Heathcliff

Rolling over in the bed fucking hurts. I had to spend a ton of energy repairing Alan Wolcott’s body during his resurrection, and I almost didn’t have enough strength to wipe my prints off the stolen car and stagger back home.

At least the tattoo is fading now, its mission completed. No more irritation from that source.

Groaning, I manage to grasp my phone. Looks like I got a text from Cathy. I can’t do this anymore.

She sent it hours ago. Shit.

Can’t do what? Can’t do us ? Fuck, I knew I was going too far with the tattoos.

I wanted to protect her, but it probably looked real weird and possessive, like some movie boyfriend who turns out to be a stalker.

I probably scared her off. Maybe she decided someone like Edgar Linton is better for her. Fuck that.

I send her a reply. I’m here. What’s up?

That sounds dumb. But I don’t have any more words in me.

I try to stay awake. I fight the overwhelming tide of weariness, the heavy ache in my head, the leaden weight of my limbs.

Cathy has to answer me, has to explain herself.

She can’t just end it like this. There has to be a reason.

Something scared her. Maybe she heard something about me or the Lockwoods, maybe she’s stressed out, maybe she went through another one of her mourning episodes and she’s saying this because she’s tired.

Whatever it is, I need to know. So I struggle to maintain consciousness.

But I’ve drained my energy almost completely, and I have nothing left to draw from. The Vague is in my head, suffocating me, and I need to sleep. I don’t have a choice.

I let the phone slip from my fingers onto the mattress, and I drift into darkness.