Now that the trial has been put to rest, Rueben believes that life is on an upward trend. It's not long before he understands he is sadly mistaken.
Around every corner lies a new demon lurking with the desire to rip the rug out from under him. He m...
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𝗧he bathroom was no longer white.
The shower was still running next to him, and steam from the hot water was clouding the room, but he wasn't paying attention to it. The white tiles were running rampant with the blood draining from her body; it was slipping into the grout and paving the path to her unresponsive future. The towels on the wall were now dotted with blood spatter from the two times he pushed the knife into her skin, only to withdraw.
She was on the ground now. Red was pouring from her lips – sticky and hot. She was facing up, her delicate, fragile hands, desperately trying to keep the blood from escaping her body. After all, she has so much to live for. Her sons. Her husband.
But she married the wrong man. Gave birth to the wrong kid.
And now here she was – dying at his hand.
Enzo fell to the floor on his knees. It was like the cloud of vision that was over him burst and now he was seeing what he was doing clearly. He raised his hands to his head, pressing them to his temple as they shook with fear, with hurt, with anger.
I don't hurt women.
I don't hurt women.
I don't hurt women.
Elle gagged and coughed up more blood; she turned her face to the side, not wanting to choke on the solvent. And he sat there, watching – wanting her to die, and wanting her to live at the same time. He wanted her to survive this on her own. To fight back. To bring his own life to an end.
But she did neither, nor he couldn't let her walk away from this. It was either her or it was him and Matteo, and everyone knew which path he would choose. Whether or not they knew of their close bonding lately, Matteo was his and letting go of any control would ultimately destroy him. He knew that. They knew that. So now, here he was.
Enzo let out a couple more ragged gasps – his lungs were failing him and he was finding it hard to do anything but sit there and shake. Her blood was running off his fingers and onto his forehead; now cold with the lack of body to keep it cradled.
He gripped the blade tighter in his hand before he used his free one to grab her thigh and pull her closer to him. The desperation – the terrified look in her eyes, pleading – begging him not to continue drove what felt like her version of knife, right through his icy heart.
But he couldn't stop.
"I'm sorry," he cried out, feeling more than just blood trickle down his face, "I'm so sorry."
"D – don't," she gurgled through the blood in her throat.
"I have to," he whispered, raising the blade; he grabbed it with both hands, "I have to do it ... it's not my choice. I have to do this."
