Page 118 of Eternal

AZRA

“Spiracle” by Flower Face

Present

D on’t read into it. Don’t feel too much. Don’t get used to kindness.

That voice isn’t hopeless. She’s trying to protect me, I know that. The part of me that understands, the one already shattered, already grieving. The one who still wants me to stay alive.

I just wish I was only her.

Not the girl she’s fighting so hard to keep from breaking.

The water’s gone lukewarm, almost cold, but I don’t move. I’ve been here for hours, my skin is tired of this. But I’m not, I love it, so I just sink lower, let it drown me almost.

My legs float, my arms ache, my fingers are pruned and shaking. The bottle’s half-empty on the marble ledge. Again . I’m drinking again.

Fuck, Azra…

I’m fucking ruining myself again. I hate this. Why am I like this?

I’m ruining everything. Every-fucking thing.

I told myself just a sip, to feel warm inside like I felt this morning, like I felt with him, when he smiled at me, when he kissed me and hugged me.

But warmth always turns to fire in me.

The music in the living room is too loud. I like it that way, it drowns the part of me that whispers, that reminds me of things, that remembers.

I tip the bottle back again.

Not even bad…

I used to be good at this.

There’s a laugh caught in my throat, like it’s trying to crawl out of me and escape.

A stupid, broken laugh, because I’m happy. I am.

I’m happy that someone stayed, that this ‘someone’ was him.

He kissed every place I thought no one would even want to look at. He didn’t flinch at the burns, the cigarette ghosts, the scars that never really faded. He touched them like the word beautiful was written in every line and said nothing cruel.

And I didn’t bleed, I didn’t bleed this time.

It felt… good .

I didn’t even know I was holding my breath until I realized the sheets stayed clean, until I realized I felt okay, not terrified, not gone, only... here .

In my body. In my mind.

That’s what wrecks me, that’s why I want to drink and drink and fucking drink until there’s nothing left of me to love. Until he sees it the way I do, disgusting, and sad .

Until he leaves, and I’ve got one more reason to believe I was never worth staying for.

Because I thought I was past saving, because I was terrified of any kind of pain, because I’m still instinctively touching my stomach in the water, caressing it.

Feeling sorry for everything that happened to my body, sorry for feeling so dirty when it’s been so long I shouldn’t anymore, but he touched me like I wasn’t.

So now I’m drinking vodka in a bathtub like I’m fifteen again, hiding bruises and pretending I don’t care who did what to me.

Pretending I’m not shaking on the inside, pretending I didn’t hate the touch I felt, and then I suddenly miss his presence.

Because weirdly enough for the first time, he wasn’t the one causing this state.

He didn’t hand me the bottle, he didn’t drag me to the bathroom and press play on the playlist that makes me feel seventeen and hollow again. He didn’t say, hey, remember what you were before I touched you like I care?

He just kissed me .

Some people would say I’m backsliding, that he’s bad for me if I’m drinking again, but it’s not him.

It’s me .

It’s the part of me that never learned what to do with safety, the part that’s scared of soft things because soft things always turn dangerous.

And right now, I miss him so bad it aches behind my eyes. I miss the way he said my name like it was a secret. The way he kissed me slowly even when he could’ve taken more.

The way he held my face like I was a thing to protect. I wanted to tell him I was proud of myself, for not bleeding, for feeling okay. But how do you say that without saying everything else?

So, I didn’t, I kept smiling into his neck and let him pull me under one more time.

Now I’m here, slightly drunk in a tub in a city that chews people like me alive, listening to sad songs and pretending I’m not lonely.

Because I felt seen, and I don’t know how to be okay with that.

I hate this, I hate how good it felt. I hate that he’s probably still in that bed, shirtless and smug and glowing with the kind of quiet softness I haven’t seen since I was a kid.

And most of all? I hate that I want to go back.

But instead, I drink. Because some memories don't drown, they float.

And I’ve got to sink a little deeper just to breathe.

I stepped out of the bath slowly, grabbing the towel. I passed the mirror without thinking I’d look, but then the bruises caught my eye, dark, spreading bruises on the inside of my thigh. One on my ribs, and a bite mark near my collarbone, like he wanted to leave something behind.

I touched it, pressing my fingers into the sore skin. It felt like his mouth was still there.

He kissed me a lot there, held me longer than anyone else ever had. So now I was marked by him, and yeah , I liked that more than I probably should.

Zanae invited me tonight for dinner tonight, the last day here, and I just want to have fun before going back to Vegas.

I picked out the pants first, navy blue, the exact shade of his eyes when he looks at me in the dark.

Tonight, I was wearing them for him.

The shirt was white and crisp, loose in the right places, sleeves rolled up enough to show the tattoos on my arms, the tie hung loose and low, kind of undone across my chest.

I don’t usually dress for anyone but myself, but tonight I wanted to be seen, and he said he liked my curly hair. So, I left it wild, exactly how it dries when I don’t fight it.

I slapped on a line of dark lipstick and then smeared it with my finger.

The vodka bottle was still half full on the sink. My cheeks were flushed, maybe he’d notice I’d had a drink before dinner.

I stared at myself, shirt half unbuttoned, collar loose, tie swinging when I moved. My scars showed…some of them.

My phone buzzed on the counter, and his name lit up the screen.

Damir

I’m waiting for you. Can’t wait to see what you’re wearing.

I snorted and typed back:

Me

The gun or the knife?

Damir

Doesn’t matter. As long as it’s strapped to those pretty thighs.

Me

Perv.

I grabbed my bag and phone and headed downstairs. His car was parked out front, and he was already sitting there, staring straight ahead.

He didn’t even see me when I opened the door and slid into the seat, or maybe he did and only wanted to be dramatic.

He looked over once, then shook his head like he was disappointed in me, not actually, more like amused. “Seriously?” he muttered, putting the car in park again. “Who let you open that door alone?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you playing the gentleman now?”

“Have you once opened a damn door when I was with you?”

I thought about it. “ No .”

“Exactly.”

Before I could say anything else, he got out, walked around the car like we weren’t late, and opened my door properly, hand extended like I was supposed to step out so he could do the whole thing again.

Is this a joke?

He tilted his head. “Come on. Humor me.”

So I did.

I stepped out, he shut the door behind me, then opened it again like he was resetting the moment.

“ There ,” he said. “Now we can go.”

I rolled my eyes but got back in, laughing at how stupid this whole thing was.

He settled in next to me again, and I could feel him watching.

“You’re flushed,” he said, eyes dragging over my face like he was memorizing it again. “Did you drink?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. Why? you gonna tell Vik and Kat?”

“Should I?”

Definitely .

“Nope,” I lied.

Lying about it might make it feel less real.

“ Partner ,” he said quietly, “look at me.”

I turned my head and met his eyes.

“You’ll talk when you’re ready.”

That was it. Nothing more.

Thank you…

Then his hand brushed my thigh. His fingers caressing the strap. Right where the knife was tucked.

He paused, grinned. “Found the knife.”

“Found the prey,” I shot back, deadpan.

He huffed a laugh, and replied, “You can’t try to kill me when I’m being gentle with you, partner . That’s not how it works.”

“I know.”

But I didn’t move, neither did he, his thumb stayed there, over steel and skin and the part of me that always wanted to disappear.

He looked back at the road, still smiling a little while I stared out the window, pretending not to like the way he said that.

After a minute, he spoke again, quieter this time.

“I meant it, by the way.”

I looked over. “Meant what?”

“That I couldn’t wait to see what you were wearing.”

I bit my lip, shook my head, and looked out the window again. “You’re annoying.”

He leaned closer, voice soft in my ear. “And you’re fucking gorgeous.”

I didn’t say anything to that, I smiled happily, and reached down to turn up the music a little louder, let the city lights blur out the window, and pretended like my chest wasn’t tight in the best and worst way.

“ Thank you… ”