I scroll through every picture, every file, every folder. I study the motherfucker for what seems like hours, until I feel him materializing right in front of me. I learn every tick, every rotten memory of his past. Every weakness.
I’m going to make his life hell. It won’t be easy or fast. It won’t end with torture or fucking death.
It’ll be slow and infinite, until he loses his damn mind.
After planning what I’ll do with him, I step into the house. The first thing my eyes track is the unmoving, rigid body on the sofa.
Fuck.
I stride to where Cecily sleeps, and when I touch her shoulder, sure enough, it’s as stiff and heavy as stone.
Her face is pale and tense, but her features look neutral. From the outside looking in, this might appear normal, but I know better.
I crouch beside her and grab her heavy hand that barely moves.
Calling her name is futile. She doesn’t hear me when she’s in this state. Probably caught in the nightmare from the past. The one she can’t get over, no matter how much she tries.
And she does try.
In her journal, she often has entries about how she wants to get past that version of herself. How much she hates it. How weak she feels for not being able to erase it.
In one entry, she wrote ‘Get over it, Cecily’ a hundred times, and those words were splashed with tear marks.
That fucker will cry tears of blood instead.
I stroke the back of her hand once, twice, and while that doesn’t dissipate the stiffness, it makes her arm less heavy.
It’s not much, but it’s a start.
I caress her arm, her collarbone, and then her throat, pausing at the fading mark at the side. Note to self: make a new one.
No matter how much I massage her skin and touch her gently, she barely shows any response. I know she’s in there somewhere, and I need to pull her out of whatever nightmare she’s trapped in.
Usually, I’d eat her pussy, and the orgasm would be enough to snap her out of this state. And while I’m game for that, I want to find other methods that I can use in public.
My fingers glide over her jaw, throat, and other pressure points. She shudders when I squeeze the back of her neck.
So I do it again. “Cecily?”
Her eyes slowly blink open, but she’s staring at an invisible point behind me.
I press yet again. “Cecily, can you hear me?”
“Jeremy,” she whispers, and then tears cascade down her cheeks as her attention zooms in on me.
My thumb skims back and forth on the sensitive skin on her nape in a gentle rhythm I’m not used to. It’s experimental at best, but since she leans into my touch, I don’t stop.
“Jeremy,” she repeats, blinking away the moisture gathered in her lids.
“I’m right here.”
“I know.” She sits up and fists her hand in my shirt. “I felt you. When I was being swarmed away, I feltyou. I heard your voice and even smelled you. Usually, no one hears me screaming for help in my head, but you did.”
Still grabbing onto me with a desperate hold and a shaky frame, she smiles through her tears.
Hope amidst ruin.
This is the most beautiful fucking sight I’ve ever seen.