Bullet Shaped Heart

011.

                                       -Liliana-

I open my eyes and lay still. There is a foreign weight on my body. My head is pounding. Its as if bullets are racing into my brain. One by one.The feeling is familiar.Too familiar.

I relapsed.

It had almost been a year.
A year of sobriety.
A year of not using alcohol as a substitute to misery. A year of not using drugs to forget my brother.

I sometimes sit and wish I wasn't this way. I wish I wasn't an addict. I wish I could drink for fun like I used to.

used to. Past tense.

Addiction is a disease. A disease I suffer from, and there is no cure.

I sometimes wish I could blame my brother. But I can't blame him. I can't blame him for dying because he was killed. I can't blame him for my addiction because he didn't force me into it. I did it all by myself.

I close my eyes and try to recall the events from yesterday. My brother is dead. There is no way that my brother is alive. He was murdered, and I will avenge him.

Hearing his name again felt like someone reached into my ribcage and tore my hear out. But i kept living. I was alive for a while with no heart. Thats why forever is the biggest lie in the world. It is the most horrible promise. He died and I lived. I continued to live. Just because his life ended didn't mean mine would.

My twin brother, Logan, was my best friend. We trained in France together. Russia was all me, but we were inseparable.

Our knife techniques are often compared. I was more than certain that no one could beat me with a knife, but when it came to Logan and I, the winner would be a surprise.

"I'll see you later, Liliana. I love you," He latched his arms around me in a hug.

"Whats with all the emotions Logan?" I chuckled, but he didn't let go. I hugged him back tightly.

And that was the last time I saw my brother.

After pulling myself from my own thoughts, my eyes scanned the room.

The room was divided into three colors: Grey, white, and black.

My eyes focus on the electric guitar hung on the wall, and a soccer ball on one of the shelves.

The black comforter reached all the way to my waist, Just above it was a foreign arm. I starred at it for a second.

Where the hell am I? How did I get here?

My brain studied the tattoos and the scars. The veins on it were prominent displaying strength and muscle. I knew the person, and the arm.I just can't remember because of my pounding head.

And then the smell of familiar overly expensive cologne invaded my nose.

I know where I am. I know who the arm belongs to.

I'm laying in bed next to Carson Kingston.

His shirt. No weapons. In his bed. His arm around me. I don't remember anything from yesterday. Nothing that leads up to me being in his bed wearing his clothes.

Oh shit.

I waste no time and jump up from bed startling him. He sits up quickly, his hands are on his nightstand clutching his gun in its holster.