Page 63 of Misted

Mist

You consume me until I’m not sure whether or not I’m an extension of you.

“Hawk…”

“P-please, Hawk…”

“I need my fix. Don’t do this to me.”

“Fuck you! I hate you!”

“Please… Please….”

I must sound like a mentally unstable person — and I probably am. I’ve been fading in out of consciousness for what seems like weeks, but I’m sure it’s only been a few days. Or was it hours?

Time escapes me. Everything does.

The loud ringing wouldn’t leave my mind and my head is as heavy as a truck. My tongue grows too big for my mouth and I can hardly feel my limbs.

Hawk unbound me a few times for the bathroom and to feed me, but I couldn’t run even if I wanted to. I can hardly open my eyes without feeling stabbing pain. It’s like a million needles under my skin prickle me at the same time, non-stop.

I’m thankful whenever unconsciousness drifts me away. But then, the memories I’ve been running away from assault me. They hurt. That’s what memories do; they hurt so much like a deadly disease at its final stages.

If I don’t have the numbness, those memories will tear me apart.

Little touches.

Small words.

Innocent kisses. Passionate kisses.

Stolen laughs.

Tiny moments.

All-consuming hugs.

I will always catch you, Hellion.

You’re the only woman I want, Hellion.

I’ll take you to France. We’ll start anew.

Words. Empty fucking words. They hurt more than Omega’s withdrawal or my injuries or any physical torture I had to endure.

As if those aren’t enough to make me wish for death, my darkest memories plague my unconsciousness like a never-ending nightmare.

The pain. The white sheets. The blood. Lots of fucking blood. It was the first time blood scared me that much. It wasn’t only blood, it was part of my soul and the vicious destruction of my feeble little dreams.

I don’t want to fucking see your face again. You’re dead to me, Mist.

Tears spring to my eyes like they did that day. That moment he turned his back on me and left for good still draws a sucking black wound in my heart.

Since then, life lost its meaning and I lived for one purpose only.

I’m hauled to consciousness again, and even though pain shreds my nerves’ ending, I’m thankful. I’ll take the physical pain over the torturous memories any day.

It’s night, or my eyes are seeing black. My hands and ankles aren’t bound when I move them.