41
IRINA
He was alive.
Scar’s promise to bring me his head on a spike made so much more sense in the wake of that new information. He was alive, out there roaming free while I was confined to a bed that I didn’t even want to leave. He was hurting other girls, other women like me, waiting for the Bellandi war to end.
Waiting to come back for me.
He’d liked the way we fit together. Liked the way I’d screamed when I finally couldn’t hold it in. He would never let me go.
I lay there for hours, my thoughts churning and my mind exploring the options I didn’t have. Some fates were worse than death. Some fates were worse than anything.
Eventually, I swallowed back my fear and turned my head to look up at Ivory, fighting back the sting of tears and the burn that scorched my throat when her kind, sea foam eyes met mine. “Could I have some water? And maybe some toast?” I asked, the deception sitting heavy on my tongue.
I swallowed past the lies, fighting past the burn and knowing with absolute certainty that there was no happy ending for me.
That there was no light at the end of the tunnel.
Ivory’s eyes lit up, making a sting of guilt prickle at the edges of the numbness I’d cast around myself. “Of course!” she said, happiness wiping away the emotion on her face.
She stood from the bed, looking around when she realized she would need to leave me alone to get those things for me. She smiled, muttering that she’d be right back as she hurried out of the room.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, fatigue settling into every one of my bones as I forced myself to pick up the pen off my nightstand and the journal Dr. Lawrence had left me. The words on the page flowed freely, a short but to-the-point note that would never be able to convey how sorry I was.
How much I hated the burden I’d become.
Leaving the journal on the nightstand, open to the note, I forced myself to stand. My legs wobbled beneath me, pain shooting up the healing broken leg with each step as I put weight on it.
Each stab that rippled up my spine brought an ache with it, one that seemed to come from the place my heart had once occupied. The words I’d said to myself over and over in the last three weeks became a mantra I couldn’t escape.
Tears fell, sliding down my cheeks to wet the fabric of Scar’s shirt they’d dressed me in after my last bath. I wrapped my arms around myself, taking comfort from his scent surrounding me. For one isolated moment, I pretended I wasn’t alone.
In truth? I’d never made a difference.
I’d never been loved.
I’d never been worth the effort.
I’d never mattered.
My stomach lurched with every step, my heart climbing up my throat as the bannister at the edge of the sweeping staircase came into sight.
One more step, and I shoved down the sob that tried to escape.
One more step, and I laid my hands on top of the railing. I lifted my bad leg with my good arm, hooking my knee around the top of the railing and sinking my teeth into Scar’s shirt to muffle the sound of my pain. Maneuvering the rest of my body over the top of the edge and perching my ass on it proved more difficult, but I made it there bit by bit.
Finally, I stared down at the first floor far below me, the marble of the tiles gleaming in the crystal chandelier. I swallowed past my fear, closing my eyes as I prepared to shove off the edge. I tried to position myself to push forward face first.
I didn’t want it to hurt anymore.
I didn’t want to feel a thing.
I wanted to swallow a bottle of pills and never wake up, but they’d made that impossible when they took control of my medication. They’d left me with no other choice.
Ivory stepped out of the kitchen and into the entryway, the glass of water held in her hand dropping alongside the plate, as if in slow motion.
I watched them shatter, noting the way the glass spread across the floor, and wondered if my body would do the same. If I’d touch every corner of the elaborate entryway in the way I’d wished I’d been able to touch even one person.
Thoroughly. Messily.
So deeply that they couldn’t ever clean me off of them.
“Irina,” Ivory said, her hands raised to touch her mouth. Her face twisted, and even from my height I could tell she was crying. She stepped over the broken glass, the crunch of it beneath her shoes sounding like gunshots in the silent space between us. “Honey, please get down from there.”
“I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. The thought of what waited for me if I lived became too much to bear. Too much to stomach in a world so ugly that I didn’t want to spend another day in it. “I’m not strong enough. Not for this.”
“You are, Irina, I promise you, and I’ll be here with you every step of the way. Just let me help you down,” she said, stepping toward the bottom of the stairs.
“Don’t come any closer,” I warned, leaning forward. My arm shook, my own weight too much for it to handle after my weeks of inactivity.
“Okay. Okay,” she said, raising her hands and backing away from the step. “Please,” she begged, shaking her head from side to side. “Just let me help you.”
She didn’t understand. Couldn’t possibly understand the one truth I knew more certainly than anything else.
Nobody could help me.