Malum part 2

Tillie

Pain doesn’t define us, it shapes us. We come into this world as newborns, a fresh start. New life, a crisp soul. Then life happens, and every single choice you make has an implication. Every scar has a story, or it doesn’t and it’s just a scar, but whether or not it has a story, it’s still a scar, and that scar doesn’t define us, so why should pain?

I roll onto my side, closing my eyes and willing my mind to sleep. Let the alcohol pulse out from my pores so I can start fresh again tomorrow.

But that’s not how it works.

Tears slip down the sides of my eyes as I flip onto my back. Everything feels heavy. Weighted. I don’t want to live within these walls anymore, living for what?

“Puella,” Daemon whispers from the other side of my room and I jump up when I see him standing at my doorway. He’s been quiet all night, and I feel awful that I forgot he was here.

“Are you okay?” I ask, because I always need to know that he’s okay. My beautiful saving grace isn’t grace at all. He’s weeping with darkness and demons, but he’s still mine.

Calmness takes over me as he comes closer to my bed. His hand comes to my cheek where he swipes away the fallen tears. “To cry is to feel.”

I swallow. “That’s the problem,” I jest, chuckling softly.

“I never cried.”

I swallow. I know that. Daemon is as cold as ice, but he melted parts of him to let me in, and for that, I am so grateful. He has saved me in ways that he will never know. I crave his presence. “It’s okay, Daemon.”

“Lie down.” He points to the bed.

I do as I’m told, lying on my back, my nerves relaxing at his touch. He pats my forehead and it feels like a light of healing every time he caresses me. He doesn’t fix my broken parts, he just fills them with peace.

A small bottle of blue liquid is sitting on a table. My feet are covered in wooden shoes with red tips, pointing upward. What the fuck? I search around the room. There’s nothing in here, just that small bottle. I try to take the liquid, but my hand can’t grasp it. I get frustrated, sweat spilling out over my flesh. Why can’t I touch the stupid bottle? I finally grab it, flicking the cork off. A tag is around the neck, on it reads “Drink me.” Okay, so I’m Alice in Wonderland? Those boys are clearly fucking with me again.

I drink the liquid in one go. Sour goo clings to my tonsils, reminding me of that time when I tried to eat Play-Doh. The glass enlarges in my hand. What! It grows bigger and bigger, expanding as the seconds pass. Suddenly I’m standing beside the now monstrous-sized glass bottle.

The room has proliferated. Everything is so much fucking bigger!

The table leg catches my eye, because there’s a book shape that’s carved into the wood. I step closer. It’s an opened book, carved with perfect precision. Weird. I step even closer and run my fingertips over it. Puer Natus.

I suck in a breath, turning to see who it is that’s playing a sick joke on me, but as soon as my finger touches it, a black hole opens up and sucks me in.

I wake up in a graveyard.

DAEMON reads over the stone.

I’ve been here before. What is going on? The grass melts away from my feet as I sink six-feet under. I know what happens next, The Kings bury me alive.

The dirt flies over the grave, their faces not clear enough to make out. My barefoot steps on something that feels like jelly. I look down, only to see Daemon’s eyes gaping up at me from beneath the dirt. He’s angry, his eyebrows pulled in harshly. His fingers grip around my ankle.

“Have it your way!”

He yanks me under the dirt.

“No!” I scream, launching off the bed. That dream was scarier than the first one, and I feel like they’re getting worse and more vivid as time goes on.

“Nightmare?” a dark voice asks from the corner. I instantly recognize that it’s Nate.

I slither backward until my back is pressed against the headboard. “Yeah.”

“Nightmares make you appreciate the good. They remind you that your life could be worse,” he answers, his voice level.

I’m unsure what Nate I’m getting, and not being able to see him isn’t helping that fact either.

“I guess.” I don’t know what else to say. He’s not helping my inconsistent heart rate. I’m all over the place from last night and honestly, still feel slightly drunk. I hate drinking.

“I lied to you,” he whispers hoarsely.

“I figured,” I answer, lying back and pulling my covers up to my chin. If I can’t see him, I may as well feel safe under some blankets. It’s like when you leave your leg to dangle over your bed, but then you can’t because you think a demon is going to grab you by the foot. Well, Nate is that demon and the probability of that happening is way too real.

“I hate you, Tillie. There’s always going to be a part of me that hates you, and I think that’s something you’re going to have to come to terms with.”

“Why?” I choke on my words, and I instantly hate that I’ve shown emotion.

“Because you remind me of everything that I lost. You remind me of her. Everything about you is a reminder of her. Your smell, your laugh, your smile.”

I can’t stop the tears now. They’ve got free rein over me. I don’t answer. I’ll let him finish.

“Everything that I came to love about you was buried with our daughter. The way you would make her laugh in the morning when you’d change her diaper, or when you’d put her in the bed with us and we would just fucking admire the perfection that we both created. But that’s all gone, Tillie, and now all that’s left is anger and hurt, and a whole lot of fucking pain that I can’t afford to be feeling. It makes me distracted.”

I can feel myself slowly slipping away. “Then let me go.”

There’s a pause. “I can’t.”

I stop breathing. Will he finally admit it?

“This is your world too. You deserve the crown that has been given to you, and also, you deserve the closure that I do too.”

“Closure?” I ask, my attention spiked. “What do you mean closure?”

Pause.

I rip the blankets off, the dark room serving as a blanket of safety. I tiptoe to where I think he is, reaching out aimlessly to see if I can feel him.

My hand lands on his hair, and I quickly flinch away, dropping to my knees when I have found him. I don’t want to touch him any more than I have to. His touch is everything good and bad for me. I can’t lose myself in him again. I have to be smart. I have to make him pay. No, you don’t. Yes, I do.

“Tell me what you mean,” I whisper. I can almost feel his heavy breath falling on my lips, the smell of whiskey and cologne filling the space between us.

“When I tell you this, Tillie, I need your word that you will do as you’re told and not be reckless. I think this will—” He pauses. “I think having you help us, and us getting our closure will help you.”

“Help me?”

He changes the subject. “Do I have your word?”

“Yes,” I answer instantly. “You do.”

He exhales. “We think Micaela didn’t die of SIDs.”

I freeze, inching back.

His arm hooks around my waist. “I’ve got you. Can you handle this?”

Can I?

No.

Yes.

I have to.

“Yes…”

His arm tightens around my waist, but he doesn’t pull me into him which I appreciate. It’s a subtle hint that he’s there. He will catch me.