Touch of hell

KATE

A car roared past me— at full speed, a streak of metal moving so fast it seemed to tear the air apart. I watched, paralyzed, as it stopped barely twenty feet ahead. The impact was a physical blow—a bone crushing scream of steel and a rain of shattered glass that swallowed the entire road in a cloud of debris, in the woods.

Then, the chaos went silent.

I stare at the rising wall of grey smoke, my heart stopping in my chest. And then, out of nowhere—as if he had been blinked into existence—a boy appears. He stepped out of the shadows as if he had been waiting for the world to end. He stood directly in my path, his small frame unnervingly still amidst the wreckage. He didn’t look at the fire; he looked at me.

His gaze locked onto mine with a chilling, dead-eyed stare that made the breath die in my lungs. It was an ancient, hollow look—an enigma that felt like it was pulling my soul into the dark. For a moment, the boy and I were the only two people left in the world.

But then, the silence was ripped apart.

A child’s sudden, piercing scream echoed from the twisted metal of the car. It was a sound of raw, jagged terror that shattered the spell. The scream tore my attention away from the boy’s haunting eyes, snapping me back to the horrific reality of the blood and the fire.

My eyes flew open, and for a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe.

My heart was a frantic, trapped thing, hammering a violent rhythm against my ribs as the dream began to dissolve into the suffocating shadows of my bedroom, the child’s scream still vibrating in the back of my throat.

I bolted upright in bed, my chest heaving as I fought for a breath that wouldn’t come. I was drenched in a cold, clinging sweat that made my skin itch, and the air in the room felt too thick to swallow.

For a terrifying second, I was still on that smoke-filled street. But then, the moonlight saved me.

It streamed through the window in a long, silvery column, illuminating the dust motes that danced peacefully in the light. Outside, the distant, familiar car horns and the ambient city noise of New York City—the low hum of traffic and the occasional sharp noise of the city—began to pull me back to earth. Those city noises were my anchor, a grounding reminder that I was here, in my own room, and not lost in the wreckage of my dream.

Still, the panic wouldn’t let go of my throat. My heart was a drum, beating a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My hand moved automatically, trembling as I reached for the side table. My fingers fumbled in the dark until they closed around the cool plastic of my inhaler.

I pressed it to my lips and took a long, shaky draw. I held it in, counting the seconds, forcing the medicine to settle the riot in my lungs. Slowly, the world stopped spinning. My breathing began to steady, and the silence of the room felt less like a threat and more like a relief.

I leaned my head back against the headboard, closing my eyes. I was safe. I was in New York. But as the adrenaline began to fade, the image of that man’s dead-eyed stare remained burned into my mind, a shadow that the moonlight couldn’t wash away.

I took a long, trembling breath, forcing my head to turn to the left.

There he was. Henry. My boyfriend lay fast asleep beside me, his bare chest rising and falling in a deep, easy rhythm. It was a calm I couldn’t share. Seeing him so peaceful made the chaos in my own heart feel even louder. I watched him, my gaze drifting down to the broad, corded muscles of his arms where they rested on the pillow—strong, heavy, and still. Even in sleep, he looked powerful—strong enough to hold the world together, or to crush me without trying.

He was breathtakingly beautiful. It was the kind of beauty that felt like a trap. With his light chocolate-brown hair and a face that could have been carved by an artist, 6 feet tall, he was a living dream. People often told me he looked like Henry Cavill, and they were somehow right. He had that same jawline, that same magnetic presence that made every other woman in the room ache for a single look from his green eyes.

But looking at him didn’t make me feel safe. It made me feel like I was disappearing.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my chest tight as I tried to swallow the rising tide of panic. I took a deep, slow breath, praying the air would settle the trembling in my hands. I felt like a ghost in my own bed, a secret hidden in plain sight.

Moving with the desperate care of someone walking on thin ice, I began to slip away. I rose from the bed inch by inch, my muscles aching with the effort to remain silent. I was terrified of disturbing his restful sleep. I didn’t want him to wake up; I didn’t want to explain why I couldn’t breathe beside him.

I stepped onto the cold floor, leaving the “perfect” man behind in the blankets, feeling the heavy silence of the room closing in around me.

I walked out of the bedroom, my bare feet silent against the cold floor. I moved through the dark living room until I reached the open kitchen that spilled into the living room. Reaching the counter, I gripped the edge of the shelf so hard my knuckles turned white. I leaned forward, my head hanging between my shoulders, and let out a long, shaky exhale, trying to force the ghost of that scream out of my lungs.

Then I stood straight again and slowly moved to the cabinet, my movements mechanical and numb. I took out a glass and filled it from the tap, the sound of the running water echoing too loudly in the quiet room. I drank it fast, the cold water hitting my stomach like ice. With the back of my hand, I wiped the persistent sweat from my forehead. That dream always left me drenched, as if I had been the one trapped in the heat of the wreckage.

Setting the glass down, I walked back toward the living room. My reflection caught my eye in the large mirror that stood near the long windows selling to the floor of my apartment. Outside, the entire city of New York was a sea of shimmering lights, but I looked away, avoiding the view. I didn’t want the world right now; I only wanted to see what was left of me.

I walked slowly toward the mirror until I was standing inches from my own gaze. Without a thought, driven by a hollow need to see the truth, I pulled my long shirt over my head and let it drop to the floor.

I stood naked in the dim light, my eyes tracking the pale, white lines that marked my skin. My breath hitched as I traced a trembling finger over the largest one—a jagged, angry line that stretched from my stomach all the way up to my chest.

A cold shiver ran through me as the truth settled into my bones. This wasn’t just a nightmare I could wake up from. This was my reality. This was the permanent mark of the night the world ended—the legacy of the car accident that had stolen my parents from me while I was still a medical student, dreaming of a future that died on that pavement.

I wished with every fiber of my being that the day had never happened. I sank slowly to the floor in front of the mirror, my knees hitting the cold wood. I stared at myself, haunted by the sight of my own soulless eyes—eyes that looked like they belonged to someone who had died in that car along with her parents. I was lost in the wreckage again, the smell of smoke and the sound of twisted metal playing on a loop in my mind.

“Kate.” The sound of his voice—sharp, immediate, and heavy with a strange kind of concern—sliced through the haze of my thoughts.

I turned my head slowly, as if moving through water. Henry was walking across the living room, his pajamas loose against his frame. He didn’t stop until he reached me, settling down on the floor directly behind me. He didn’t ask for permission; he simply pulled me back against him.

He leaned in, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my bare left shoulder.

“Baby,” he whispered, his voice low and vibrating against my skin. “You saw that dream again.”

He didn’t look at my face. He kept his eyes fixed on my reflection in the mirror, locking his gaze with my haunted stare in the glass. It felt like he was watching a version of me that I couldn’t escape.

I let out a slow, trembling exhale and nodded, unable to find my voice. I met his steady, piercing gaze through the mirror, feeling the weight of his stare. Without a word, he tightened his hold, his arms wrapping around me so completely it felt like he was trying to stitch me back together—or perhaps, just trying to make sure I couldn’t move.

I let my head fall back against his broad, solid chest. I needed warmth. I needed the anchor of his heartbeat to drown out the child’s scream still echoing in my mind. But even as I settled into his embrace, a part of me felt like a bird returning to a cage, finding comfort in the very bars that kept it from flying away.

“That’s the only reason I want to take you away from this place...” Henry’s voice rumbled against my back, vibrating through my spine.

I heard him, but the sound felt miles away. For weeks, a single, terrifying thought had been clawing at my mind, refusing to let go.

And Tomorrow. Tomorrow I would turn my back on the only streets that still held the ghosts of my parents. We were moving to Italy—to a “better life” that felt like a beautiful lie I forced myself to believe.

I was torn in two. One half of me was desperate to escape the tragedy of my name, but the other half was screaming and excited, ready to embrace a new chapter. But this city was my anchor; it was the last place I had seen my parents’ smiles, the last place I felt like their daughter. Leaving felt like burying them all over again.

But I had no choice. Henry was a businessman with a world that didn’t stop for grief. He was my only tether to the living, the only hand reached out to me in the dark. I was terrified that if I didn’t follow him, I would simply disappear into the silence of my own isolation.

He had been tireless in his pursuit of me, so patient and so caring that it made my chest ache with a debt I couldn’t pay. Yet, even as he held me, I felt a hollow, cold void in my soul that his love couldn’t touch. I felt like a broken vessel—no matter how much affection he poured in, I remained empty.

I hated myself for it. Everyone loses their parents eventually. It was the natural, cruel way of the world.

So why was I still so broken?

Why was I the only one who felt like a ghost walking in a graveyard?

I was drowning in my own head, spiraling into the why, when Henry’s voice cut through the air again. It was heavier now, laced with a dark, commanding weight that made my breath hitch.

“Kate, you understand?”

His voice pulled me back from the edge of the abyss. I snapped out of my thoughts, looking up at him with my heart still racing, my eyes wide and clouded with confusion. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights of my own trauma.

He didn’t look worried; instead, a small smirk played on his lips—the kind of look someone gives a child who hasn’t been listening.

“You’re lost in your head again, aren’t you?” he asked politely.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I just let out a long, shaky exhale and let my head drop back against the solid wall of his chest. I felt small, fragile, and utterly exhausted. Without a word, he gathered me up into his arms. He carried me back to the bedroom as if I weighed nothing at all, laying me down on the bed with a tenderness that should have made me feel safe.

He tucked the blanket around me, pulling it tight, then settled into the bed behind me. His strong, heavy arms draped over my stomach, pulling me flush against him. As he began to stroke my hair with a rhythmic, hypnotic slow motion, his silent message was louder than words: Stop. Don’t think. Just sleep.

I placed my hand over his, trying to anchor myself to the man who loved me, and closed my eyes.

But beneath the surface, the emptiness was screaming. It was a profound, hollow ache that I couldn’t put a name to—a terrifying sensation that a vital piece of my soul had been ripped away and left behind in the wreckage of my past.

How could I ever explain that gasping, hungry void to him?

How could I tell him that his love felt like it was sitting on top of a hole that had no bottom?

And then there was the boy. The boy from the dream.

His eyes were an enigma that haunted my waking hours. The questions were relentless, biting at my heels every time I closed my eyes. Sometimes, I felt the shadow of his chilling gaze on the face of every stranger I passed on the street. I felt him in the wind; I felt him in the dark.

How was I supposed to stop looking for a ghost?

How was I supposed to leave for Italy when I was already haunted?

“I don’t want to see that dream again,” I whispered into the dark, my voice a broken plea that barely reached my own ears.

Henry didn’t respond, but his grip tightened just a fraction, pulling me deeper into the warmth of his body.

Eventually, the sheer weight of my exhaustion won the battle. My mind finally went quiet, drifting into a heavy, dreamless sleep that felt more like a temporary escape than a rest.

The world returned to me slowly, piece by piece. I opened my eyes to the gentle, golden warmth of the morning sun spilling across the bed. For a long, confused moment, I just lay there, orienting myself to the soft hum of the city outside and the familiar shadows of the room. Then, a scent drifted in—the rich, salty aroma of frying bacon.

A genuine smile touched my lips, a rare and fragile feeling that I tried to hold onto for as long as I could. I knew exactly where Henry was. Even after my breakdown last night, he was already in the kitchen, trying to build a normal morning for us. It was his way of fixing things, of moving forward.

“You up, my girl?” His voice rang out from the kitchen, bright and cheerful, cutting through the lingering heaviness of my heart. It was a beautiful sound, but as I sat up, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of the “fresh start” waiting for us today. The breakfast smelled delicious, but the void inside me was still there, waiting in the shadows.

A shy, small smile touched my lips. It always amazed me how he knew the exact moment I opened my eyes, as if he could sense the very second my consciousness returned to the room. He was always one step ahead, always watching, even when he wasn’t in the same room.

“Yeah,” I called back, my voice still thick with the remnants of sleep.

I climbed out of bed, the floorboards cool against my feet. Instead of reaching for my own clothes, I grabbed one of his shirts from the chair. I slipped into it, the fabric smelling of his expensive cologne and warm skin. It was ridiculously oversized, the hem falling mid-thigh, making me feel even smaller than I already was.

I walked toward the kitchen, my feet silent on the floor. Henry was standing by the stove, the sunlight catching the sharp angles of his face. I stepped up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist, pressing my face into the solid muscles of his back.

My hands rested over his abs, feeling the hard, warm ridges of his stomach beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. A familiar, dizzying thought crossed my mind: How is he so incredibly hot? I leaned in closer, resting my chin against the broad expanse of his back. I felt like a child leaning against an oak tree. I even stretched my neck a little, trying to measure myself against him, realizing with a jolt how truly massive he was compared to me. Beside him, I didn’t just feel tiny—I felt fragile, like a glass doll held in hands that were strong enough to either protect me or shatter me into a thousand pieces.

He tilted his head just a fraction, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. It was a look that made my skin tingle—as if he could reach right into my mind and pull out every embarrassing thought I was having. I swallowed hard, my throat feeling tight. Suddenly self-conscious of how much I was worshiping him with my eyes, I pulled my arms back and stepped away, the sudden loss of his warmth making me shiver.

I needed a bit of distance, so I hopped onto the cool marble of the kitchen counter. I sat there with my legs swinging, the oversized fabric of his shirt bunching around my thighs. I tried to look casual, but my gaze was like a magnet, constantly snapping back to him.

Henry moved with a quiet, powerful confidence. He scooped some scrambled eggs onto a silver spoon and turned toward me. He didn’t ask if I wanted a bite; he simply stepped between my knees, forcing me to look up at him. He held the spoon to my mouth, his green eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the rest of the room blur.

“Open,” he commanded.

The word wasn’t a question. It was a low, velvet vibration that seemed to bypass my brain and go straight to my pulse. I obeyed, my lips parting instinctively.

But just as I leaned in, he pulled back. He didn’t let me have it yet. He leaned closer, his face inches from mine, and blew gently on the eggs. I could feel his warm breath on my cheeks, smelling of mint and morning. He was being so careful with me, treating me like something fragile that might break if he wasn’t perfect. It was a kind of care that felt beautiful, yet strangely heavy.

He offered the spoon again, watching my expression with a focused, hungry kind of look.

“How is it, baby?”

The eggs were light, buttery, and perfect. The simple comfort of the food, combined with the way he was looking at me—as if I were the only thing in the world that mattered—sent a wave of pure delight through me. For a second, the “void” in my soul felt a little smaller.

“Wowww,” I whispered, the word escaping me in a breath of genuine wonder. “Henry, this is amazing.”

He smiled, a look of effortless satisfaction crossing his face as he turned back to the stove. There was absolutely no doubt that he was an amazing cook; he handled the kitchen with the same calm authority he used to handle the rest of the world. But as I watched him, the warmth of the moment started to feel like a mask I couldn’t wear anymore.

I hopped off the counter, my feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. I let out a long, shaky exhale, trying to steady the sudden tremor in my hands.

“I’ll freshen up and see you in a minute,” I said, my voice sounding a little thinner than I wanted it to.

I stepped closer and pressed a quick, lingering kiss to the rough stubble of his cheek. He didn’t see the way my smile faltered as I turned away. I headed toward the bathroom, my heart beginning to thud a heavy, rhythmic warning against my ribs.

As soon as I entered the bathroom and shut the door, the silence of the small room rushed in to meet me. My eyes found the large bathroom mirror immediately. It was a strange, haunting relationship I had with my own reflection; it felt like the more I stared at myself, the emptier I became. It was as if the glass was slowly draining the soul out of my eyes, leaving behind a stranger I didn’t recognize.

I let out a sharp, jagged breath and reached for the cabinet. My fingers fumbled as I pulled out the pregnancy test. I held it under the harsh light, my vision blurring as I checked the result for the third, fourth, fifth time. I was looking for a mistake, a trick of the light, anything to change what was staring back at me.

The lines were there. Unyielding and clear. Positive. This didn’t feel like a blessing; it felt like a sentence.

In a house full of packed boxes and a life ready to move across the ocean, I was staring at a new reality that changed everything.

FUCKKKK.

I stood there, my heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs that felt like a funeral march. I stared at that tiny plastic stick, and for a moment, I couldn’t even recognize my own hands. I didn’t know what I wanted. A part of me screamed that I should be happy, but the rest of me was just… gone. It was a suffocating, paralyzing silence that I couldn’t scream my way out of.

I couldn’t tell Henry. Not yet. I didn’t have the skin for it. I knew exactly what would happen—he would be radiant. He would look at me like I had finally completed the masterpiece of his life. He would hold me with that terrifying, all-consuming love and tell me it was the best news of his life.

And that was the part that made me want to vanish.

Every time I looked at him and saw that glow of pure, unadulterated satisfaction—like he had conquered the world and brought it home to me—it kicked me in the gut. It was a physical blow, a sharp reminder of the distance between us. He was overflowing with life and desire, and I was just a hollow shell trying to remember how to feel.

The guilt was a heavy, suffocating blanket. I was a monster, wasn’t I? To be loved by a man like him— a man who was every woman’s dream, a man who gave me everything—and still feel this profound, aching nothingness?

I should feel the joy. I should feel a spark of connection to the life now growing inside my scarred body. But as I looked in the mirror, all I saw were those soulless eyes again. I was a ghost pregnant with a human, a void trying to pretend it was a home.

I leaned against the cold bathroom wall, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps. How could I tell him I was carrying his child when I wasn’t even sure I was still in here? I should feel something different, right?

After a prolonged moment, the door felt like a barrier between my life and the lie I was about to tell. I stood behind it for a long, agonizing moment, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

When I finally stepped out, the air of the hallway felt cold against my skin.

He was there. He was always there, waiting in the shadows of the doorway as if he could sense my every breath. Before I could even find my footing, Henry’s arms were around me. He didn’t just hug me; he claimed me, sweeping me into his chest with a strength that felt both like a sanctuary and a prison.

I pressed my trembling hands against the hard, warm expanse of his chest. I could feel the heat of him through his shirt, a sharp contrast to the ice in my veins. I looked up into his eyes, my breath hitching as I struggled to find my voice.

“What…?” I whispered, the word barely a sound, fractured by the secret burning in my mind.

Henry leaned down, his forehead brushing mine, his gaze so intense it felt like he was peering directly into the void I was trying to hide. A soft, slow smile spread across his face—a look of pure, terrifying devotion.

“Baby,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, husky vibration that echoed in my bones.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I mean it. I’m an empty man without you. Just a hollow shell.”

The weight of his words hit me like a physical blow. He was pouring his soul into me, but I felt like a leaking vessel, unable to hold a single drop of his love. I looked into those piercing green eyes, my own reflection staring back at me—ghostly and pale.

I forced a smile, though it felt like my face might shatter from the effort. I leaned into him, my voice trembling with a dark, playful irony that he couldn’t possibly understand.

“So...” I said softly, my eyes searched for his. “If you’re so full of me... are you in the process of making me empty?

He smirked, that dark and knowing look flickering in his eyes as he leaned down. Our faces hovered inches apart, the air between us thick and charged with a heat that made me forget, for a split second, the secret I was carrying.

But just as the world began to blur and we were about to kiss, the kettle on the stove abruptly spat steam, its high-pitched whistle shrieking through the quiet hallway.

The sound was like a physical jolt. We both pulled back, our heads turning toward the kitchen door at the same time. A soft, breathless laugh escaped me—a rare moment of genuine silliness that broke the heavy tension of the morning. Henry turned back to me, pressing his forehead against mine, his eyes softening as he closed the distance again. He kissed me then—a deep, tender kiss that tasted of safety and desperation. It lingered, a slow burn that seemed to promise he would never let me fall.

When we finally broke apart, he took my hand, his fingers locking firmly with mine, and led me into the kitchen.

The apartment felt different today. It felt hollowed out. As we sat down to eat, the clink of silverware against the plates felt too loud in the half-empty apartment. He began to talk about the logistics—the 3 PM flight, the car that would arrive soon, the fact that he had already packed every last bit of our lives into boxes.

“How could I even forget that, Henry?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper and irritated.

I looked up, letting my gaze sweep slowly over the apartment. My eyes tracked the pale squares on the walls where photos used to hang, the empty bookshelves, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. This wasn’t just a building; it was the last place I had heard my mother’s laugh and smelled my father’s coffee.

The grief hit me then, sharp and sudden. Tears gathered at the back of my eyes, hot and stinging. Before the first one could fall, I felt the heavy, solid weight of Henry’s hand as he squeezed mine. He didn’t let go; he anchored me to the present.

“Kate,” he said, his voice dropping to that serious, velvet tone that always made me feel like the center of his universe. “Thank you, baby. Thank you for doing this for us.”

He leaned across the table, his gaze locking onto mine with a fierce, burning intensity. “I promise you, after this... our life will be much happier.”

I looked at him, my heart aching with the weight of that promise. He was promising me a future, but all I could feel was the ghost of the past I was leaving behind.

Deep down, I knew the truth of his heart. His motivations were pure, as solid and unchanging as the man himself. He didn’t just want to move; he wanted to rescue me. He wanted to peel me away from these walls so I could finally breathe without the scent of old grief clogging my lungs. He wanted me to live freely, not as a prisoner to my own fear.

I looked at him across the table, and a wave of raw appreciation washed over me. He was trying to pry my fingers loose from the traumas I held so tightly, and for that, I loved him. It was the reason I had finally whispered yes. It was the reason I was willing to cross an ocean to his home, to Italy, leaving behind everything I had ever been.

I took a slow, deliberate sip of my tea, letting the warmth settle the flutter in my chest. A faint, bittersweet smile touched my lips as I watched him. Breakfast was over, and the finality of the day began to set in.

Then, the serious work began.

The house felt like a graveyard of memories as I started covering the furniture. I pulled the heavy white sheets over the sofa and the chairs, watching them disappear under the fabric like ghosts. With every item I packed, a new memory resurfaced, sharp and unbidden.

I wrapped a glass vase, and I could almost hear my mother’s voice telling me to be careful with it. I tucked away a book, and I remembered my father reading in that very corner. Each box I taped shut felt like a coffin for a piece of my soul. I was meticulously wrapping up my life, piece by piece, and with every layer of bubble wrap, I felt the tether to my past stretching thinner and thinner, until I was terrified it might finally snap.