Torture to Her Soul
Page 21

I probably shouldn't love it as much as I do.
"I should be," she says, her voice shaking as she fights to keep those tears from falling. "I should want you dead. God knows you probably deserve it. I should hate you… I do hate you. Some days I wake up and wish you'd disappear, so I'd never have to look at your face again… but then I thought you might. I thought you might actually die. I though you were dying." She pauses, a tear breaking free. She wipes it away with her fingertips as she looks away from me, laughing bitterly under her breath. "I thought I might never see your face again, might never hear your lying voice again, and that hurt more than I expected it to."
I watch her as she brushes away another tear… and another… before I respond. "I've never lied to you."
"You keep saying that," she says, her voice an octave higher than just a moment ago, stronger, like maybe admitting she might not like to see me dead lifted a weight off her chest. "And the sad part is, I think you actually believe it."
"I do," I say. "I've never lied to you."
"Well maybe that's true in whatever universe you live in, but here in the real world there's such a thing as lying by omission, and it hurts just as bad. You deceived me. You played me. Toyed with me. The whole time we were together I wondered 'why me?' And now I know why. You were manipulating me! So maybe you didn't lie to my face, but you certainly weren't being honest. You weren't being real. You can't smile and act like you love me one second then destroy my world the very next. You can't do that and expect me to still trust you, Naz."
You can't smile and act like you love me one second then destroy my world the very next.  Those words hit me like a punch to the chest. Somebody did that to me once, and I certainly never forgave him for it.
"I never tried to be somebody I wasn't," I respond. "Maybe I didn't show you all my cards up front, but I never misled you about what game we were playing."
"It's not supposed to be a game!"
"That's where you're wrong," I say. "The world is a game, Karissa. There are winners and losers in life, and I did everything in my power—and I'll always do everything in my power—to make sure I never lose. Maybe I have to cheat sometimes, and I don't always play fair, but I can't. Not if I want to survive it. You can hate me for that, but it won't stop me from protecting you. It won't stop me from making sure you win, too."
"And what if you can't?" She finally meets my eyes again. She's putting it all out in front of me, her heart on her sleeve, airing her grievances instead of bottling them in. "What if we both can't win?"
"I've already told you what happens then."
"What?"
"I give you the plank, Karissa."
It takes a moment for her to understand. The Plank of Carneades. If only one of us could survive, who would it be? Some people believe murder is justified when it's vital to save yourself. And while I'm not one to frown upon stealing another life, there are certain people I could never bring myself to take from this world.
Certain people like her.
Just her.
Because a world without her in it, I'm not sure is a world worth living in anyway. I've lived a life of darkness already, years where the sun didn't shine on me, and now that I've seen daylight again, I don't think I could ever turn my back to it.
She stares at me, not bothering to brush away a stray tear when it breaks free. It falls from her chin into her lap as she shakes her head, like she can't believe what I'm telling her.
She doesn't respond, doesn't press the issue, as she shifts around in the chair and lays her head against the arm of it, using the hard surface as a makeshift pillow. Silence smothers the room for a few minutes, neither of us speaking or even moving. My eyes are glued to Karissa as hers slowly drift closed.
Hours pass, each tick of the clock agonizing. I'm stiff and tired, annoyed and in pain, wanting to be anywhere but in this goddamn bed.
People leave me alone, stepping into the doorway and glancing in, but moving on without addressing me. It's late afternoon when Karissa reawakens, stretching and yawning, clearly uncomfortable sleeping in that chair.
She should be at home.
We should both be at home.
"You don't happen to know where the clothes I came here in are, do you?"
Karissa's attention shifts my way. "They were ruined."
"And you didn't bring me any extra?"
"No," she says. "Why?"
"Because I'd like to get the hell out of this place."
"You want to leave? Already?"
"I shouldn't have even come here."
"You were hurt," she says incredulously, sitting up straighter. "Like, seriously hurt. This is exactly where you need to be."
"There's nothing they can do for me," I say. "I'm not going to eat their food or take their drugs, not going to sleep in this bed with people I don't know lurking around. The only thing that can help me at this point is rest, and I'm not going to get that here."
"But—"
"Look, I'll walk out of here like this if it comes down to it," I say, motioning toward myself, "but I'd rather not have to."
She looks at me with disbelief. "Like that?"
"Yes."
"Wearing that gown?"