Page 128 of Fatality

I just sit there, thinking about everything.

I should be working.

I shouldn't be here plotting revenge, putting out kitchen fires, and losing control of the life I worked so hard to build.

The life I fought to make stable. The life that was finally safe.

Now it feels like it's all slipping through my fingers.

“I don't know what to do, Kyle,” I whisper, curling further into myself.

My uninjured hand drifts to the tattoo between my breasts—a gothic sigil cross I got for him.

“Send me a sign. Anything.” My throat tightens. “I'm so fucking overwhelmed...”

I let out a long, shaky breath.

Everything that's happened over the last month, everything that's changed, everything that's spiraling further and further out of my control.

I don't understand what's happening to me.

To my body.

To my mind.

I know I should let this go, walk away, focus on my work, and pretend none of it ever happened.

But I can't and that's what scares me.

It's like there's something dark inside me, pushing and urging me toward destruction, toward revenge.

Toward chaos.

Like some part of me wants to become a fucking cataclysm and drag everything down with it.

Just like before.

I lift my head and rest it against the kitchen counter.

After Kyle's death, I spent years spiraling.

Chasing revenge, punishing myself, believing my parents when they blamed me for what happened.

All because of a fucking broken glass.

I stayed on that dark path for so long that it started to feel normal.

Every setback became someone else's fault. Every wound needed someone to pay for it.

And now that I have found fucking peace, a life that is stable.

Safe.

I followed Elyas into the Lower Layers, and I had to meet him.

I don’t know how much time I spent sitting there like some broken doll.

I hate moping.