Page 62 of Eternal

AZRA

“Look After You” by The Fray

Present

T he knife slips from my fingers, clattering against the stone. I press my hands to my face, the blood smearing across my skin.

I’ve lost it.

I fucking lost it.

Then my phone rings. The sound cuts through the night, through my head, through my shaking body.

I blink down at it, barely registering the name flashing on the screen. Damir. And I picked it up.

“I’m here. Where are you?” He asks almost as if he knew what I just did.

“I’m coming.”

I step back away from the corpse, away from the fountain, away from the question.

I wipe the blade against my clothes and use it to smooth my hair back. And absentmindedly, I press my fingers to my lips to stop their shaking.

Then I walk away, bloodied, breathless, tired. The street is quiet, but my mind never is.

Blood dries against my skin, stiffens my clothes.

My breath is still uneven, my pulse erratic, and I walk like I’m in a dream, like I’m high, and maybe I am, on violence .

Or maybe it’s the exhaustion creeping in, the kind that makes you feel like you’re living outside your own body and witnessing how bad you look.

Why am I thinking about my life right now?

This isn’t the time to let wounds reopen. I can’t afford it, I don’t even know if I have it in me to close them back up again.

After a few minutes of walking out of the complex, I reached the meeting place.

Damir sits on his bike, one hand on the handlebar the other resting on his thigh. He looks up the second I step into view, and the moment his eyes land on me, his fingers curl and his shoulders tense.

For a second, he doesn’t move, he stares at me coldly, visor up, ocean eyes through a storm. I can only see them from his helmet. Maybe he’ll think this is my Halloween costume, maybe he’ll laugh.

Then he swings his leg off the bike and strides toward me. “What the fuck happened?”

His voice is strangely concerned, protective , as if I’m something worth protecting. How ? How can he see me like that? How does he look at me, covered in blood, and still see a person?

I stare back at him, trying to find it in myself to feel like one. Trying to remember what it’s like to be fragile, to be something that can be saved.

I can’t .

“ I’ll… I’ll explain later.”

He stops right in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. His gaze drags over me delicately, my face, my hands, the blood soaking through my clothes.

“Are you hurt?” He asked softly.

Am I? Yes . But does it matter? “ No .”

He exhales, like he was holding his breath, waiting for that lie. Then he moves, his long fingers brushing against my wrist and they’re so hesitant, as if he was waiting for me to pull away.

But I don’t.

I should step back, should remind him who I am, what I’ve done. But I let him touch me, let his warmth seep into my frozen skin.

“I’ll give you my gloves. Your hands are too cold.”

He slips his gloves onto my fingers, careful, like I’m something frail, as if I’m not standing in front of him soaked in someone else’s blood.

Then his fingers skim my face, skin on skin, his thumb tracing over my cheek, lingering where the blood has dried.

Blood. Blood. Blood.

Doesn’t he see it? Doesn’t he see what I am?

“Come on,” he murmurs. “We’re going home .”

I don’t argue, my head is too full, my body too heavy, and strangely enough, I’m happy that he’s here tonight.

He hands me the second helmet, but before I take it, I hesitate. My fingers hover over it, my voice quieter now. “Does it bother you?” His brows pull together. “The blood,” I say. “I’ll stain your clothes.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Then, he lifts his boot and nudges my leg, pushing me closer.

“I don’t give a fuck about that,” he says, voice low and steady. “Keep your hands tight around me, don’t let go.”

I take the helmet, pull it on, climb onto the bike.

The moment my arms wrap around him, he exhales like he’s been waiting for it. His hand tightens over mine for a second too long, and then they leave. Don’t let go…

We’re going home, and my head is empty.

I’m slumped against his back, my arms hang loosely around his waist, barely holding on, barely holding myself together.

He’s fast, cutting through the streets like he knows exactly where every car will be before it gets there.

The wind is cold, some of my hair strands sticking to my face from sweat and… probably blood.

I should’ve tied it up.

I shift, adjusting my grip, my fingers brushing against the hem of his jacket. It’s warm. He’s warm.

I exhale, pressing my forehead lightly against his shoulder for a second before pulling back. I tell myself it’s the exhaustion, that’s all.

Then, he moves a little, his hand brushes over mine, barely if I’m being honest, but the way my heart ached for more made it something bigger than it was.

His gloves keep my hand warm, but I feel his cold fingertips trace the small patch of bare skin around my wrist.

It’s nothing, it’s a simple touch, a normal thing, but somehow, it feels different. He’s barely touching my skin, and for a second, a short stupid moment, I almost forgot how much it used to hurt, how every touch was always a reminder of how I’ve always been used when I should’ve been loved.

This one, though... It feels too different, it’s so soft. I don’t know why, but something about it makes me relax, like it’s... like it’s okay to let someone care.

I shouldn’t be thinking this way, but the little girl inside me feels safe, even if she’s not sure why.

He speeds up, and I squeeze my arms a little tighter like I was unconsciously hugging him.

But then we pull up to my place, and I realize how badly I’m still shaking.

The door closes behind us, and he grabs my wrist. “Take a shower, I’ll wait here. And change too.”

I nod and take off my shoes and his gloves. My body moves on autopilot straight to the bathroom.

Tired. This was tiring. It was never tiring.

Maybe it’s because I finally understand what’s been going on for so long.

Maybe it’s because I’m so angry that I’m sad.

Is that even a thing? Being angry that you’re sad?

Fuck I hate thinking.

The water hits my skin immediately in the bathroom.

Burning. Steam . Blood falls down my legs, my hands, and I watch it disappear down the drain.

But it doesn’t feel like it’s leaving, it’s still on me, under my skin, in my heart, tangled in the mess that my head is.

My mother, those girls, the way men like them break and use and discard, the way they broke me .

I press my fingers against my thighs, against the scars hidden beneath so much ink.

The iris on my arm, the past, me.

I touch them one by one with the tip of my fingers, I touch them like they aren’t mine. Maybe they aren’t. Maybe they belong to the girl they turned me into, or they belong to the people who carved them on me.

I don’t know how long I stand there, letting the water burn my skin, waiting for something to wash away. I almost forget that Damir is here, waiting.

I don’t even know what I’m waiting for, but I know it never does wash away.

I scrub, and scrub my skin, washing the long, sticky strands of hair matted with blood and sweat until they’re clean again. Then, I turn off the shower, wrap a towel around me, and move on instinct.

I thought killing them all without distinction would stop the voices, stop the burning rage inside me. But it only makes it worse. More questions, more things to uncover, more people to fucking annihilate.

I have to keep going, I have to.

The cycle continues, dressing simply in sweats and a sweatshirt, then braiding my hair without thinking.

It’s her habit, her touch. Ridiculous habit, but it’s the only thing left of her. The only thing I still do because this stupid part of me doesn't want to forget how she was before being broken.

My reflection laughs at me, or maybe she only pities me. For so long, I’ve looked at her like she was weak, broken, stupid, like she was nothing. She never felt okay, she never felt good enough to appreciate her own heart. But when I look down, I see the bottle of pills.

It’s tucked away, half-hidden, but it’s there, it’s still there, and I want it, I really do. I wish I could take some.

I don’t reach for it, I don’t even touch it. It’s still there, but that’s not who I am anymore, is it?

With a deep breath, I close the bathroom door behind me. When I step out, he’s there, Damir’s standing by the window in my living room, looking out, his back in front of me. His shoulders are stiff, but he’s not looking for anything, he’s right there for me.

He doesn’t even turn when I enter, but he speaks slowly. “ Come here.”

I do, without thinking, I step closer, closer than I’ve been to anyone in years. He doesn’t make a move, doesn’t touch me, he stands beside me, our bodies near but still far. I stare out at the city, the stars shining like they’ve been here all the time, as if they are still witnessing my fall.

“How many people did you kill tonight?” He asks without turning his head toward me.

He’s not judging, he’s curious, maybe worried, but I don’t answer, I keep my eyes on the stars, pointing them slowly with my finger, inviting him to look at them. “They’re so bright tonight.”

They are, he wouldn’t understand.

Now I can see them every day, I can see them again.

He moves and I feel his body closer now, I feel his touch, the way he caresses my hair, fingers brushing over it. It’s the softest thing I’ve ever felt in my life, it’s strange, it shouldn’t be.

I’ve always been strong, always stood alone, I always had to carry it all because when I needed someone, they made me regret my weaknesses. It’s normal, right? To feel this tired, this empty, this desperate ? It’s simply how life is.

So why is his presence so strange to my heart?

Why the hell am I trusting him, but still holding back? It doesn’t make sense, I want to let him in, but I’m scared shitless. It’s like standing on the edge of something good but also looking straight into a fucking abyss.

But nonetheless he’s here, and I don’t know why it matters, but it does.

“Come on.” He moves, pulling off his bloodied jacket like it’s nothing. “We’re going to eat.”

I glance at the jacket, then at him. “Sorry about that.”

He looks at me, his thumb brushing my cheek, but this time it’s a little firmer, like he's trying to ground me.

Then, he smiles a little, and gently taps my forehead.

“Stop, it's nothing. Everyone is going to be dressed up in blood tonight.” He doesn’t say anything else, but I follow him out the door when he starts moving.