X. The Girl Who Worshiped Pain

She wore her bruises like medals. Deep blues, fading purples, the occasional yellow discoloration spreading beneath her skin. Some she earned. Some she invited. All of them, she adored.

She sought pain the way others sought love. She chased it, flirted with it, embraced it. The sting of a slap, the bite of a belt, the moment just before the strike when she could feel herself come alive.

Her skin told her story better than words ever could. Ribs that had healed wrong, old scars that glimmered faintly beneath the light. Her father had taught her the language of pain. The men she fell for after him knew how to speak it fluently.

Her latest obsession was a man who lived at the edge of town. Much older, and cruel in all the ways she liked. He knew how to hurt her just enough to keep her coming back. Until one night, she pushed him too hard and he stopped. He told her she was sick, and that he didn't want her anymore. Said he wanted something real. She begged him to stay, begged him to make her bleed. To make her scream. He left instead.

Something in me stirred as I watched her on the floor of his apartment, half-dressed, mascara streaked down her cheeks, her violet eyes bloodshot and glassy. The streetlight outside cut through the blinds, painting lines across her bruises. She was rocking gently, whispering a broken prayer to the empty room.

"Please…please…I need it…the pain…"

I stood in the doorway for a long while, watching her unravel. It fascinated me, the way desperation could make someone so beautiful. The air between us vibrated with the energy of the A’hura. She was drawing it in without knowing, pulling its current toward her like a wounded animal desperate for warmth. I could taste it in the back of my throat, tempting and intoxicating, and it pulled me toward her before I could stop myself.

When I removed the veil from her mind and revealed myself to her, she didn’t startle. It was as if she’d been waiting for me all along.

“Who are you?” she whispered, her eyes wide but unafraid.

“Someone who understands you,” I said.

She crawled toward me, her knees dragging against the floor. “Then hurt me,” she begged. “Please. I need it. I need you to do it. I…I c-can't—” She broke into sobs.

Her words struck something primal in me. I could feel the pulse of it in my hands, the urge to take her face in my palms, to let my control become her ruin. I imagined what it would be like to give her what she wanted, to drive her into that perfect, silent agony where pain becomes ecstasy. I could have made her feel something so exquisite, so absolute, that she would spend the rest of her life chasing the memory of it.

But then I looked into her eyes and saw there was nothing left to take. No resistance. No power. She had surrendered all of it long ago. Hurting her would be meaningless. There was no pleasure in breaking something already broken.

I drew a slow breath and stepped back. Her eyes widened in disbelief as I denied her the only thing she craved. "Why?"

“You’ve mistaken pain for life,” I told her softly. “And I won’t give you either.”

That single refusal shattered her. She let out a strangled cry as her body shook with despair. And watching her collapse because I denied her…that was enough to satisfy my hunger.

I turned and left her there, sobbing, whispering for someone to come and save her. I didn’t look back.

The Sha’harai have been pressing for an update for weeks. I'll admit, I’d stayed here with this one too long. It's time to move on to the next.

The search continues.

M.

Up Next: The Girl Who Slept With the Dead