Why then did he feel his own body recoil in disgust and fear at him, his heart drop metres as the last of the soft fabric was drawn from his fingers? The dark haired male's stomach churned, twisting and tying itself into impossible knots, and he turned as it forced his most recent meal of wine to pour out from his lips, muddled with the taste of burnt rabbit and digestive bile. His mind lagged, cloudy with a feeling like intoxication, and his body jogged further behind. He couldn't move, he couldn't think, and all he could feel was freezing air stinging his pale skin and wind whipping at his hair almost in anger. Bubbles burst at the water's disturbingly still surface, the only sign of her invisible struggle against death. He could save her, easily, yet his legs wouldn't move and seemed to nail him to that patch of grass and dirt.
Bubbles stopped, feet warmed, and he stumbled forward only to fall onto his knees and utter a piercing shriek of fain and anger and sadness and what he imagined was the heavy weight of regret. He'd killed her—the only one who'd mattered, and the only one who'd cared. What, the, was the purpose of his life? Nothing, nada, zilch. Brynn's jeans bruised his knees as he slid onto his stomach to grab clumsily at a long, broken branch and poke at its sharp point tentatively. Thoughts flashed like frantic lights to people he thought he'd miss in whatever miserable afterlife he'd end up in, then lingered on the kitten he'd nurtured in his bloody ways for the past few days. His lips parted to whisper a goodybye to her spirit, or at least the idea that it was watching with content as he did this, and his voice croaked to utter an "I." It felt as if a stone had been shoved down his throat, or a lid closed on his voicebox, and his lips held back to keep him from even mouthing the words he needed to say. Even with her gone, he couldn't say the important things.
Things like this were exactly why he needed to do this. Standing, Brynn turned his back to the lake, emotionally unable to see it anymore, with the crystalline water devoid of the movement of the alive. His lips quirked into the echo of a grin, bearing slightly stained teeth, as the stick pierced his stomach with much resistance, jerking and stopping as he forced it through his flesh, dampening his hands with syrupy red and ruining jeans he forgot to care for. The pain was warm, tingling, and comforting in its reappearance; recent days had been odd, lacking routine, and he was thankful the last thing he would feel was something he was used to and nothing confusingly new. The stick finally pierced a particularly tough piece of his insides, and he threw up the familiar sticky red with a choking cough. He might not have been able to say it, but he completed the thought in his mind nonetheless.
I love you, kit—no, Cat. I'm sorry. I love—
ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪᴤ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ʙᴜʀᴅᴇɴ .