Torture to Her Soul
Page 11

Once she's gone, I tilt my head back, resting it against the couch as I close my eyes.
It's a lost cause.
It's obvious, I think, but unacceptable. I can't seem to do anything right when it comes to her. I'm sure she thinks I have all the power, that she's at my mercy, but that's only because I fight day in and day out to maintain some semblance of control around here.
Because without that? I know I'll lose her completely.
And if I lose her?
We both might as well be dead.
Standing up again, I head out of the den, leaving my things lying where they are, too drained to maintain order today. Tomorrow I'll deal with it, deal with everything around me that seems to be falling to pieces, but tonight I only have enough energy to deal with her.
And I can't deal with her the way I deal with everyone else. They get a knife to the throat or a bullet to the back of the head. All I have for her are words, and they seem inadequate at best.
She wants nothing to do with my kindness.
Doesn't believe a word of my promises.
Machiavelli believed it was better to be feared than loved, because attachment is easily severed, but the terror of pain is ever present. I have her fear. I know I have her fear. I see it sometimes when she looks at me. But what I don't know is how to keep her love when it feels close to dissolving every time I talk to her, like she picks apart every syllable looking for something else to hold against me, something to prove to herself that I'm the monster she believes me to be.
And maybe there is a monster inside of me.
Scratch that, I know there is.
I feel it rear its ugly head sometimes. I feel it eating away at my body, poisoning my thoughts when the darkness takes over. My insides are black but my heart still beats.
It still beats.
And it fucking beats for her.
So there is a monster inside of me, yes, but it doesn't make up all of me.
Besides, isn't there a monster in everybody?
The lights are off upstairs, the bedroom obscured now that the sun has finally set outside. My eyes adjust to the darkness easily, used to adapting to the blackness after years of training them, and the first thing I notice is the poster.
It's not there.
I stare at the empty wall, seeing the tacks still forced into the plaster, corners of the paper stuck to them.
She ripped it down.
My eyes scan the room quickly, spotting it on the floor beside the bed, torn straight down the middle, both halves crumpled.
I stand in the doorway and stare at the destroyed poster for a moment before a quiet sound registers with my ears, the softest whimper that I almost hadn't caught.
I know that sound, know it intimately, a sound that haunts my existence.
Fuck.
It's a catch of breath, the faint gasp of air from a chest that desperately needs it.
I live every day tortured by the memory of that.
My gaze shifts right to the bed, to where Karissa lies, wrapped up in the blanket like she's trying to shield herself from the world outside of it. I can't see her face, can't make out much more than the shape of her body, but as the sound resonates through the room again, I know.
I know she's crying.
She's crying because of me.
It feels like my chest is caving in, the weight of her grief a heavy burden to carry. I don't place all the blame on myself, but I know, as much as I don't want to admit it, I had a hand in hurting her.
I tried not to.
I swore I wouldn't.
But I did.
We can't help it sometimes, I think. We regularly fuck up just as easily as we breathe. The only missteps I ever make are the ones I have no control over, the shoves by fate that are unavoidable, but even still I always manage to keep my balance.
But with her, I'm losing it.
I'm losing my footing.
She's going to bring me to my knees if she makes that sound again.
Slowly, I walk over to her side of the bed, my footsteps quiet. I can see her body tense as I pause beside her, my shadow blocking the little bit of moonlight streaming in through the window. I stare down at her, seeing her eyes are open, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. Without saying a word, I reach for her, gently brushing a trail of tears away with my knuckles before pushing some hair back off her face, tucking it behind her ear.
She stares blankly at nothing, not meeting my eyes, not acknowledging my presence. Leaning down, I press a kiss to her cheek, tasting the salty wetness, reveling in her warmth. The moment my lips meet her skin, she does it again, makes that noise, the sharp inhale of desperation that runs through my body, settling in my rigid bones.
I kneel beside her and force her to look at me, to see me. There's no way I can possibly sleep tonight, no way I can relax, with her this way. "What can I do, Karissa?"
The question is quiet, but she flinches, like I shouted at her. Her lip curls into a sneer, hatred brewing in her eyes. "Go to Hell."
She chokes on the words, chokes on them like they're the bitterest things she's ever tasted. The passion makes my skin prickle. It's probably wrong, to get a thrill out of it, but fuck if her hostility doesn't make something stir inside of me, something primal and seedy. A twisting, a coiling, a brewing that makes my cock harden and my skin thicken.
The sensations are dangerous to evoke.
I run the back of my hand down her cheek again, wiping away more tears. "I've been heading that way for a long time, sweetheart."
The words are barely from my lips when I'm shoved, hard, nearly falling backward. I catch myself with my hands as she sits up, the blanket dropping from around her as she wraps her arms around her chest. She's not crying anymore, the resentment drying her tears.