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Empty.
Vacant.
Gone.
I’d done that.
I killed her.
The agonising wrongness of being inside another woman.
The guttering despair of another man inside her.
The godawful horror of being hard against my will.
Even now.
Hard and heartbroken and fuck!
My mind didn’t just break. It demolished.
I kneeled in the burning shower and begged the water to wash away every sin. Every failure.
I killed her.
The floppy way she’d hung in my arms when I’d first grabbed her from the floor.
The loss of her fight, her soul, her heart.
My eyes stung.
My lungs ached.
Every piece of me trembled and tangled until I wasn’t a man but a mess of vibrating molecules ready to shatter in every direction.
Glowering at the scar on my leg, I scratched at it.
I needed to finish the job.
She was dead.
I killed her.
I’d brought her here and subjected her to these horrors.
There was nothing left for me now.
Nothing.
The stinging in my eyes grew worse.
The aching in my chest crushing, crushing—
Blood pooled in my mouth as I bit my bottom lip, doing my best to trap the screams inside me.
I scratched harder.
I-I killed her.
