Always Romira

Chapter - 60

Akira
---------

"Tell me it's not true." He urges, his body language going wild.

My mind goes blank.

I don't know what to say.

And even if I did, I don't know if I can speak past the lump in my throat.

"Ray?" Romero impels me sharply when I keep my mouth shut.

His eyes ablaze, shining with anguish, I keep mine on his until it becomes uncomfortable to hold the burning intensity of them.

I turn my head away.

He swears furiously and stands up, sending the stool once again toppling back. I flinch slightly at the crash.

In my peripheral I see him pace back and forth the length of the room, his stance tense as if one touch and he would crack.

My heart hurts for him.

"No, no, no" He reiterates it on a loop, his breathing deepening.

Not able to stand his pain, I call out, "Romero,"

He ignores me, panting as if out of breath, "It can't be. No fucking way! Fuck fuck fuck!"

"Romero please, look at me," I beg despairingly, my voice shakes with the need to provide him some solace.

He keeps pacing as if he hasn't heard me, "Should have been me, son of bitch! It was supposed to be me! You almost died because of me. And I...I hurt you, God I put my hands on you! Motherfucker!" He stops abruptly, and a pained growl echoes throughout the room, bending forward he grabs his hair tightly and pulls it hard while letting out another hoarse growl.

Cold.

My body turns cold.

And my heartbeat quickens for the umpteenth time.

My God.

I gape in horror.

He remembers.

Oh God no.

How? Why?!

The damn monitor goes off again and I'm only thankful that it's able to bring him into focus.

He turns around, sending a withering glare down, he barks, "Damn it! Calm the fuck down!"

Did he just yell at me?

After I almost died?

The nerve!

Ironically it's his temper that brings down the beeping but it also sets my ire up as well, and I shoot back, "You calm the fuck down!"

A staring contest emanates between us, both breathing hard and refusing to back down, this is until I get a clear look at him, disheveled hair, bloody clothes, tired eyes, and exposed emotions, he appears utterly vulnerable and abandoned.

Anger seems the only thing he is holding onto tightly lest he falls into a depth of despair.

My inside twists and turns painfully at the sight and I feel sick.

I don't want to imagine the turmoil he must have been in these past few days, thinking he had hurt me and believing I could die. The burden must have been too heavy for him to endure alone. Taking all the onus on himself, he must have tortured himself to death.

How much did he suffer because of it?

Because of me?

And how was he able to do it?