Stay With Me

BOOK
DETAILS

Stay With Me by Kira
Hawke

This eBook may be
distributed freely in its entirety. This eBook may not be sold,
manipulated or reproduced in any format without the express written
permission of Kira Hawke.

This book is a work of
fiction and such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any
resemblance to actual people, places, or events is
coincidental.

Copyright 2014 by Kira
Hawke

Edited by Krystal
Roy

Cover designed by
Stephanie Kilbank

Image Shutterstock
#199414679 by Antonio Guillem

Brush Brusheezy by
nadaimages

STAY
WITH ME

A slur of sirens echoed
somewhere in the distance… and this was the first time they ran for
me. Possibly the last, too. I’d be that passing thought people
sometimes get when they catch wind of the sound; when they can
afford to spend a curious moment on what could have happened to set
them off.

It was almost
white noise for me too. Almost. I wish I could have drowned it out
like everyone else; but it held too much power over me. It meant I
was broken.

Really
broken.

It meant that
this was real. That I wasn’t about to wake up in a cold sweat,
heart pounding.

It also meant
someone was coming.

Someone was
actually coming and I was still alive and that was exactly what I’d
prayed for when he pulled me out of his trunk; so I don’t know why
I couldn’t even out my breath or stop shivering even though this
could all be over soon.

…But how
exactly would it end?

What would the
papers say about me and my murderer if the ambulance didn’t reach
me in time? …if they couldn’t drive to the hospital fast enough …if
the doctors couldn’t put me back together once I arrived...?

Would either of
us have a name in the report, or would my memory be reduced to a
trophy clipping stapled to his wall?

I wasn’t ready
to die.

Not like
this.

Would death be
anything like that empty state before we’re born? We all knew what
it was like to not exist.

I wasn’t ready
to be nothing.

I started the
morning wondering trivial things like what it meant about someone’s
sanity if they spoke to their cat and questioning if I’d ever
gather the courage to utter more than my order to the cute guy at
the coffee shop. Completely oblivious that this was likely my last
day.

I’d never been
kissed. I never even came out of the closet—not that people
couldn’t figure it out on their own. I simply hid everything away.
Including myself.

None of that
mattered anymore.

At least it
wouldn’t, soon enough.

“Hold on just a
little longer,” said a voice, calm and soothing like running a
wound under cool water. “Can you hear that? Help is on its
way.”

But he wasn’t
real. No one would’ve wandered to that sketchy area beneath the
bridge where I’d been dragged. Not this late at night. It was the
kind of place you’d expect to get mugged or to find broken bottles
and used needles.

Or a body.

Something did
scare off my attacker, though. The only reason he didn’t stick
around to witness my life snuff out was because of footsteps. His
footsteps.

“One second,”
the young man mumbled, and I was scared that he’d leave just as
fast as he arrived. The zip-tie suddenly snapped free from my
wrists and the duct tape peeled off my mouth instead. “There.
That’s better.”

“Thank you,” I
breathed—maybe whimpered. I don't know how it came out. The air
felt so cold in my throat and lungs. A chill crept through my torn
hoodie and clung to the damp fabric. Maybe I’d freeze to death
before bleeding out.

As if reading
my mind, he tugged off his jacket and draped it over me. Wasn’t he
worried I’d ruin it? But I couldn’t argue; the warmth smelled so
nice with a faint musk. It could only be described as home. Not my
home …but somewhere very pleasant. Somewhere I could curl up and
rest.

“Who did this
to you?”

I recognized
that he asked me something but couldn’t grasp the words, like when
you repeat them over and over until they turn to gibberish. It was
another language.

My life wasn’t
the only one that would change dramatically, all because one person
couldn’t deny his sick impulses. This poor stranger was about to
watch someone die—too kind to let me pass away alone. I knew this
from the way he squeezed my hand. He wasn’t going anywhere.

No. I had to
live so he didn’t have to see it. So my image wouldn’t haunt him. I
didn’t want to play a role in a story saved for psychologists.

“Hey, listen.
What’s your name?”

“Hm?”

“What’s your
name?”

“L-Logan
Woods,” I barely managed to get out. God, it hurt to talk. Speaking
required more air then I was willing to take in—as if holding
absolutely still could somehow dull the pain. But even the
shallowest of breaths ignited a searing like I’d never experienced
before.

“Okay, Logan,
it will be hard, but you have to resist…”

How many times
did that blade drive into my chest? I felt defenceless and
smothered as a child with that cruel sibling who refuses to listen
when they beg for the tickling to stop. There was no mercy. No
escape. No air.

My body
couldn’t handle all the foreign objects he’d forced on me. His
touch lingered like fresh burns, and all that was left of me were
the slow dying embers.

I always
imagined I’d burn out old and in the comfort of my bed. Preferably
with a lover by my side; during sleep so I’d never see it coming. I
wouldn’t know to be scared.

Turns out I got
a field of broken concrete surrounded by a mural of graffiti.

“Did you catch
that?”

…And this
compassionate stranger.

For a moment I
wanted to pretend that he meant something to me. That we’d met
somewhere else and memorized every detail about one another—like
how he was colour-blind and ambidextrous. How he hated coffee but
drank it anyways for the caffeine kick. How he preferred romantic
comedies over action, and how he was crap at drawing but borderline
genius when it came to numbers. …How he wouldn’t be ashamed to hold
my hand in public or place a kiss on my cheek. How he’d have a
thing for those old photo booths and saved every last print, even
if they turned out horribly. He’d write bad poetry and slip it into
my pocket when I wasn’t looking and we’d stay on the phone all
night until we both fell asleep. I craved to burry myself in the
crook of his neck and take in that tranquil scent straight from its
host.

This was
foolish. And more than a little desperate. Pathetic even.

He didn’t have
a name and I never got a good look at him.

But I could
just tell he was attractive.

Everything
about him was.

I willed the
energy to open my eyes and focus on him until the image stopped
swimming.

…I was
right.

He was
gorgeous.

“Good! You’re
doing good. Logan, listen, this is really important. You have to
stay awake, all right?”

He made it
sound easy. The lure of sleep was as strong as that extra nine
minutes after the morning alarm goes off.

I nearly
drifted off then and quickly nodded so he wouldn’t catch it.

I had to stay
focused.

I had to stay
awake.

“You are doing
great, Logan. Don’t give up,” he repeated while fixing my bangs,
somehow able to tell I needed the encouragement.

I still slipped
in-and-out in spite of it; and the difference between past and
present became foggier and foggier. How long had it been since I
was taken? What time was it anyways?

The apartment
had been unlocked when I returned. It was stupid to wave that
detail off and assume I’d been forgetful, though I truly believed a
robbery was the worst thing that could have happened.

Yet my
instincts told me something was wrong. And it was. A light was on
in my room, the desk slightly rearranged, some dresser drawers
open. It wasn’t much; but I distinctly remembered keeping things in
order before heading out.

Still, I
doubted myself.

Like many
children, I used to be scared of a monster that lived in my closet.
It would keep me up all night without doing a single thing. It
never showed itself –never made a sound– yet I still firmly
believed in it and all its malice.

But then I
started to believe that if monsters did exist… why would one live
in my room of all places? Why my closet? Why would it care about me
at all? There were so many people in the world and I was just one
small kid among millions. Just one small existence. No one would
notice me.

I simply wasn’t
that special.

And so I got
over that fear.

That got me
over fear in general.

They say fear
is what keeps you alive …so maybe that’s why I was dying.

Needless to
say, I fell for his diversion. The last thing I remembered was the
feeling of arms snatching me from behind and a rush of something
sweet and chemical filling my nose and mouth.

I should’ve
held my breath the second I felt him and the cloth; but I panicked,
and that sealed my fate. It all happened so fast.

As I came-to,
my wrists were being sealed tightly together –to what felt like
down to the bone– and the trunk slammed shut, echoing in the empty
parking garage. Once the engine started, it occurred to me that I
wasn’t going to make it out of this alive.

Things only got
worse from there.

I never would
have predicted I’d lose my virginity to my next door neighbour,
Clarke Harris. There wasn’t an ounce of attraction towards him; not
that he was particularly hard on the eyes –he was handsome in a
way– just… the man was old enough to be my father. I couldn’t think
about him like that. He had salt-and-peppered hair, wore a tie on
casual days, and always carried the scent of cigarette smoke with
him. Sophisticated. Maybe a little tired around the eyes and
neglected a shave, but he had a genuine smile. Charming, even.
Everyone took Harris as a friendly, respectable guy …and I suppose
that’s what helped him blend in so well. Allowed him to observe up
close without suspicion.

Who knew that
the gentleman who greeted me every morning in the elevator and
delivered mixed mail harboured such violent fetishes surrounding
his young –and painfully shy– neighbour?

I wouldn’t have
pinned Harris as the type to take what he pleased and destroy it
before allowing anyone else a chance.

He’d offered me
a ride home one rainy night. It was safe to guess that wasn’t any
coincidence now. If I hadn’t been heading in the opposite
direction, I might have taken it.

And I might not
have made it to today.

Should I have
been grateful to have lived on borrowed time?

If I survived
this, I promised to never take up smoking. Ever. I was curious how
it tasted before –what it was like to hold in your lungs– but not
anymore. Not even a little.

“They’re almost
here.”

I groaned as my
aide brought me back with a gentle shake. I was so close to being
free from it all; away from the crippling pain. It was nicer there.
I wasn’t scared of dying anymore. Death was just our body’s way of
providing mercy when the damage became too much to bear. It was
kind. I didn’t have to suffer. There were options.

“Stay strong,
beautiful. I need you to make it through this so I can get your
number, okay?”

I choked out a
weak laugh. …Was he actually flirting with me? I must have lost
more blood then I thought. He couldn’t possibly like me—that would
be too perfect. My luck wouldn’t allow it.

But now that
the tears had started, they wouldn’t stop.

Nope. I was
scared.

I didn’t want
to be alone. I didn’t want to be alone for this and I wasn’t –and
that made me happy– but now I had someone to stay for. I wanted to
stay with him so badly; but that was beyond anyone’s control now.
Harris already made that choice.

“That was
supposed to make you smile, not cry,” he laughed, voice slightly
hitched. This was probably that point when he realized I wasn’t
quite strong enough.

He didn’t mean
a word of it, anyways. He was just saying what I wanted to hear
before letting go. A parting gift.

And that made
me love him.

There was no
such thing as love at first sight. That only happened in books and
movies. Life didn’t work like that. I didn’t know him. He didn’t
know me. We were strangers and we could never become a thing.

Not
anymore.

I guess dying
has a way of turning you into a believer. I had to let go of so
many things that I’d never get to do.

I’d never ride
a horse.