𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XLIV

Henrys pov

I never had much hope.

Being the son of a killer, a grandson of a murderer, and a great-grandson of an executioner, it had never even been in my vocabulary. Their legacy is mine, their blood in my veins, their voices in my head. No, I never had much of a chance to be anything but a consequence of their actions, a mirror of their teachings.

My father taught me to shoot a gun, to skin an animal, to build and defuse bombs using my bare hands. He taught me to listen rather than talk, to use money as a weapon not many people could wield, to use my name to bend people to my will. What he never taught me, however, was to stay away from pretty girls with green eyes and dirty mouths. But it's too late now, and I'm in the backseat of a taxi rubbing the back of my knuckles against my chest. There's a burning sensation when I inhale and I wish so badly that I could reach inside myself and rip my heart out with my own two hands, but I can't.

I can't even do that, because my heart was stolen long before I ever even realized I had one.

It's hard to believe that this girl who wouldn't look at me twice months ago now had it in her hands. Hard to believe that I wouldn't ask for it back, even when she could pull the strings to any melody she liked. Hard to believe that I'd never ask her for anything in return other than to take my last name.

And as I looked up at the stars she would always wish upon, I found myself wishing for something, too. Wishing that I'd leave this world before she did. Wishing I died against her hips, her lips. Wishing I died with her fingers trailing my neck, that I'd catch fire from her touch and turn to ash. But most of all, I wished that she was safe. Maybe then I wouldn't be feeling this–this thing in my chest. Maybe then I could hear Xander over the thump, thump, thump it kept making.

He shakes my arm, and only then do I realize how long I've been drowning in my own head. Only then do I come up for air and realize the bags under his eyes, the hard lines on his face–a cloud over his head formed by words I regret saying, but can't seem to form an apology too. It's moments like these that make me realize, with utter disdain, that I am my fathers son. "We're here," he rasps, and I realize my time to aid this ripple I've caused has run out, that it's already been planted and taken root in his head, forming seeds of doubt between us.

It makes me sad, because I've never had a friend. I don't even know if what Xander and I have could be considered friendship, or if I'm just overthinking it. But I worry I've just lost my first and only companion. So I don't say anything, afraid to make it worse, hoping my silence speaks for me when we take in the scenery.

If hell is real, this was it. Not because of the flames, or the piercing black sky. Not because of the people in gowns, ghostly pale as they run away. No, that didn't make it hell. What did, though, was the fact that Jane–my Jane–was in there. I could feel it, somehow. Like a single thread between us, tugging, urging me to go forward.

You could barely make out the name of the place with all the fire engulfing it, could barely make out the color of the sky with all the smoke, could barely stand too close to the place with all the heat. But I could barely care as I walked right in, signing over my own death certificate with shaking hands for the chance I might see her.

"What are you doing?" Xander asks, stopping me. He looks frantic as he holds my shoulders. "You-you can't do that. You can't just run in there, man–"

"Call for ambulances," I tell him. "Two."

"Why two?" He asks, but he already knows. I don't answer him and Xander just...breaks. He says no, he repeats the word over and over again. He tells me that it isn't smart. That if I could just wait, we could come up with something. That he doesn't want to lose us both. "I-I can't do it, Henry," he says, his voice breaking. "I can't bury a friend." The words seem to stop me, for a second. Like a shift in the air, like the roots of a tree taking hold on the ground. He is my friend, I realize. We're friends. I have a friend—and I was going to have to leave him