Page 68 of Tormented

But I can’t. I can’t do that to the people who matter to me.

I’m all that matters, he says with a frown. I’m all you need.

It hurts. So much.

You know what to do . . . a midnight snack . . . ease the burden . . . save the world from one more leech on its soul . . . .

He’s right, my devil. He’s always right. He knows me. He gets me. He understands me. And in a fucked-up kind of way, he raised me when my father was too busy to pay his only child any attention. When I needed advice, my devil spoke. When I needed to unload, he listened.

He’s the only one who’s been there no matter what.

The only one I can count on.

And yet I still want to end him, to silence him for good.

You’ll never be rid of me, boy . . . .

Maybe not, but I can drain your power.

No . . . .

Yes, fucker.

He’s scrambling, pulling madly at his levers and slamming heavy fingers on switches, but he’s wasting his time. The panic has passed and I’ve taken control again. I’m in charge.

The floor is cool beneath my feet as I cross to the short set of drawers and open the top one, revealing the black leather ring box I keep tucked in the right-hand corner. It’s been a while since I’ve done this to my devil, resorted to this madness, but seeing those lines on Abbey’s skin a few weeks ago got me thinking. What if this isn’t such a bad thing? What if it’s excusable from time to time? I lift the box out, the texture beneath my fingers bringing almost as much relief as what I’ll do next.

My devil cries out, screams at me to put it down, but my devil, oh my poor devil . . . I’ve got him on mute.

The lid snaps open with a jerk, revealing the most precious weapon I’ll ever have in my arsenal. It’s the only one that can reach him. The only one that can beat him into submission for a little while. The one I swore never to use again when I ran a little deep, tried a little too hard once before.

You shouldn’t do this . . . I can behave . . . .

The blade is clean, never left dirty from the time before. I stare at it, marveling at the way the moonlight bounces off it as I cross over to the bed again. Selecting some tunes on my phone, I set the mood as I lift the blade out and set the box aside on the floor.

Put it back . . . we can talk about this . . . .

I’d be worried too if somebody was literally about to drain my life force.

I find the sweet spot on the top of my thigh. Arms are so obvious—something Abbey is yet to learn. Scars on your wrists or forearm beg for questions. The leg? It’s personal. It’s a place that only those you choose can see, know of, and let’s face it, when was the last time a girl looked at a guy’s thighs as he pummeled her needy cunt? Never, right?

He’s screaming, my devil. Begging me as I bring the blade along my flesh in a smooth line. A burst of bright red erupts, morphing into a deeper shade of crimson the bigger it gets. I set the blade on my opposite leg and simply watch the blood as it trickles over the curve of my quad.

People take it for granted, the color. They fall and scrape their skin, or cut themselves preparing food, and their first thought is repairing the wound. But when was the last time you stood back and marveled at the perfect shade of red blood is? It’s life. It’s the one thing we share: we all bleed red.

It’s the only thing that reminds me I’m human, and not born straight from hell like my father makes me believe.

It gives me reassurance that somewhere inside me, I’m the same as everyone else. I bleed red, so therefore I must be able to be saved. Fixed? No. But saved? Maybe.

I add another line, engrossed in the trickles of red as they mingle and run in a braided river of life over my flesh. My devil’s quieter now, whimpering as he puts himself to bed to rest. And much like a tired parent, a sense of relief washes over me when I realize that with him quietly tucked away I can also enjoy a few moments of peace and quiet.

Finally.

A mere ten minutes later and the blade is clean, my leg has stopped bleeding, and I’m back as I was, spread-eagled on the bed, yet alone. The quiet is welcome, the silence refreshing, however I seem to have developed a new problem.

Eyes open: gray ceiling, lazy fan.

Eyes closed: Abbey.