Emperor of Mayhem

s i x t y - f o u r

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REMINDERS OF HIM
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[Did someone say double update? Yeah, it is. It's a double update!]

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For what appeared as the hundredth time in the last two hours, the thunderous sound of the bullet hitting the target pierced through my earmuffs, causing my now damp skin to tingle, while the frequency of the adrenaline evident in my veins took a giant dive up the scale.

That was the last bullet in the cartridge so I had to retreat to reload my gun. 

I rolled my neck, barely hearing the strained muscles pop before my eyes gently closed, needing to send that signal to my heart to calm down a little before I would pass out from how loud and fast it was beating.

Cracking my gritty eyes open again, I blinked away the sweat that had coated my lashes and threatened to settle its saltiness in my eyes. I then took a deep breath and released before repositioning my legs and readjusting the gun in my hand so I could fill it up again.

Filling up the chambers with more bullets made available on the stainless tray placed on a stand just beside me, I readied myself for another attack.

I wasn't done yet, not when the anger in my chest still burned and curled and threatened to push me to the ground with the force of its venomous poison. I was going to create a thousands possible holes on a new target, pretending it was Mikhail again until all the spare bullets were gone and Riccardo comes to bundle me out of the shooting rage and I find my way back to the archery field to continue shooting arrows at the bullseye, pretending it was Mikhail again.

Why the sudden need for Mikhail's death?

Well, like a coward, he again, ran away from his problems instead of facing it head on. Like he did the last time, he had disappeared into thin air. And I hadn't seen or heard from him in days. 

That day in the shower, I never asked him any question. I mean, if he wanted to tell me, he would have done that within the multiple times I had asked before he told me to leave him alone. I believed that when he was ready, he would tell me what exactly was that huge of a crime he had committed that he thought burning his own skin with water at hundred degrees Celsius or letting shards of broken glass into his skin was punishment enough. 

I just cleaned him up, dressed his wound and massaged ointment into his reddening skin so he could sleep comfortably. I kissed him with reassurance, told him it was okay, let him know we all make mistakes and that was what made us human. I told him no matter how grave his offense, we would be okay. I told him so many things, tenderly, so he could sleep without being haunted. And I didn't sleep until I began to hear his gentle breathing that night as he slept peacefully.

But I woke up the following morning and the space next to me was empty and cold.

He was gone again.

And I hadn't seen or heard from him since then. If I wasn't miscalculating, it should be about seven days now.

 I couldn't distract myself from the fact that I was missing him to the point of death by locking myself in the library and reading an unhealthy amount of books. To be honest, these days I hardly read, and I used to be someone who couldn't go two days without a book in hand. How could I read when my collection of books had men exactly like him? When men exactly like him were the reminders of him.