Red Eye | Season 2 | Episode 1
Page 9
Only the blood…
“We have to go. Now.”
Urgent. Desperate.
Sad?
No, not sad. I shake my head. I scratch my arms. I grind my teeth.
No. Not sad.
Blood smells.
I didn’t know that before now. It smells so bad that I want to stuff my nose with cotton balls to stop the scent from crawling its way inside.
But I still can’t move. I can’t turn around and walk away. I can’t run from this. I can’t even leave the room, so how are we going to escape?
We can’t.
That’s it, isn’t it? This is going to be with us both forever. There is no running from this horrible, horrible thing. It binds us together. Her and me. Me and the blood.
But it’s the right thing. In my heart I know that.
I look away from the body and down at my shaking hands. Hands I don’t recognize as my own.
Whose hands are these that can do so much damage?
Who is this person that destroys without hesitation?
I don’t know who I am anymore.
Maybe that’s okay. I didn’t like who I was anyway.
“Are you all right?”
Am I all right? No, no I’m not all right.
I feel sick again. I swallow the bile that tastes like devastation and vengeance. It’s bitter. It shreds me apart.
I’m leaving the room. Feet moving past the death and the gore. Putting distance between us and the sins we have committed. But it’s useless. The running. The sin is me. I am the sin. We are constant companions. It will ruin me.
It will take over my life.
“It’s going to be okay.”
Does she believe the lie?
Maybe she wants to.
I want to.
But I don’t.
Lies fester. They annihilate. And in the end their food can’t sustain us.
The blood sticks to my shoes. It coats my skin. It’s everywhere.
But I love her.
That has to be enough.
Lies.
So many lies.
The lies are everywhere.
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THE WATER IS SWEETER
By
Victoria Cage Author Eli Constant
'The Water is Sweeter' is a standalone, dark romantic suspense with a kiss of fantasy. Its ending has been called brutal, fucked up, and cry-worthy.
**Domestic abuse trigger.**
Read on for a sneak peek…
About the book:
I should have run away from Truman a long, long time ago.
He was the classic trust fund baby. And I’d been all scholarships and secondhand clothes when we’d met.
He’d paid attention to me.
It took me too long to realize his ‘attentions’ disguised his abuse. And then it was too late. I was in too deep.
Until I met Connor.
That day, everything changed.
He gave me the will to live again, to fight again.
But there’s a force outside of our newfound love, working against my life on land.
And if I can’t fight it, then I won’t just leave Truman.
I’ll leave Connor too.
Chapter 1
The First Change
I dip lower into the bathwater, wishing to wash every bit of the awful day from my body.
So much went wrong. Everything. And none of it was within my control to prevent. I float so low in the deep tub now that only my face from the nose up is exposed to the chilly bathroom air. I sink even lower, as far as possible, allowing my bare back to hit the bottom of the cast iron, claw-foot tub. My hair floats around me, a maroon halo with a life of its own.
I just want to sleep. Stay beneath the water permanently.
I don’t want to face another day like this one… and with what happened, tomorrow is going to be so much worse. Why did I say yes? Why…
Lifting my hands out of the water, I grip the edges of the tub and force my body, which is trying to float away from the cool surface of the bathtub’s bottom, to push back downward. I don’t want to come up; I don’t want to breathe.
As my eyes close, my mind realizes that my body needs oxygen; it is begging for it, but I am too far gone within my own self to respond. So I ignore the ache in my lungs that is quickly morphing into an intense burning.
Around my head, the floating strands of hair begin to change. Until they are not hair at all, they change. Burgundy seaweed undulating in the saltiness around me. And atop the crimson seaweed is a coral crown. Where am I? My mind begins to tire, its functions slowing down because I am not breathing. If not by conscious choice, basic instinct should force me upward and out of the water, into life, but there are no instincts here, no need to breach the waves above. The waves…
Eventually, my grip weakens, my hands slide into the water, my body lifts from the smooth bottom, and I float—a dead, beautiful mermaid in the wetness that seems to be expanding larger and larger by the second until it is a great sea without horizon.
I am swimming now. Cutting through the water with ease, my arms are tucked against my sides; I speed toward some unknown draw in the distance. I give no thought to my legs, how they feel fused behind me, how they beat up and down methodically, propelling me through the water with untapped power.
The water feels wonderful, its saltiness filtering through my gills. It is a sensation that is so hard to describe—the feel of a dolphin’s wet skin, the flavor of salted potato chips, and the gritty and pleasant texture of sand.
“The water’s out of her lungs. Why isn’t she breathing?”
A frantic voice carries through the water; it is desperate and sad, but strangely, beneath that desperation is a thin thread of relief that makes no sense to me. Yet it is still nearly enough to make me turn around and abandon whatever is calling me forward. For a fleeting moment, I feel a hard, ridged surface against my back. But that doesn’t make sense. My back is sliding through the water with the rest of my body. It is facing toward the surface above. Or is the surface below me? I don’t know anymore.
“Clear!”
Paddles press against my chest, hard and unrelenting. They send a shockwave through my body; it pulses in the water around me, a different kind of current that is unnatural and jarring. And now I do not want to turn around and face such pain. I am here in this different place to escape agony and terror and grief… that much is obvious to me when everything else is confusing and peculiar.
“Clear!”
Another shock and I can no longer swim; around me, the ocean begins to dry, shrinking into a desert. The vibrant seaweed “hair” and coral crown have returned to wet and dull human hair. The tile against my back is now familiar. I hate that familiarity. I want the water back. So much.
“We’ve got a pulse!” The voice is triumphant, a sharp counterpoint to the very poignant sense of loss building inside my body.
“Leave me alone,” I mumble, my chest aching. “Just leave me alone.”
“Lena, what the hell were you thinking?” The male voice is so close to me, but I refuse to open my eyes, refuse to face the reality that I am back here, on dry land, where everything is ruined. “You promised me. You promised me that you would never try something like this. You aren’t allowed to leave me, Lena.”
And those are the words, the reason that I should never have said yes. You aren’t allowed to leave me, Lena.
Like I am a prisoner, chained to a hellish “happiness”… one that many other girls would die for. Maybe I did promise him, but that was so long ago, after I was caught with a sharp razor at my wrist, hiding in a dark closet—when I had left Truman and he’d left me and everything was shit and I’d just needed to feel. But then he had come back to me, like the end of some epic, cinematic love story, and I
’d been his again and he’d been mine. And I hadn’t wanted to hurt myself anymore.
But promises are made to be broken, especially when love begins to hurt like hell.
Chapter 2
Resurrection
I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to wake up.
Bright afternoon light is pouring into the room. The night was terrible: an endless parade of nurses and doctors—all at Truman’s expense, I am sure. After the unpleasantness of darkness, I should welcome the light with open arms. I do not welcome it, that damn illumination that seems to scream “you’re still alive, Lena!” In fact, I want to punch it with my thumb tucked beneath my fingers so it breaks as I make brutal contact.
My brain hurts, pins and needles eviscerating gray matter behind my closed eyelids. If they knew how I really felt, they wouldn’t poke and prod me, insist I get up and walk around. But they don’t know how I feel. No one does.
Truman has been by my side nonstop, breathing down my neck every minute like his entire world revolves around me. A long time ago, maybe that’s what I’d wanted—a man who put me at the center of everything. Now, all I want is to be free—free from Truman, his family, and their expectations.
Yesterday, he’d asked me to marry him. He’d gotten down on one knee, dirtying his expensive suit, and he’d said those words—those four little words that sent my entire world crashing down: Will you marry me? And then his family had appeared, crawling out from nooks and crannies like the eavesdropping, ever-present parasites that they are. All so faux-loving and touchy.
And then I hadn’t known what to do. I hadn’t wanted to embarrass Truman or myself, ruin what should be a happy moment. So I’d said yes. I’d said yes and I had instantly known it was the worst kind of falsehood. It was the kind that betrayed my own body, rather than someone else’s.
No one understands. That’s why I’d stopped trying to explain a long time ago.
Truman is strong, good-looking, and sometimes thoughtful. But he is also clingy in the way that a man possesses. He wants to know where I am at all times, who I am with, when I’ll be home. I am tired of the constant checking in. It is suffocating, like I am walking around with a plastic shopping bag over my head, my lips adhering to the recycled material and then puffing away from my mouth until it once again collapses against my face. Maybe it would be easier if the bag tightened, kept me from ever drawing another intake of air.
His family, my “friends”—they all say he does it for me, to help keep me safe, safe from myself… Me—the orphan who had once cut herself to feel and escape oblivion for a little while.
So I am the victim and the victimizer. And Truman is my white knight.
But the real truth is that I’ve never wanted to hurt myself more than when I am with Truman. In the past year, our love has become my kryptonite. He is killing me.
Killing me with kisses.
And I don’t know how to leave him. Or even if I should leave him.
He is in my head; he has taken root. His words have burrowed into me like tendrils, sucking away the marrow of my confidence. I am not strong enough, I am not skilled enough, I cannot make it on my own. Those sentences are a looped audio in my head.
“Lena? Are you awake?” Truman’s mouth is at my ear, his hot breath an acrid thing, stinking of hospital coffee and cherry tobacco. He only smokes when he is truly stressed and his façade is cracking. I secretly love the smell, because it is the smell that means Truman isn’t his perfect self, he is less-than, out-of-control, and more real. And that makes me feel sane for no longer loving him, this wonderful man that every women fawns over.
They don’t see him for what he is, though.
A controller.
A handsome, sensual, possessive controller.
“Sweetheart, wake up. I’ve brought your ring. I love you, Lena. Please wake up.”
I close my eyes tighter, hoping he will believe that I am still asleep. I have never been a good liar, but now I try harder to lie than I ever have. Despite my quiet state, I feel him slide the silver band crowned with the large diamond onto my ring finger. I have to suppress a shudder that threatens to give away that I am feigning sleep.
Eventually, Truman gives up and leaves the room. Perhaps to have another go at his pipe or to call his mistress—the one he doesn’t think I know about, the one he’s hidden so well from everyone else in his life so that he stays perfect in their eyes. She isn’t the first. I doubt she will be the last.
Yet I am the one he’s asked to marry him. Why? Because I am weak, easy to manipulate. I’ve never seen her, but I know that the other woman is strong—stronger than I will ever be. And Truman cannot control her, so he will not make her his wife. I am Mrs. Lucky.
The engagement ring feels heavy on my finger, like it carries the weight of a white picket fence, charming house, and three bonny children pulling at my skirt hem for attention.
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