01-08-2025, 01:04 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-08-2025, 09:00 AM by Jay Carpenter.)
It wasn’t that he didn’t know where he was. He could feel the frozen dirt beneath him, rough and unyielding, soaking the heat from his body like a parasite. He was vaguely aware of Natalie’s cautious steps behind him, the crunch of frost under her heels, the muffled thrum of music from the party behind them. He knew all of that. And yet, none of it felt real.
What was real was the trembling that had overtaken his body. His shoulders shuddered, his arms locked stiffly around his middle, as though holding himself together might stop him from flying apart. Hot tears streaked his face, but he couldn’t lift a hand to wipe them away. His chest heaved with jagged, broken sobs that came too fast, leaving him gasping for air. It was like drowning on dry land—his lungs squeezing, his throat closing, his body shaking harder with every desperate gulp of air that didn’t seem to reach him.
Natalie was beside him now, kneeling close, her shadow folding over him. He flinched when her hands reached for his, but she didn’t stop. She peeled his fingers away from where they had clutched his head, his nails digging into his scalp like he could claw the images out. Her touch was warm, steady, but his hands twitched uncontrollably in hers, trembling like a leaf caught in a gale. He wanted to stop. Wanted to meet her eyes, to let her ground him. God, he wanted to tell her he was fine, brush this all off, smile and laugh and make her believe it.
But all he could do was cry.
He thought, absurdly, about lying face-first in the dirt, arms tucked beneath him, drinking it into his lungs until it silenced everything. A pathetic impulse, but no more pathetic than sitting there, broken in front of her, like a goddamn wreckage of a man.
Then it hit, sharp and sudden: the air rushing from his lungs like a wave crashing against a shore. His chest spasmed, and he gasped, sucking in breaths that felt too thin, too fast. He clawed at his jacket, his fingers curling into the fabric as if he could hold himself together by force. Beneath his knuckles, he felt the cold press of the chain biting into his palm. It grounded him for a split second. Then he pounded his fist against his chest, desperate for his heart to start pumping right, for the flood of blood and panic to make sense. The breaths kept coming, shallow and ragged, like he’d surfaced too quickly after being pinned at the bottom of a pool.
And then his mind went somewhere darker.
The images hit him like shrapnel, tearing through his consciousness with merciless clarity. He saw the blood first—always the blood. Bright red streaks against the floor. The torn bodies of his parents, their screams he could still hear echoing if he listened hard enough. Andres's face—the shock in his eyes when the bullet hit him, the way he’d crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. Jay's own blood pouring from his side after being stabbed. The fear of knowing he'd lost.
“I got them all killed,” he choked out between gasps. His lips felt numb from crying, his throat raw and aching. He hated it—hated the mess of himself, hated the weight of Natalie’s steady gaze on him as he fell apart in front of her. His body shook so hard he thought, fleetingly, that it might never stop.
He didn’t wait for Natalie to say anything, to deny it, to soothe him with lies he couldn’t bear to hear. “Don’t—don’t say it wasn’t my fault!” His words tumbled out like a dam bursting, a torrent he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. “I did it. I failed. If I hadn’t shot Andres… If I’d kept my head… Zakarias wouldn’t have…”
His voice cracked, a sound ripped from deep in his chest. “She was so tiny. So limp. Her arms—God, her arms—” He doubled over, his hands clutching his stomach as if the memory itself had struck him there. “I lied to them all before that. Ditched them before that. I was selfish before that. My whole life—my whole fucking life, Natalie—I shouldn’t have even been born.”
His body shook with the force of the sobs, and he hated himself for it. Hated the tears that burned his cheeks in the freezing air. Hated the sweat that soaked his skin, the sting in his chest where the cold gnawed at him. Hated the weakness that had led him here, the cowardice that made him too afraid to even end this misery.
He finally looked at her. It felt like a punishment, meeting her eyes. Her gaze held nothing but softness. His own face was a mess of sweat, tears, and cold, blotched red and pale in turn.
“How can I…” His voice broke on the words, trembling just like his body. “How can I live with this? With all of it? How, Natalie? Please—” His breath caught, his chest buckling again as another sob clawed its way out of him. “Please, tell me how.”
What was real was the trembling that had overtaken his body. His shoulders shuddered, his arms locked stiffly around his middle, as though holding himself together might stop him from flying apart. Hot tears streaked his face, but he couldn’t lift a hand to wipe them away. His chest heaved with jagged, broken sobs that came too fast, leaving him gasping for air. It was like drowning on dry land—his lungs squeezing, his throat closing, his body shaking harder with every desperate gulp of air that didn’t seem to reach him.
Natalie was beside him now, kneeling close, her shadow folding over him. He flinched when her hands reached for his, but she didn’t stop. She peeled his fingers away from where they had clutched his head, his nails digging into his scalp like he could claw the images out. Her touch was warm, steady, but his hands twitched uncontrollably in hers, trembling like a leaf caught in a gale. He wanted to stop. Wanted to meet her eyes, to let her ground him. God, he wanted to tell her he was fine, brush this all off, smile and laugh and make her believe it.
But all he could do was cry.
He thought, absurdly, about lying face-first in the dirt, arms tucked beneath him, drinking it into his lungs until it silenced everything. A pathetic impulse, but no more pathetic than sitting there, broken in front of her, like a goddamn wreckage of a man.
Then it hit, sharp and sudden: the air rushing from his lungs like a wave crashing against a shore. His chest spasmed, and he gasped, sucking in breaths that felt too thin, too fast. He clawed at his jacket, his fingers curling into the fabric as if he could hold himself together by force. Beneath his knuckles, he felt the cold press of the chain biting into his palm. It grounded him for a split second. Then he pounded his fist against his chest, desperate for his heart to start pumping right, for the flood of blood and panic to make sense. The breaths kept coming, shallow and ragged, like he’d surfaced too quickly after being pinned at the bottom of a pool.
And then his mind went somewhere darker.
The images hit him like shrapnel, tearing through his consciousness with merciless clarity. He saw the blood first—always the blood. Bright red streaks against the floor. The torn bodies of his parents, their screams he could still hear echoing if he listened hard enough. Andres's face—the shock in his eyes when the bullet hit him, the way he’d crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. Jay's own blood pouring from his side after being stabbed. The fear of knowing he'd lost.
“I got them all killed,” he choked out between gasps. His lips felt numb from crying, his throat raw and aching. He hated it—hated the mess of himself, hated the weight of Natalie’s steady gaze on him as he fell apart in front of her. His body shook so hard he thought, fleetingly, that it might never stop.
He didn’t wait for Natalie to say anything, to deny it, to soothe him with lies he couldn’t bear to hear. “Don’t—don’t say it wasn’t my fault!” His words tumbled out like a dam bursting, a torrent he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. “I did it. I failed. If I hadn’t shot Andres… If I’d kept my head… Zakarias wouldn’t have…”
His voice cracked, a sound ripped from deep in his chest. “She was so tiny. So limp. Her arms—God, her arms—” He doubled over, his hands clutching his stomach as if the memory itself had struck him there. “I lied to them all before that. Ditched them before that. I was selfish before that. My whole life—my whole fucking life, Natalie—I shouldn’t have even been born.”
His body shook with the force of the sobs, and he hated himself for it. Hated the tears that burned his cheeks in the freezing air. Hated the sweat that soaked his skin, the sting in his chest where the cold gnawed at him. Hated the weakness that had led him here, the cowardice that made him too afraid to even end this misery.
He finally looked at her. It felt like a punishment, meeting her eyes. Her gaze held nothing but softness. His own face was a mess of sweat, tears, and cold, blotched red and pale in turn.
“How can I…” His voice broke on the words, trembling just like his body. “How can I live with this? With all of it? How, Natalie? Please—” His breath caught, his chest buckling again as another sob clawed its way out of him. “Please, tell me how.”
Only darkness shows you the light.