Page 30 of Ricochet
I couldn’t stand the sight of him, of the two of them together. I dropped the keys he gave me on the floor, and turned, walking toward the door. If I stayed a minute longer, one of them would end up dead, and I wasn’t entirely too sure which one it would be.
“Ophelia!” He yelled after me, and I could hear his footsteps behind me. “Goddammit, you can’t leave.”
“Watch me.”
“Stop.” He pulled me back, turning me toward him. “Stop, goddammit, stop.”
He took my face into his hands, and I stood still. I had to calm myself down.
“You’re mine, dammit. She doesn’t mean anything to me, but you do. You can’t leave. You can’t leave me, Phee.”
And people said I was the psychotic one in this relationship.
Was he fucking delusional?
“Should I maybe join you guys, so we can have a threesome, huh? Do you want me to suck her tits while you jerk yourself off? Is that what you want, Kieran?”
“No, for heaven’s sake, no. I want you to stay, because you are mine and I am yours, and this means nothing to me.”
He started lowering his head toward me, and if he thought I would let him place his lips anywhere near mine after he kissed that slut, he had another thing coming. I pushed him, his back hitting the wall, and grabbed his neck in my hand.
“I am not yours, Kieran,” I whispered against his lips, a confused look evident on his face. His dick hardened between us, and I increased the pressure on his neck. I gripped the base of his cock with my other hand, and a moan escaped his mouth.
“Phee.” Another moan, another delusional lie he was telling himself.
“I am never going to be yours.”
“Ophelia.” He opened his eyes, finally hearing what I was saying. “No.”
“You should run, Kieran. You should fucking run to the end of the world, because I am going to kill you and that whore you just fucked in our bed. You should be scared of me, because the Ophelia you used to know doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Ophelia, please.”
I dropped a kiss on his cheek and regretted it as the cheap perfume permeated my nostrils.
“You fucking reek of her.”
“Baby girl, please.”
I stepped back, nausea turning around in my stomach.
“You did this. You just killed me. Shattered my soul, stomped on my heart. And you should be fucking scared.”
His eyes widened, understanding evident in them. The heavy feeling of loss settled over me. I just lost the one thing keeping me out of the dark.
I stumbled toward the door, but he didn’t follow after me this time. He didn’t do anything but kept standing as still as a statue as I walked out of his life.
Present
I like control.
I like knowing the situation I am getting myself into—reading people, their emotions and their actions—so that I would know how to react to everything they say and do. Keeping everybody at arm’s length prevents me from getting hurt, right? That’s what I kept telling myself for years, but the truth is, I broke my own fucking heart. There was no one else to blame for the blade I stabbed my heart with, letting it bleed out. I ran when I should’ve stayed. I kept running until the lines between the truth and lies started blurring, and I started losing myself.
It is funny how our brain works. It blocks parts of our lives we so desperately want to forget, yet we still get flashbacks of those times.
Haunting us.
Destroying our souls, piece by piece, day by day, until the only thing that’s left is a shell of the person you used to be.
