Page 59 of Writhe

My breath hitches. My pulse stutters.

My nails dig into my skin, hard enough to leave crescent moons in the soft flesh of my abdomen. A violent sob tears itself from my throat. My vision blurs, the room tilting, distorting into something grotesque, something unbearable. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

I won’t carry this.

I won’t.

The letter opener is still clutched in my hand, its blade coated in crimson. His blood.

But I need mine now.

I raise the blade.

And plunge it into my stomach.

Pain. Agony.

A hot white explosion tearing through my insides, ripping me apart. The air is stolen from my lungs as my body seizes, recoiling from the intrusion, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I drag the blade through flesh, through muscle, through whatever thing has taken root inside me. Blood rushes out in thick, wet warmth, drenching my fingers, spilling onto the floor, pooling beneath me in a growing, glistening puddle.

A breathless, broken laugh tumbles from my lips.

I did it.

I won.

The darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision. I collapse onto the floor, the tile slick beneath me, cold and unyielding. My heartbeat stutters, falters, weakens.

But it’s okay.

I am free.

I close my eyes.

And let the abyss take me.

Everything is slipping away.

The Doctor is dead.

The sickness is gone.

I should be dying.

But then.

Something shifts.

“I’ve got you now, Dollface.”

Theo.

Theo has me.

A small, delirious smile touches my lips. My head lolls against a solid shoulder, my body slack, my mind slipping further into the abyss.

I don’t fight it.

I don’t need to.

Theo is here.

Finally.

Finally.