Rakhanar tore his gaze from the bloodstained sheets and pressed his hand to the wound in his side again. Could this all be my blood? Where is Anyah? Why can’t I remember?
“Anyah! Anyah! Are you here?” He waited, tense, hoping for an answer from downstairs, but only silence returned to him. Dark foreboding settled on his shoulders with the weight of an anvil.
He pulled his hand away from his side again and peered at the cut. It sliced red against his dark skin, only about an inch across, but it was hard to say how deep it was. He knew that when he went berserk, his metabolism also ramped up his healing ability, so it might have been a vicious cut, but by now nothing more than a sting.
Did I attack her? Did she do this to me to defend herself?
Springing from the bed, he lurched to the mirror like a lion on the attack, slapped a palm to his shoulder and turned to examine his back. Streaks of red glared back at him, a stark accusation.
She raked my back! I must have hurt her! She must have been fighting me … Ye gods – what did I do? Please, please, don’t let it be that I … killed her.
Rakhanar shoved his hands into his hair, grimacing into the mirror. His heart hammered against his ribcage and his stomach did backflips, worse than the day before, his first hangover. He had the urge to howl, something, anything to relieve the pressure building up inside of him.
Don’t panic. Maybe it’s not what it seems. Maybe we fought, but she just left. It’s not like her body is right here …
He turned and jumped up on the bed, stood looking out the round wide window, panting. Remember … I have to remember …
* * *
Wizard of Wildfire & Shadow Walker Wordsmith ((a/k/a The Real Me ))