Kill Me, Kiss Me

THIRTY EIGHT

WHY, do I have to go through this again?

Theo pushed his fingers through his hair and placed his forehead heavily on his knees, the coldness of the bed sheets sapping the heat from his cheeks. He did not turn to look at the man lying beside him, lithe and strong, half twisted with the bed sheets. The reminder of his breath whispering lightly through the silent night was enough for Theo to realise again, as if the first time wasn't enough, that they were both alive.

Again.

So now, once more, he's opened his eyes to this unbearable mansion. But this time, why was it that his limbs were heavy by his side, leadened weights that he had no energy to lift? This time, why is his chest cramped and his vision monochrome and his gut writhing as if he'd left a piece of himself in the reality that was Last Time? He could not breathe properly, the air did not, like the pain that lay beside him, enter and exit his nose in a rhythm he could count.

Theo closed his eyes tightly and tried to take a deep breath. One, two, th— He could not take it when Keir refused to tell him about Murray, refused to tell him even though all Keir used to see in him was that ghost. But, when the truth, or at least, Keir's truth, came out into the light, he'd been too scared to listen. He didn't want to hear it after all. Not the pain. Not the torture he'd been forced to go through. Not the inhumane cruelty of Alexandr and Magda.

He'd rather have been ignorant of it all!

This way, there'd be no 'BUT' or 'JUSTIFICATION'. Yet now he could only think, if I'd gone through that, maybe I'd be as crazy as him. But no, that was wrong!

Theo forced himself to look at that face bathed in moonlight. Softly illuminated, the sharp bends and edges were softened into a fragile youthfulness, so easily broken, it was reminiscent of a thin silken shroud. One tear, and it'd be ripped apart. In this soul consuming sleep with the mind seemingly detached from the body, Keir lost his harshness, lost his piercing defence. Was that it? The sharpness this man exuded, was it from the armour of thistles he donned in every waking second?

It shouldn't matter, Theo reminded himself, fingers splayed across the cold dampened sheets. This man was the person who chases him and stabbed him without remorse. This man was the person who murdered the girl and raped him and coerced him and killed him time and time again. Whoever else this man was, it didn't matter.

"I want someone to accept me."

"You see me."

He did not know what he saw. He did not understand why Keir's relationship status had flown from 80% to 98%. He was too tired of analysing and thinking and anticipating and reacting to Keir. When had he thought of anything else? When had he thought of something other than appeasing Keir and being on guard and god, learning more about him?

Rubbing his face with his hands, he looked up at the ceiling, and a horrifying, soul-sucking truth ripped into his mind.

It was true, he did belong to Keir. He belonged to Keir body and mind. This man took over his life from the moment those pitiless eyes laid upon him. Had even one moment passed without Keir pressing on his mind?

He could not recall that moment. Even in dreams, even when he was exhausted and worked to the bone he was given no rest - the knife, the rape, a grotesque mix of both, perhaps they spent more time in these nightmares than they did even in the day.

Theo tore the duvet from his body, jolting at the freezing touch of the wood through the arch of his feet. Far, far, somewhere far from here. He could not be on the same bed. He could not be in the same room. They were consuming him along with their master. From the inside out, he was being devoured, and in the pang where he stepped into the marble hall, he wondered, is this the start of Stockholm Syndrome?