Page 60 of Lash

"And what will sate you, Lovely One?"

I grin, shrugging. "I don't know. Right now, the way I feel? Nothing. I need you, Nico. I fucking need you so bad it feels like madness."

"Then let me clean up and come back to you, and we will see what we can do about curing your madness."

I sling my leg away, slipping off of him. "Let me do it."

I strip the condom off him and take it to the bathroom, wrap it in toilet paper, and discard it. Wetting a washcloth with warm water and squeezing it out, I bring it to the bed and clean his cock. I toss the wet cloth into the tub, and by the time I return, he has fallen asleep.

I laugh to myself, and curl up on him, nestling against his chest. He curls an arm around me instinctively. I bring the blankets over us, and despite my claim from a moment ago, I fall asleep.

a lightness of being

Lash

Iwake with the dawn out of long habit.

For the first time since Roberto Pugli's merciless, evil eyes bored into mine as he threw the match, I wake with a lightness in my soul; a lightness, as in the absence of weight; a lightness, as in the presence of light.

The light of attention, affection, and love finally illuminated the shadows which have haunted the vacant, echoing spaces where my heart should be.

I linger in bed, caught in the drowsy quasi-wakefulness that comes after a restful night's sleep. And I realize, only as I drift toward full wakefulness, that I have not truly rested since the death of my family either.

I open my eyes—gray dawn light filters through the gapped curtains; the hotel room is a carbon copy of every middling quality hotel room in every developed country in the world—ugly thin beige carpet, ugly sheer drapes, and ugly white scratchy bedding, an aging TV, and a sad little Keurig coffee machine.

I roll to my side. Tatiana is still sound asleep, her slender form turned away, the blanket draped over her hips and tucked under her arm. She lets out a little snort, a sigh, a pause, and then a deep breath sucked in fast and let out slowly.

My hands twitch, longing to caress her tender skin and soft curves, to know the pleasure of her touch again, but I know she needs her sleep. I slip out of bed, dress, and steal silently out of the room in search of real coffee, and perhaps something to bring back for breakfast. I take the elevator down to the first floor. The doors slide open; on the wall opposite the elevators is a large mirror, in which I see my reflection.

I do not recognize myself.

It's a moment of disorientation—a mini existential crisis. Who am I? Without the haunting horror of what happened, without the driving rage of revenge, who am I?

Lash no longer.

He was a creation born out of sorrow—a vow of revenge, a new name, a burial of everything I was with my family; a vow, too, to not cut my hair or beard until Roberto was dead.

The man in the mirror is…Lash.

My hair is past my shoulders, nearly to mid-back, thick and glossy black, albeit with a strand or two of silver at the temples. My beard is that of a wizard, long and thick and bushy, tapering to a point at mid-chest.

Who am I?

Who do I want to be?

I am free of my rage—Roberto Pugli has had a vise grip on me for so many years, and by letting go of the drive to kill him myself, I am free of his control over me.

I am free of the ghosts of my past. My beloved Ileana is at rest. My sweet, innocent baby son and daughter are resting with their mother. I will always miss them. Always grieve them. But I cannot live in thrall to their wandering spirits any longer.

I must find a new way forward.

With Tatiana.

As Nicolae.

Nicolae Dragos was vain. He visited the barber twice a month, kept his hair short and neat, and his beard closely trimmed. This vagabond wizard look no longer suits me, I think.

Time to make one last symbolic gesture of release—cutting away all that remains of Lash.