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.My hand rubbed over my heart, trying to steady it’s pounding, and the sweat on my forehead dripped down, over my nose onto the sheets pooled around me.Blaze still slept soundly, unbothered by my abrupt awakening.His pillow was clutched lengthways under his head and bundled up in his arms, the sheets bunched up around his waist.He was almost in the foetal position, which I thought was quite cute.Carefully, I slipped out of bed and crept into the bathroom to splash the last traces of the nightmare away with cold water.Those eyes—cold, dead eyes—seemed to follow me wherever I went.I was going to have to find a new psychiatrist to talk through it with me.When my senses were gathered, I sneaked back into the bedroom and moved to climb back into bed.Blaze mumbled and squirmed when I pulled up the sheets.Pausing until I knew he was still asleep, I inched closer and got one leg in before he rolled over to face me.As he stretched an arm out towards me, the hem of his shirt slid up to his ribs.And exposed the unmistakable battle scars of a man who’d cut himself for comfort.The next morning dawned in a haze.I’d gotten back into bed but hadn’t been able to sleep through the images of Blaze hurting himself burdening my thoughts.It explained why he’d not let me see him undressed, but it didn’t explain why he’d done it.Was he trying to be symbolic, marking himself to invite more hope? Was it comfort or more? I’d sat up several times and tried to look at his wrists in the semi-dark to see if he’d done any damage there but given up around five in the morning and gotten out of bed.How long did he think he could get away with me not seeing them? If he’d done it in depression, he might not have even considered that.Was he planning to wait and see if they’d fade? They wouldn’t if he’d done it properly.Ugh, ‘properly’.It pissed me off to think like that.I found myself looking at tattoos on the Internet, remembering Calloway’s suggestion to cover my own scars.I’d been dead against the idea, but if I’d done it before, Blaze never would have seen them.His own new blemishes were in the same place as mine—in the place I’d told him couldn’t be seen.It was my own fault for not pointing out that I’d believed there to be a purpose, that I thought I could cut out slabs of my own fat.The memories of burning needles over candles and soaking them in vodka so they’d be ‘sterile’ just in case I could actually do it and stitch up the wound was too painfully clear; I hadn’t targeted that specific area to be deceptive, it had just been.problematic.I really didn’t know how to broach the subject.It broke my heart that he’d been at the point of self-harm, and he’d been there because of me.It made me wonder if I should use my ticket to fly back to New York that afternoon after all, getting far, far away from him.But I couldn’t.I loved him too much, scars and all.Still, I didn’t know how long I could play dumb.I felt myself lifted off the couch and tucked up in bed when it was light outside, but my head throbbed too much to open my eyes.I knew it had to be late in the morning and I needed to work, but I just felt too heavy and raw.Prewarmed by Blaze’s body heat, the bed felt safe and womb-like.Almost like a protective cocoon.But it really was just a bed, and sitting on it with me was a man who was none the wiser that I knew his secret.“I worried when you weren’t there when I woke up, cupcake.I thought you’d gone.”We’ll get nowhere if you keep thinking I’ll just disappear on a whim.I was aware that I’d only said the words in my mind, unable to say them out loud.“I’m going to unpack your bag so you can’t make a quick getaway.”Apparently satisfied by the grunt I managed, Blaze’s weight left the bed and was replaced by my surprisingly heavy holdall by my feet.I dozed through the sounds of him opening drawers and cupboards to rehome the clothes and cosmetics I’d brought from New York.I was going to need to go on yet another shopping trip and arrange for a locksmith to go to the apartment, as well as find a way to get everything I’d left there couriered to me.“Emmeline, what are these?”“What are what?” I forced an eye open at the sound of rattling.Blaze stood over me with my anti-psychotic medication in his hand, looking reluctantly furious.But because I was still half asleep, I closed my eye again and simply said, “Tablets.”“No shit.Is this what you told AJ you were on?” Oh, terrific, he’d had a chat with the Monday’s Miracle medic, too.Surely telling my ex that I was on brain-chemistry altering drugs was contravening some kind of doctor-patient confidentiality rule.“Jesus Christ, Emmeline.”The sound of the toilet flushing a few moments later jolted me wide awake.“What the hell have you just done?”He stomped back into the bedroom and tossed me an empty bottle.“Potentially saving your fucking life.Those tablets were taken off shelves ten years ago.”“Oh, sure,” I scoffed, “why?”“Dystonia, tachycardia, metabolic disorders and night terrors.”“In English, genius?”He cursed softly and plonked down next to me.“Every single person who took them got fat, starting twitching, had lucid nightmares and began getting ridiculous palpitations at the first sign of stress.Great news for the shrinks who prescribed them, not so much for the fifteen people who died after heart attacks.”“Wha—.Oh [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]