No.
I breathe in.
I wouldn’t exchange the past week I’ve spent with Nikolai for the world. Holding hands, being in public, introducing him to my family, and being showered with their acceptance. It’s been the happiest week of my life.
Until now, that is.
It’s going to be okay.
I’ve survived years. I can handle a few more weeks.
I plaster a smile on my face as I push open my studio’s door. “Sorry I’m late, baby. I was held up—”
My words get stuck when I hear the sound I’ll never forget, not after one night, one year, or eight of them.
“Mmmmno… Mmmm… Mmmm…”
Ink explodes from the back of my throat and I choke on it like I did that night beneath the shower. It floods my eyes, nose, and ears. It swallows my whole body until I can only see Nikolai through a black haze.
His eyes are glued to the screen of his phone as that noise echoes on and on, cracking my ears open like a sledgehammer.
I don’t know how I walk to him when I can’t feel my legs.
I don’t know how I breathe when I’m wheezing.
Blood drips from his hand as he grips the bottom of a broken glass. On and on, his blood seeps into the black lake that’s swallowing me whole.
I don’t think he hears me. He definitely does not see me, because his beautiful eyes are now as empty as mine.
I went ahead and ruined him just like I ruined fifteen-year-old me.
It’s all because of me.
I am the fucking problem.
Nikolai finally lifts his head, and when he looks at me, for the first time since I met him, I don’t see my reflection in his eyes.
That’s what happens when he sees me. That’s what will happen when everyone else sees me.
This is why I hid. This is why I didn’t even want to come out.
I knew it was only a matter of time before every other fucked-up admission followed.
I was naive to think I had time.
But I don’t.
I never did.
“You…you saw…you saw…” My voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater as my vision blurs with moisture.
“You saw…”
And now you can’t look at me anymore.
“Bran—” His words are cut off when I snatch the piece of glass from his hand and jam it against my neck.
Everything happens in a haze, but all of a sudden.
I don’t know how I end up on the floor, drowning in my own blood and the black ink.
There’s so much ink now, choking me, pulling me to its bottomless depths. My strangled breaths come in short, chopped bursts.
Then in the middle of it, strong hands wrap around me and my head is balanced on a solid surface as moisture drips on my face.
Pressure at my neck. Blood everywhere. In my mouth. On my clothes. On his hands.
I see him through hazy red, my lids nearly closing.
“Baby, please…please…” he begs in a broken voice, and I can see the tears in his beautiful eyes.
The eyes that I turned empty.
The eyes that I destroyed.
“Please don’t go, baby, please…don’t leave me…please…stay with me…stay with me…you have to stay with me…” His lips are all over my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, my mouth.
He yells something toward the door, but I don’t hear him over the ringing in my ears.
I reach a hand for him, wanting to touch his hair one final time.
I’m sorry.
The words are on the tip of my tongue, but no sound comes out.
My hand falls as the ink swallows me whole.
It’s finally over.
37
NIKOLAI
When I was young, I realized that my perception of the world differed from that of others my age.
Violence bubbled in my veins and blinded me to reality. I saw life through red lenses and liked it. No. I fucking loved it.
I took pride in being different, in jumping through hoops many people wouldn’t dare go near. I never felt repressed by my sexuality, my preferences, or my tendencies. In fact, I wore them like a badge and flaunted them for everyone to see.
Being bi is nothing to be ashamed of, as Mom told me a long time ago.
“It makes you different from the majority, but you were always special, son. Always,” Dad said.
I’ve always felt special, too, like I could go deep and deeper, high and higher, and nothing would stop me.
This is the first time I don’t feel special.
The first time I’ve watched my life shatter around me as I stood in the remains, surrounded by bright blood.
It was everywhere—on his neck, his shirt, his hands, the floor, me.