Sometimes, I wake up holding you to my chest.
Your hair is in sleepy disarray and you gently caress my cheek.
I smirk at your display and teasing, squeeze your hip in retaliation.
Your eyes darken and your free hand gently grasps my hand. Your thumb makes lazy circles on my palm.
"You know I can't feel that," you remind me, soft and embarrassed.
"Of course." I respond just as softly. "How could I forget?"
I try to remove my hand, but you won't let me. Your grip tightens. Your fingernails dig into my skin.
"Charles," I gasp. "You're hurting me."
"Not as much as you hurt me," you reply, your voice grown cold and distant.
Your nails are suddenly sharp, and I feel the quick burn as they tear my skin.
"Charles ..." I whimper, hating the weakness curdling in my throat, like spoiled milk. "Please."
"Do you know what it feels like to take a bullet in the back?" he whispers.
In a sick parody of love, you roughly kiss my mouth, biting down on my lower lip.
I can't respond. Your eyes scare me, remote as the moon, terrible as a rising storm.
Mute, I shake my head quickly.
"Of course you don't." you say, as your eyes dart back and forth over my face.
"I'm going to count to three." he says, and I can already feel the sharp metal digging into my spine.
"Close your eyes, Erik. It'll be over soon."
Mercifully, I wake up. My roars of pain echo throughout the darkened room, and I fumble towards my back, finding brief respite in the unmarked skin.
I'm whole.
Unlike you.
My vision blurs with unshed tears, and the helmet burns on my skin.
I throw it off, thinking that surely a tumult of thoughts would be better than the nightmares of my own imagining.
I hunch over in my bed, adorned with satin sheets, hugging myself stubbornly.
It's a cold comfort, surely.
I close my eyes, blinking away the tears, and despite myself, I project a thought to you.
I hope you can hear me, Charles.
I hope you know how sorry I am.