The Bone Cutter

Chapter Forty-Seven

Short chapter because I wanted a little insight in Inanis's POV  throughout the chaos

drama queen 

Chapter Forty-Seven  

Inanis's POV  

My heart feels hallow, my brain is vastly cluttered, and I can't seem to remember why I decided to not jump off the third floor balcony of our winter home in Detroit when I was fourteen.

I think often of that balcony, and how amusing it would be to die specifically there, specifically in front of the neighbors, specifically right in front of their six-year-old daughter's bedroom.

I'm tired.

Mirea is sitting on the couch, drinking a cup of coffee that she's offered to me at least three times and each time I say no but actually I want it and yet my bruised depiction of my own needs, in contrast to my own wanting towards self-destruction is so blinding.

I take the cup from her.

Caffeine is my least favorite thing. It makes my heart beat so fast my mind only moves quicker. The last thing I need is to combat a racing mind and abusive hyperactivity.

"You look hideous today." I tell her, as I sit beside her on the couch and wait not very patiently for the clock to tick faster. I don't mean what I say. She looks perfectly fine. In fact, I'm so wholly attracted to her that I want to take her clothes off as well as make sure she takes mine off but I don't want her touching me either because my heart is really racing right now and it's embarrassing that I can't even control my thoughts when I could be having sex.

A fear of mine is losing concentration while consuming her. I think she knows my fear, and she refuses to go beyond kissing. Is it out of pity? Or does she find my child-like behavior just that repulsive?

I want her to want me.  I am convinced she will never be attracted to the brain that I have. Sex will never be a consideration to her, at least, not with me. Every time I kiss her, every time I take her clothes off, she never let's me go further. She sees me as a child.

I sometimes hate myself because of that. 

I take a deep breath.

"You look awful." She responds, and I know that she definitely means that.

"Stop deflecting."  I take a drink, "It's not nice."

"Hypocrite." She takes the coffee cup from me.

We never did get to go back to sleep. After visiting my mother this morning, we ended up returning home at seven, and thus, it was time for us to prepare for yet another excruciating day of preparation. 

As thrilled as I am to execute the president of the United States, I am so fucking sick of everything. I look in the mirror, and I do not see myself. I don't remember what I look like, or who I'm supposed to be. I feel completely empty in every sense of the term. There's nothing I remember about my former self. This past week has been the staple of my deterioration. I can not breathe without questioning why I don't fill the tub with the hottest water and drown in my own scalding misery.

Mirea's hand laces around my wrist before I can steal back the cup, "What's on the agenda today?" She asks me, and I think about telling her self-mutilation (if she's up for it) or perhaps simply going to bed would be nice. 

"Today we will both be getting fitted for our attire."

"Thrilling." Her sarcasm attracts me more than she will ever know.

What she doesn't know is that her hand still around my wrist makes me want to scream. I can not remember the last time I've screamed.  I want her to scream with me.