips. Her hands move up, sliding against his neck and grabbing onto his hair, pulling him closer as everything seems to slow down around them. She takes it all in, surprised by how her body reacts to him, how it craves the touch; her senses are on fire, blood sizzling and catching new flames with every breath. It's strong, crumbling, on the verge of overpowering all of her - but for the first time in a very long time, it is not caused by pain. She wraps her other arm around his back, wanting to become one with that blazing white light she feels between them, purifying everything in her that was wounded, broken, and scarred. She feels tears of relief under her eyelids as the strain in her body eases down. Yet her pulse rushes like never before. So many contradicting feelings, like being crushed into dust only to be rebuilt with the softest care.

He separates the kisses now; one, two, free. Softer, kinder, full of... He moves away as she stares at him with wide grey eyes, fearing to take even a single, quivering breath. She lets go of his hair, hand sliding down, fingers barely touching his skin or clothes - as if she might get burned by even the air around them. Slowly, she moves her hands away completely - wrapping her arms tightly around her thin torso. Her mind is stuck now, thoughts going blank, just ringing out silence in her ears. She looks confused. Did that really happen? The question was more than visible on her face.

Are you okay?

Charlie asks gently, focusing only on her state and not what he just did. There was nothing that mattered more at that moment that knowing she was going to be okay. Everything else could wait. She looks around, disoriented as if she did not hear him, moving in different directions, feet dragging against the floor. She stares at the mess everywhere but doesn't really see it, eyes sliding against the fragments of pipes, the ruined chairs, and water leaking from the damaged construction. Did she do that? She moves her hands up and stares at her fingers - they are dirty and covered in blood, filth, and rust. Well, that seems to answer the question. She moves around a couple more times and stumbles on her way. She seems to hear some noise behind her and turns her head that way.

Eleonore?

She looks up at him as if she doesn't recognize who he is, staring at the worried look on his face - the pain visible in his eyes. She blinks, all those emotions running through him, making her snap back into reality, finally regaining some sanity. She stumbles his way and puts her arms around him tightly - then something breaks deep inside of her, and she bursts into tears, pressing the cheek to his chest and burying her face into his clothes, whole body trembling.

I'm so sorry, Charlie.

She croaks out and coughs, her voice hoarse from hours of screaming.

Don't be, please... it's okay.

He murmurs soothingly into her ear, and she trembles again.

What are you even apologizing for?

He asks, whispering the question.

For making you go through this. It's not your battle.

Do you mind if I decide that?

No, no... please don't joke about this. I can't take your light tones, not after... everything.

Nora, I decided this, alright? This was my decision. On the day I met you, I made a conscious choice; to do whatever I can to get you out of this, to help. And I am not backing away now. Are we clear?

He pulls her away from his chest and lifts her chin, making her look up at him. He sees her wet eyes, and something breaks in him as well. He bends down and kisses her softly, just one brief kiss. He looks back at her, watching as her face turns surprised, eyes widening. And somehow, that makes him smile.

That was just to grab your attention. You can relax now and stop digging your nails into my skin... thanks, that's much better. So, are we clear?

She stares at him and feels all the good energy going through her. Like a gold, warm light, slowly filling her up - replacing the freezing, blue one that was there before and that seemed to linger in her since she could remember. She stares at that kind smile of his, and manages, to gradually relax. No longer so awkward and disconnected. She sees him as he really is. Her savior, the protector - and most of all, her friend. A friend that one day started to be a little more.

Yes, clear, even if you're making the wrong choice.

You always need to win the argument, don't you?

He lets go of her and looks at her hands.

We need to clean that up quickly. I don't want you to get an infection...

He starts to say but does not finish, eyes darting somewhere to the background; she stiffens, sensing his tension, and then the realization slowly hits them both. They forgot about something, or more to the point, someone. She turns around. Funny that she could just throw him out of her head like that after everything. They notice him again, standing there, a bewildered expression on his face - no longer on the ground but standing straight, only slightly leaning on his cane. There is no more pain on his face, just curious wonder, and fading anger.

A healer, of course. That explains why you have not visited us yet. I guess Alister failed to tell me some crucial details concerning you, my dear.

He says and stares at them for a few moments. Processing the game changer, which he did not anticipate, with surprising composure and then just leaves, disappearing into the corridor, his cane and the heels of his leather shoes causing surprisingly little sound for such a massive, heavy figure. There was something about his face. It made Charlie think that the strange man was enjoying the new challenge that fell into his lap. He looks down at Nora and finally lets himself breathe out all the tension and weight he had kept on his shoulders until that very moment.

Don't you feel like this day has been long enough?

He asks her in a tired voice.

You have no idea.

___________

When Lady Macbeth returns from Duncan's chamber, she holds out her blood-stained hands and says, “My hands are of your colour, but I shame to wear a heart so white,” claiming that although, she has Duncan's blood on her hands, she feels no guilt.

________

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

.

Previous chapters :

.

48. https://theprose.com/post/463202/untangling-the-messy-structures-part-2

49. https://theprose.com/post/496088/developing-some-truths

50. https://theprose.com/post/513634/slow-burn