THIRTY-FOUR
Hit.
It’s been three days since Kayden left and I feel suspended in a never-ending nightmare. I can’t stop picturing him standing by the door, looking unfazed by my words, his iron-clad decision to leave repeatedly tormenting me with every step he took out of the apartment.
Hit.
There is not a single trace of him left in the apartment.
That was what it was meant for, right? If he ever needed to leave, he could just disappear and nobody would know he ever lived there. He was destined to run. From his past.
From himself.
Hit.
He’s gone. He really is gone. He hasn’t once called or texted to see if I’m all right, and I haven’t bothered to reach out either. What’s the use of trying to find someone who doesn’t want to be found?
Hit.
I want to forget the day I ever met him. I want to forget the way he stared at me like he was afraid of me, afraid of what kind of damage I’d do if I stayed with him.
Hit.
I want to forget that fear turned into adoration when we fought together during our first session, when he was determined to win over me in that cage.
Hit. Hit. Hit.
And most importantly, I want to forget that that adoration turned into something much more sacred.
HIT.
I want to forget our first kiss.
HIT.
I want to forget how breathless I was when he helped me out of my clothes, taking his time with each piece of clothing. Kissing me everywhere like he’d been waiting a lifetime to worship my body. His hands on my skin.
Roaming. Exploring. Loving.
HIT HIT HIT.
I want to forget the first time we made love and how I wanted to cry from sheer happiness because I knew, I knew it wouldn’t get any better than that.
HIT HIT HIT HIT HIT.
He loved me. He loved me until he destroyed me. That is the only way I know how to put it. The numbness, the anguish when he stepped foot out of that apartment has eaten me away until I don’t recognize myself anymore.
HIT HIT HIT HIT HIT HIT.
I don’t want to feel like this, like I’m drowning in a boiling vat of my own pain and suffering, clawing at the surface to get out to breathe because I can’t breathe I can’t fuckingbreathe I need air, AIR please, please, PLEASE STOP—
Hot tears spill from my eyes when I thrust my hand out to stop the punching bag from knocking me out cold. I rip the wraps from my hands only to dig my fingers through my hair like angry claws. I gasp for breath, wanting to inhale some courage to fight through the pain, to fight through the heartbreak, but I come up short, my body wanting to punish me—rightfully so—for being responsible for the agony in the first place.
Because this has been my fault.
All of it.
I wish I could blame it on anyone else. Jax, maybe.