I couldn't sleep. I'd been laying in bed for two hours and I still couldn't close my eyes for more than a few seconds without seeing every mistake I've ever made. Again, the words echoed in my head like an incessant pounding of a hammer on wood. 'Are you proud of who you've become?'
No. I'm satisfied. Not proud. I will never be happy with the monster I've made but I can be satisfied with the bounds I've managed to make; the accomplishments I've made. Maybe a body count was a bad thing, but pretending like it didn't show some level of skill was illogical. I've conned world powers out off millions, I've travelled the world, and I'm richer than I could have ever imagined. Those are accomplishments something to be proud of? That implies I put personality and heart into my work.
I did the exact opposite.
I'm a terrorist and a serial killer. That's not something to be proud of. Still, I am satisfied with my survival. But what was the point? Was this happiness? I had no love, I had no friends, I had no family. I had a purpose, though. And maybe my purpose was a nefarious and evil one, but it was still a purpose. My life had meaning and that made me happy. The average person would think I'm crazy but when you've had nothing, even your humanity and dignity ripped away from your raw hands as you drowned at the mercy of your torturer, every breath was a joyous privilege that some people didn't deserve, including myself.
The analogue clock glowed a bright white in my pupils like a spotlight, keeping me from retreating into the darkness of my mind. Most nights being incapable of falling asleep mean you were uncomfortable. Right now I was feeling the opposite. Wrapped in Ashton's strong arms, his smooth skin giving me all of the extra heat I needed from under the blankets in the harsh winter. His calming heartbeat was like a caress against my back, his hot breath on my neck syncing with my own subconsciously. My slow pulse was putting my body at ease, allowing me to transcend my physicality and to focus on the complexly aggravating voices in my head.
I felt safe with Ashton's hand resting on my ribs, just under my breast, and the other on my hip. I wonder if he looked at his hands and saw the bloodstains I saw on mine. The only difference was I had actual scars on each hand to remind me of the moment there was no turning back. The moment I cut those trackers put of my palms, I was a fugitive of the law. Legally, I'd been a dead man walking for years. It had been a freeing sense of mysticality for so long. Now it was a death sentence; the same punishment I forced on others so bone-chillingly often.
I welcomed Ashton's blood-stained hands. They had killed so many before me, and they would most likely end me, but still, they made me feel better. Ashton would kill for me. Not for money or his own survival; he would kill for me because he understood me in a way no one else could. We weren't lovers; we weren't even friends, but we had a connection. Mutual shackles of loss that we could hear in each other from miles away.
We lost friends, family, homes, safety, jobs, live, personalities. And in that moment, as I blankly stared at the clock across the room on the dresser, I finally understood why Ashton refused to be called by his first name. That innocent and pure boy was dead. No matter how hard his life was before, his choices had killed Ashraf Naifeh. He didn't see himself as his mother's child anymore.
I didn't see myself as my mother's child anymore, either.
Ashton Naifeh and I were orphans by our own volition.
A blazing tear fell down my cheek as my chest shuttered involuntarily like a silent sob. I carefully guided Ashton's dangerous arms off of my body, sitting up in the bed slowly. My brain didn't even know why my body was crying. It was so spontaneous that I didn't know how to control it. I tried to stop my breath from escalating but the tears still filled my eyes. At all costs, I refused to let them fall.
