Tʜᴇ Pᴀᴛʜ Tᴏ Hɪɢʜɢᴀᴛᴇs

Sᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ Iɴ Bᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ Us

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 43

"I've left mein guests vaiting far too long, but I promize I vill be back later Schatz, vait for me."

He said.

Then left.

You dropped onto the bed with a huff. Your body bounced a few times, your legs hung useless in the air. The sound of footsteps emptied the walls of silence around you.

You could still feel him in your arms, his shoulders shaking as he held back a deluge of tears that burned his throat, the grip of his arms as he held you close and near. The sound of his heart roaring within his chest, the shattered beating irregularly spasming inside of him. He was broken in your arms, you could still feel it now.

A sigh escaped your lips, your back curled as you slumped forward.

You looked around the room. Darkness was slowly creeping in. Invading the walls of your solitude with claws of cold intuition. You could feel it against your skin, dragging its hands over and down your legs, gripping hard to your chest as if it wanted to take something from inside of you. Your soul flickered, then slowly, you bent down and pulled up your bag, taking out the whiskey Russian Empire gave you.

You let your bag fall to the ground with a splatter. Your eyes stared straight ahead, you felt like you could hardly move. The silence was so loud you could hear it ring in your ears like an alarm warning you against your next actions. But you didn't listen, you never learned.

Something felt so strange to you. Being told that someone loved you, it felt strange. You weren't sure you wanted to hear it at all, but perhaps, that was only because he said it. Especially after he had admitted to killing you in his dreams. It seemed so perverted. It made you feel something you didn't want to feel. It made you wonder what you had done to make him feel that way. And how shitty it made you feel, knowing you didn't feel the same. Knowing you couldn't, knowing you never would.

You cracked open the bottle with a quick flick, then placed it to your lips and tossed your head back. It gushed down your throat like a river, burning your flesh as it went. You shut your eyes and pulled the bottle back, scrunching your face as you shook your head, swallowing it all with a lump.

It was much stronger than anything you had before. How was it the Empire could drink this like water? Maybe he liked how it hurt. You took another sip, it scratched down your throat in inflamed veins of burning blood. You took a breath in. Maybe he did like how it hurt. Maybe that feeling of panic when the pain hits, maybe he liked it, so much so that he liked it on others too. Like a pretty dress that gets passed down from generation to generation. He liked seeing it being shared around. So everyone felt no different than he did, perhaps.

But then again, what did you know? You didn't belong here, you were never meant to see any of this. Perhaps he liked to inflict pain, because of you. Perhaps, this is all your fault.

Maybe you deserve all this.

Maybe you deserve to suffer.

Who was to tell? If the Empire enjoyed it, and you were thrown needlessly into this place to receive his violence, then maybe, whatever cruel God lay above, had decided that you deserved to get hurt.

You drank some more.

The silence grew louder, the light filtering in through the window dimmed more.

Faith and fate had splintered. Faith of all kinds had dwindled, ever since you first came across that village. The destruction and cruelty— the needless display of death hanging above you like a trophy. The discovery of Salem buried deep in rubble half dead yet alive by some miracle, all had sunk needles into your faith in humanity— in peace and rationality, until it began to splinter and crack. Falling to dust at your knees. All you could see now, was the sad emptiness of laughter from someone else, never you, joy was slowly seeping out of your body the longer you adhered to this place.