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“AHHHHH!”
There’s a wailing in my ears and a cacophony in my head. I cower on the floor as blood drips from my hand. There’s a smell of something burning, something intense - I can’t think. My breaths are ripped from me and shoved back into my chest, fast, hard. Everything is spinning. I can’t do anything against the tide.
I hear the sound of an opening door, and in my vertigo I look up. I recognize the face, but not the outfit, not immediately, and I immediately cry out and crawl back, sobbing and covering myself and whimpering “Not again-”
“Oh, gods.”
I hear hurried footsteps and fall onto my side, cowering. But nothing touches me, not yet. I hear the strange sound of a burner clicking off, and then the sounds of clattering and water. The wailing in the room suddenly stops. Then, the voices in my head.
Everything suddenly goes silent.
“Sweetheart-”
I cry out as hands touch me, and I recoil. But they’re insistent, turning me over and forcing my eyes open. I stare up into the face of a nightmare - a dream - a reality - and that’s when it sinks in who it really is.
Vox.
I lurch up and wrap my arms around his neck as I start crying anew. His arms are around me within seconds, a tight, warm hold as our bodies fit together like the puzzle pieces they are. I sob into his shoulder and hold him so tight I can hear him complain, but I don’t care. It’s him. Not the officer, not the doctor, not the angel or the pilot. Him. My boyfriend.
“Sweetheart, look at me,” he tries to pull back, but I only cling to him tighter. Still, he grabs my arms and unwraps them from his neck, and then he holds my wrists. I see his eyes go wide, and his pale face go even whiter. “God dammit…”
I look down at my hands, too, and realize they’re both covered in blood. My stomach drops; there’s a clean slice down my lefthand palm, curling over my index finger and down to the opposite side of my wrist. I’m lightheaded; I almost want to vomit, but before I have the chance, Vox is pulling me up in his arms and getting us both to stand.
“Darling, what happened? There’s . . . oh, lords . . .” he pulls me over to the island and lifts me up so I can sit on the edge. I hold my bloodied hand with my other hand, though I realize it just spreads sticky blood onto my skin even more. I watch him grab a clean, red cloth from below the sink and then wet it, and then he approaches me and starts daubing at my face. I’m unsure why, until I realize that I’d likely been grabbing at it with my bloody hands. I was likely a sight.
Tears well in my eyes, and I sob. “I-I’m so sorry, mi- Vox. I didn’t mean-”
“No apologies,” he says. “You look like a mess. What happened?”
“I . . .” I try to think back. “I was . . . trying to cook for you. I was chopping vegetables, and . . .” I lower my face. “The voices came back.”
He slows in wiping off my face, before lifting it to his. His eyes look so sad. “Are they still . . .?”
“No,” I shake my head. “They went away as fast as they came. I . . . I don’t know. Just a cacophony of them. All of the same absurd voices from before.”
He leans in and presses a soft, quick kiss to my lips. “I’m so, so sorry,” he looks down at my hands, and starts cleaning the one that isn’t injured. “Is there any chance you could find a doctor, or . . .?”
“. . . I’m a little scared to,” I whisper. “What if that doctor found me?”
“That is a fair point,” he sighs. “Though I could always go with you, just in case. The boyfriend tactic has been working so far - we don’t even have to fake it,” He looks at my injured hand, and starts gently cleaning the blood around the wound. As I wince and squirm, I hear him murmur something I can’t catch. Something about . . .
“Who’s . . . Shoto?”
His eyes flick up to mine, the honey-coloured irises that almost seemed to glow pink. His cheeks seem to warm. “I didn’t realize you could hear that. He’s a friend of mine. I’m beginning to think we need his help.”
“What does he do?”
He breathes out a laugh and goes back to cleaning up my palm. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me,” I breathe.
His eyes flick back to mine, then back to my palm. “You’ll need stitches, but I have a first aid kit and training, so I’ll just do them here. No ER visits today, okay?” he leans up and kisses my cheek, then parts from me. “Don’t move. If the voices come back, call for me.”
He walks away to get the first aid kit from the bathroom. I stare after him as he leaves. In moments like these, I begin . . . questioning. Why did he - or more over - why did those others look like him? He seems so . . . genuine, in comparison. He feels so real, where the others felt . . . wrong. I don’t know what to make of it. And then the dream. All of those faces torturing me, and so close - so out of reach - the demon. The demon that, too, wore his face. And that wasn’t the only time I’d dreamt of the demon either. The dream was fuzzy, but I remembered . . . cold, frozen fingers, a warm haori, a voice that made my ears ring.
My ears were really beginning to ring, just thinking of it. Too many mysteries to unweave; too much confusion. And now, in moments like these, Vox seems to . . . withdraw within himself. We’ve been dating for months, yet there are still things I know he has yet to tell me. Things about his friends, his job, his aspirations. I know he’s a streamer online, and I’ve seen his office more than once (and fooled around in there just as often), but so much of it, he keeps a secret from me. Separating work and life.
I’ve never thought to question these things, or at least to question them rarely. Do they really matter in the larger scheme of things? He makes me feel safe, and I know he loves me like I love him. I’m still staring where he vanished into the bathroom when he emerges, and when he does, he pauses, staring back at me.
“. . . sorry,” he walks back into the kitchen and in front of me, setting the first aid kit to one side. “It was hidden a little bit.” He picks up my palm again to look it over, then goes back to the first aid to start pulling out supplies: a needle, a lighter, some sinew. “I know it’ll likely sting, but I’ve full confidence you can handle it. Just let me know if you need me to stop or slow down.”
“I just want this over with,” I tell him. “Go at your own pace, okay?”
He smiles, and leans forward to kiss my forehead. “That’s my good pet,” he breathes, and I feel a zap of lightning up my spine. I sit up stock-straight, face burning, and allow him to take my hand. I look away as he starts to stitch up my palm; I don’t particularly feel like looking as he does it.
“. . . we keep a lot of secrets from each other, don’t we?” I ask him. His stitching slows, but doesn’t stop.
“. . . we do,” he admits. “I’m sorry; it’s . . . necessary, for now. I want to tell you everything, but-” he pauses. “. . . I’m not certain if it’s safe.”
“If what’s safe?”
“I’m worried that if I told you the full truth,” He admits, “That you’d relapse. Or worse. I will tell you, I swear, but I need you to trust me. There are things I have to take care of first before I explain.”
“. . . okay,” I nod. “I trust you, okay? Just . . .don’t keep me waiting for too long.”
“I won’t.”
I hear the sound of clippers as he finishes off the last stitch. “Just one more thing,” he says, and I feel him wrapping bandages around my hand before finishing up and lifting my hand. “All better,” he says before kissing my knuckles. I flush; I look back to him, and he’s peering at me with those same molten gold eyes that made me quiver. I can’t help it. I lean in and kiss him, and he kisses me back with just as much passion. Still, he parts before I want him to, and he starts brushing his fingers through my hair. “Let’s just call in pizza for dinner, okay? I’ll clean up the burned pan later.”
“I burned a pan?” I can feel myself turn red, and I bury my face into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-”
“It wasn’t your fault,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around me. “None of this is your fault. You’re dealing with things that few others do. And I firmly believe that we can fix them. Do you understand?”
“Okay,” I whisper. I lean up to kiss him again, a kiss he softly returns. When we part, I ask in a whisper, “Can we just . . . cuddle on the couch until pizza gets here?”
He chuckles. “You’ll have to let me call for it, but of course, darling, we can curl up for a bit. Maybe afterwards, you and I can have a try at that PS5, alright?”
“Assuming I can play with one hand,” I look down at my injured hand. He shakes his head.
“I truly think that won’t be a problem, dearheart. Now, let me call for pizza, and we’ll cuddle up until it gets here. Does that sound like a plan?”
“Of course.”
***
That’s exactly what we do: for the thirty minutes it takes for the pizza to arrive, we curl up on the couch, talking about the future and our plans. And then, after we eat, I’m stunned to find that using my left hand on the controller isn’t as painful as I would’ve thought. I have odd suspicions; in the middle of the night, when Vox is fast asleep, I creep my way to the bathroom and undo the bandages, both surprised and yet certain in what I see.
Left behind of the wound is a clean scar, with only the vague marks of stitches.
All he’d really had to do, I think, was ‘kiss it better’.