Siren's Call ✔

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Everybody dies, but not everybody lives.
- Drake

I WAKE UP on the other side of the universe, in which Salvatore Gambino is cold and bipolar as hell.

I notice a box to my right on a night stand a note taped to it.

We are getting married tomorrow. Put this on and do not take it off.


Pursing my lips in annoyance, opening the box, nearly blinding myself.

What'd he do? Put Mount Everest on a ring and give it to me?

This thing just screams 'rob me.'

Nevertheless, I put it on. The emphasis on never taking it off tells me something bad is up.

Even so, with a logically sound explanation, and a danger sign practically in neon, my metaphorical feet start shifting.

I'm a runner.

It is what I have always been. I am by no means a coward, but I'm not foolish either.

I'd rather run from something I can't win, than sentence myself to death by pride.

I come from a long line of runners;
My mother ran straight into the ocean and into death's arms.

My father...
Well, he ran.

He ran from sanity and responsibility and turned into a monster.

Then, he actually ran.

I scoff externally, unable to help myself. God, I come from an effed up family.

The scent of temptation breaks my train of thought.


He says nothing to me, instead picking out an outfit, and getting a towel.

"Do I have amnesia?"

Emotionlessly, he shrugs, not looking into my eyes at all.

"I am not a doctor. Why are you asking me?"

I roll my eyes, his toneless answer stirring something in me.

Nothing good.

Something familiar.
But nothing good.

"Well I don't recall being proposed to, or dating anyone. Getting married isn't an event one easily forgets."

He ignores me, setting fire to my insides.


He spins around, pinning me with a glare.

"What?" He harshly demands.

The fire is stoked. My body is hurled into defense mode.


"I am not getting married."

He sneers at me, taking menacing steps toward me.

Almost out of control this fire is, every step he takes is a pint of gasoline thrown right on the flames.

"You will do as I say, Delphine," His voice is quiet, deadly quiet.


"And I don't want to hear about this ever again. You will be my wife. You will take care of Apollo and you will stay out of my way,"


I close my eyes, the flames licking at my skin, now burned through my insides.

"Do. You. Understand?"

Then he's here, pinning me to the wall, alarmingly silent.

His mismatched eyes burning into me in a mismatched way.

His body is on mine, so close he is nearly in mine.

Danger leaks from every pore of his body, like oxygen to the fire inside, it feeds it.


I do what the flames order me to, a fiery lash of remembrance telling me I'm running out of time.

"Yes, Salvatore."

I am robot. I cannot feel-

His brow furrows almost in displeasure at my blank answer.

I cannot feel, thus I cannot hurt-

"Very good," Peeling himself off me, he studies me for a moment longer.

If I cannot hurt, I can survive.

I've always been a survivor.

Survivors are not humans as such. They are animals. Instinct guides them to survive only.

Every and anything else is irrelevant.

I am a survivor. I am an animal.

And primitively, my instincts force to fold in on myself, and become what I am now, what I have been for a while.

A robot.

But as the days go by, I've started to question whether it's worth it.

Why survive if you never live?

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