Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 153544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
“Or maybe you’re just not interested in admitting it out loud.” His stance turns nonchalant as he seems to enjoy himself.
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“Concerning?”
“Aren’t med students supposed to protect their hands? Yet you fight and hunt and do all types of fuckeries that could get you hurt.”
He lifts his hands and studies them under the gloomy light as if it’s the first time he’s seen them. “The world is painted in different colors, depending on the angle you see it from. Every single ideal can be turned monstrous when it’s pushed to the limits. I’m the limits. I’m the edges humans are warned to stay away from but are attracted to anyway, because it’s just so different from what they know. And because I’m permanently on the edge, I need constant stimuli to remain functioning. Fighting, hunting, and being a doctor-in-the-making are those stimuli.”
So that’s his obsession. His way of driving away the emptiness is through unconventional methods. I understand why he has to do this, though I don’t agree with it.
His view of the world is fascinating, and if I didn’t want to escape him, I could listen to him talk about it all day.
“Why medicine, then? Its codes imply that you should save people.”
“And I do, after I see inside them.” His lips curve in a cruel smirk. “Look at your face becoming all horrified. Do I scare you, baby?”
“No.” I lift my chin. “I’m a King. We aren’t born to be scared of people.”
“Hmm. I like the whole family slogan thing. Are you close with them? Your family, I mean?”
“So what if I am?”
“Do they know you were thinking about throwing yourself off that cliff?”
I startle, my whole body going rigid. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That night, you had this dead look in your eyes, like someone who was tired—not bored, just fucking exhausted.” He steps toward me and I retreat, matching his steps. “Did you think about how it’d feel at the bottom of that ocean with your head cracked against the rocks? How you’d be asphyxiated by the water for minutes on end? Death by drowning is the most difficult. You open your mouth, bubbles will float, but water is the only thing you’ll get into your lungs. You think you want to die, but the more you breathe in water and choke on it, the more you’ll regret it. So tell me, Glyndon, did you imagine that everything would be over if you just…let go?”
He’s…really a psycho, isn’t he?
There’s no way a normal person would talk so casually about such a topic, and with great detail, no less.
I slap both hands against his chest. “Stop it.”
“You’re trembling, baby. Did I hit a nerve?”
I glare up at him. “You have no right to judge me.”
“I’m not. I’m trying to get to know you better, like you did to me earlier.”
This bastard is escalating again. He didn’t like that I was asking questions, so he decided to go for the jugular to teach me a lesson.
Too bad for him, I’m not backing down.
“Couldn’t you just ask what my favorite color, band, and film are?”
“You don’t have a favorite color, since you wear all of them. Your favorite band is Nirvana since you have their songs in all your Instagram stories. Your favorite movie is Inception, per a painting you posted a year ago on your IG that was captioned, ‘Inspiration by my favorite film ever, Inception.’ You also love chocolate and cherry flavor ice cream—together—your paternal grandfather, and the shorts and tank top style. You have an inferiority complex due to your mother’s and brothers’ talent, which makes you look more and more uncomfortable in family pictures as time goes by. It probably started early on and accumulated over the years until it drove you to that cliff.”
My nails dig into his chest, wanting—no, needing—to inflict pain. “How…how the hell do you know all of that?”
“I’m good at observing and linking patterns.”
“A stalker, you mean.”
“If you prefer that label.” He wraps a hand around mine, pinning it on his chest. “You’re still shaking. Would you like me to drop the subject and let you go back to your safe cocoon like Little Miss Ostrich—”
“I didn’t want to kill myself.” I cut him off. “Yes, I’ve thought about it often, when the pain gets to be too much and I want it to just stop, but I still wouldn’t do it, because I’d regret it. I’d feel shitty for putting my family and friends through that, and maybe it wouldn’t work. What if the pain doesn’t stop, after all? What if it becomes tenfold worse?”
“You won’t feel anything postmortem.”
I snort, actually feeling light for talking to a heartless monster about it instead of someone who’d be hurt by my words. “Is that your idea of consolation?”