The weight of my tears, of my grief, is so heavy my head falls forward.
I have nothing left.
I have no one left.
What is there to even live for?
What do I do now?
Die?
Reaching out to God, like I’ve always done when in need of guidance, I ask Him.
Do I die, God? Is that what you want? Is that what I was always meant to do?
Should I have died the day I was born?
Staring at the floor, I wait for an answer.
But there’s no answer.
Only silence. A crushing, deafening silence that makes me cry harder.
Deliriously I begin to think He’s not listening to me.
Like the Order, He’s turned his back on me…
Abandoning me to be alone.
Then, faintly, beneath all the grief and misery, I feel that warmth.
The fuzzy warmth of love and affection surrounding me in a cocoon.
I don’t know where it’s coming from and it scares me. I try to push it off. To shed it like an unwanted skin.
But it clings harder, tightening until I feel like I’m being held in a pair of arms.
A pair of arms that want me and love me and will never let me go.
There’s someone out there that needs me…
Someone who needs me to go on.
Tears drying, sobs quieting, I let the warmth comfort me. To fill me with renewed purpose.
A purpose I’m tired of fighting.
Lord knows, I’m tired of running and fighting.
So fucking tired.
The phantom arms cradle me, rocking me, until the pain is gone and my head is clear.
I know what I must do.
Why I was born.
My reason for existing.
The phantom arms fade away.
I shiver at their loss, the cold threatening to creep back in, then push up from the floor.
Lifting my head and brushing my hair out of my face, I look at the destruction of my room.
It looks like a tornado swept through. A violent tornado named Chloe.
Everything is scattered, broken, or shredded.
Even my bed… I don’t remember touching my bed, but the mattress is off the frame, the headboard cracked in half.
If I was in a better state of mind, I’d probably be afraid of what I did. Afraid of the violence and strength behind it.
But I’m not, and I’m running out of time. The sunlight is quickly dimming. The shadows in the corners are growing larger.
Where’s my phone?
Dropping to my knees again, I start sorting through everything on the floor. Searching for it.
I haven’t heard from Isaac, and I need to call him and tell him not to come.
It’s too late for a rescue now, and my monster is too close. If Isaac shows up, he’ll only be in danger.
I can’t lose him too, I think as I fling away a shirt.
He’s all I have left.
Crawling around on my hands and knees, I dig through the wreckage of my belongings. Hoping my phone wasn’t damaged in the carnage.
When my fingers finally slide across its smooth glassy surface beneath my broken bed frame, I let out a breath in relief.
Quickly grabbing it up, I touch the screen and watch it immediately light up. The light a little too harsh for my eyes in the dimness.
Squinting against the glare, I pull up Isaac’s number and press the big green button.
Lifting my phone to my ear, my heart thuds sickly in my chest as the line rings and rings.
Then drops to my stomach when I reach his voicemail.
No answer.
Why isn’t he answering? Did something happen…
Shaking away every dark thought trying to worm its way into my head, I hang up and redial his number.
He’s probably busy or something, I tell myself. He’ll answer this time.
The phone rings three times then connects.
“Isaac, where are you?” I rush out, both relieved he picked up and worried he’s close.
Only silence answers me.
“Isaac?” I ask tentatively, my heart sinking deeper into my stomach.
“Chloe, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” my monster says, and I feel it.
I feel how much he missed me in the pulsing ache behind my ribs. It’s that horrible need, that horrible longing that’s like dying.
Gasping, I drop to my ass.
“How….” I say breathlessly, my lungs struggling to process the air around me. “How did you get Isaac’s phone?”
Please tell me you didn’t kill him. Please.
“I found Isaac snooping around your house. Thinking he was a burglar or someone who wished to do you harm, I thought it best to apprehend him,” he nearly growls. “I told you I can’t protect you if you don’t invite me in. You should have invited me in.”
His anger licks at my skin and the mark on my thigh flares with the emotion. But the anger isn’t necessarily directed solely at me. He’s angry mostly because of the separation.
How I know all of this, how I can sense and feel it, I don’t know. But I do.
“He’s not a burglar, he’s my friend,” I say weakly.