Page 95 of Heimlock

Sliding down against the front door, I hug my knees, shaking violently in the warm breeze. Focusing on my breath, I repeat the mantra, hoping to soothe the rotted horror living inside what’s left of this battered soul.

I’m safe. He can’t hurt me.

I’m safe. He can’t hurt me.

I’m safe. He can’t hurt me.

37

Ihave no idea what to do.

I have no idea how to help him.

38

She stopped calling my name a while ago. Each passing second of silence amps up my anxiety. Even after everything raging inside me, I’m worried about her. She can’t be left alone for too long. What if she tries to come find me and hurts herself even worse?

It’s that single thought that has me collecting myself, molecule by molecule, until my thoughts are more streamlined. She’s going to have more questions now, and I don’t have the energy for it.

I don’t have the energy for any of this.

My sense of self has been dangling by a worn thread of string; it unraveled a little more in the darkness of her room.

This nightmare was more vivid than normal. Probably due to everything that has happened in the last couple of days. All of these questions from Kyrielle are proving to be parasitic to my self-control.

When the warm sunrise hits my face, I know it’s time to man up and go find her.

Woozy, I brace myself against the door. Hand around the knob, I stare at it, struggling to walk past this threshold.

With a fortifying inhale, I twist the knob.

Kyrielle’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing the door, watching me step inside. Her face looks haunted; exhausted.

I freeze. “How long have you been sitting here?”

“You’ve been out there for a couple of hours.”

Closing the door and securing the deadbolts, I sit in front of her. She watches my every move with no visible emotion. It rattles me, not being able to tell what she’s thinking of me; how she might be judging me.

Deciding to dive right in, Kyrielle-style, I say, “I’m sorry for leaving you like that.”

Her expression softens. “It’s okay.”

I shake my head. “It’s not.”

Her hand reaches for mine. “Can I hold your hand?” When I nod, she gently wraps her fingers around mine. “Trinte, I have nightmares, too. I understand.”

I look at the floor, focusing on a small speck of dirt. “I should have warned you.”

“Yeah, probably.” She huffs out a laugh. “But it's okay.”

We sit in silence for a moment; I spend it watching her thumb brush the top of my hand gently.

I don’t deserve her.

All I want is her.

It feels selfish to entertain the idea of trying to be with her; that is, if she’d ever be open to the idea. She doesn’t deserve a man who can barely sleep through the night; who struggles to speak about their thoughts and feelings. I’m not remotely worthy of her.