Memento Amare by G. D. Cox

Author:G. D. Cox [Cox, G. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: angst, LGBT, Gay, hea, spies, secret agent, Romance, Bisexual, Mm, Epic
Publisher: G. D. Cox
Published: 2017-08-14T07:00:00+00:00

XXIX.

COLE DOESN'T SLEEP.

It's why he knows precisely when Clyde sends the email to him, why he hears the custom-assigned beeping noise from his comm pad notifying him of it arriving in his inbox. He sits there on the bed with his back against the headboard in the semi-darkness, lit only by the nightstand table lamp. He turns his head and stares at the comm pad on the nightstand with blank eyes.

It takes him about nine minutes to dredge up the courage to pluck up the comm pad and check its screen. His throat constricts to a pinhole when he sees that the notification really is for an email sent from Clyde's GATF email address.

It takes him about three minutes to dredge up the courage to open it and read it.

And it takes an immeasurable time for the short message to register on his mind, for each word to be read and digested by his bewildered brain:

I can't be the man you wish I was. I can't be the man I used to be. I don't know how to live this life that isn't mine with you and it isn't fair to you and me for me to keep pretending I do.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

The comm pad suddenly feels as heavy as his body had been when that kukri irrupted through his chest and out his lower back. He feels as if half of him has gone missing for good, hacked away by that same kukri in swinging chops and all that's left behind are ragged edges that bleed and bleed and won't stop. His suddenly tremoring, weak arms sink down onto the unmade bed. The comm pad jostles out of his hands and bounces onto the rumpled covers.

He ... he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand what the words mean. He doesn't understand what Clyde's saying to him, what did Clyde mean, what, why, why did Clyde send this?

He stares at the opened email on the comm pad's screen. The screen's glare is incinerating his eyes. The black words on white are blurring into indistinct, fuzzy dots. Droplets of something molten and wet are materializing on the screen and he doesn't know what they are or where they're coming from.

There's someone in the room making a loud, harrowing noise, almost animal-like, laden with grief that he can't begin to fathom. It's a horrible, funereal noise, a noise wrung from a flayed wound whose torment has no blessed end in sight. He thinks this someone sounds very much like him, and he sways, he sees his trembling hands scratch feebly at the covers like the last scrapings of a man in a mass grave, scratch and scratch over where the mapped valleys of Clyde's body once were in their ... in his bed and there's only so much blood in him, really only so much, before he runs dry and dead.

He feels himself rocking in place in uncomprehending torpor. He feels something molten and so very wet in rivulets upon his face and he's .

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