Kill Me, Kiss Me

SEVENTEEN

HE jerked, a scream ripping from his throat.

"NO!"

The silver clang of cutlery resonated weakly through the air, piercing the expanding emptiness in his head.

"Theo!" A chair rattled back, a screeching shriek of resistance trembling underfoot as it trembled in his head, "Theo are you ok? What's wrong?"

The white tablecloth, red wine, darkening sky, wide eyes, they all blended together into a whirlpool of dizzying colour. Fragments of red hotness lingered in his abdomen and cold, how cold his veins, his heart. He was draining out all over again.

His hands clutched at his stomach, spasming uncontrollably against the crisp fabric of his shirt. There was nothing, no knife, no blood, no K—

"BLEUgh— He heaved drily onto the floor, saliva dripping down the corner of his mouth.

Out, there was no way out, and even though there was no wound, the pain still wracked his flesh. It stung through every fibre, every vessel, every fat and ligament and bone until it dwelled deep within him, settling into the fabric of his own self.

Out, and he didn't even need to command his feet. They were already running, skidding across the marble floor of the restaurant, leading away into the streets.

"Your coat! Theo!" The sharp percussion of vanity and wealth chased after him, stabbing each beat upon his heart.

He had to go.

Cold air rushed past him, kissed his face; he could still feel the slide of molten warmth down his cheek. Soon, the stamp of heels faded into the path behind him, and all around him, the collective voice and smell of people enveloped him. Foreign faces, strange faces, all eyes, all lips melted into a stamp of horror - melted flesh, deformed rivulets distorting all beauty.

And he saw, he saw Keir.

He saw Keir in the streaked sky. He saw Keir in the dark waters collected in the cracks of the pavement. He saw Keir in the wavering reflection of closed-shops' windows. He saw Keir in the faces of people who turned to look at him.

For how long he ran, he didn't know. Each second dissolved into inconsequentiality, and at times, it even felt as if he didn't exist. He was just a shadow passing through the empty happinesses of the humans on this street tonight. He became a vision without a sight of his own.

At times, he felt too visceral, too solid and unmovable to even breathe because the pain that fought through him was too much. Each taste of bitter saliva, each gasping breath, each and every thought to run and to live too alike to that instant, he couldn't differentiate whether he was still dying.

He fought, too much, too much.

When he finally stopped, because his legs were contracting uncontrollably and he could barely stand up straight, the feeling in his feet were all gone, the sky had blackened completely. People still roved around him, nameless fantastic creatures in sparkling clothes and painted masks. The lights pierced through the fierce loneliness of dark, spreading a neon cardiovascular pulse through the whole street.

He woke into this unreal surreality, and he had to fumble his way to a glossed storefront and stare at his reflection. His fingers pressed unkindly into the reflected cheekbones, too sharp, the pallid skin, too drawn and sickly, the hollows of the eyes, too dark and feverish, the tendrils of hair, too soaked and disarrayed. He looked - a ghoul, so pale and weary, he seemed almost to collapse and fade into the buzzing air, but each and every touch found purchase on this seemingly transparent person.