Part Seven: Morgue Reality
The harsh smell of formaldehyde filled the morgue, thick and clinging to the walls. It felt as if the cold, sterile air itself were suffocating, its sickly aura intoxicating the area while Sloane stared down at what was left of me. My head was still missing, my once–white fur thoroughly skinned, and my body. disfigured beyond recognition.
Sloane moved closer, his breath shallow, scanning my broken form. He was desperate to find anything–any mark or scar–that might prove that this wasn’t me. His eyes swept over my fur, the remnants the soldiers had found scattered at the scene like lifeless snowflakes. Couldn’t it be another wolf? Perhaps a trick played by the rogue wolves to fool him? But as his gaze lingered on my arm, he caught sight of a faint mark. It was the same mark he’d left on me that night–the night of our wedding. He’d given it to me in anger, a bitter emblem of my worthlessness in his eyes.
A flash of memory filled his mind: him slamming me against the wall in rage, his hands pressing into me so forcefully I thought he would break my spine. The bruise had lingered for weeks, a constant reminder of what I was to him. And now, even in death, his mark remained, branding me in his mind.
For anyone else, looking at the mangled body would never have revealed the truth. But Sloane knew, and that was why the rogue wolves had ensured my head was missing. It was a twisted plot, a puzzle to make identification nearly impossible, giving the rogues time to vanish into the shadows.
“No. No, this can’t be. My eyes…they must be deceiving me. This… it cannot be you, Seline. Who could have done this? Why does it have to be you?” His voice broke, disbelief clawing its way into his throat. It was as if each word he spoke only made the reality in front of him harder to bear.
He wiped his eyes, a mixture of tears and sweat pooling in his hands. His fingers shook as he forced himself to look again, almost hoping his vision had been a mirage.
And there I stood, a ghostly presence opposite him, my head tilted toward my body. I whispered into the silence, my words only a breath in his ear, yet heavy with resentment.
“I thought this was what you wanted, Sloane. To see me lifeless, finally gone. It’s me, Sloane. No more dark clouds to hover around you.”
Sloane’s face contorted with grief and confusion, the reality in front of him
and the voice he could swear he heard tearing him apart. He stumbled backward, barely able to keep his footing. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real. Without another word, he bolted from the morgue, desperate to escape the unbearable truth.
In the adjacent room, the soldiers were meticulously analyzing evidence from the murder scenes. Sloane burst in, his panic giving way to frantic motion. as he poured everything onto the table, his fingers clumsily sifting throught every object. He ignored the confused looks from the soldiers, his focus honed
on one item–the necklace.
יר
The necklace that had once been mine, a simple token with a small orb attached, containing lavender oil. He had dismissed it earlier, tossing it aside in anger, but now he clutched it as if it held the answers he so desperately needed. The familiar, soothing scent of lavender, the same oil I used every night, felt suddenly overwhelming.
He looked closer, searching for something–anything–that could bring him peace. As his fingers touched the orb, he noticed it was broken, the faint residue of lavender oil spilled and dried against the metal. That simple detail undid him. It was real, the orb was shattered, and with it, the last of my presence seemed to drift away.
His phone slipped from his hand, hitting the floor with a loud crack as the screen shattered. Sloane didn’t even notice. He stood frozen, his face pale, his breath shallow and fast as if the room itself were closing in around him.
I watched him, surprised by his reaction. I had never thought my death. would hurt him like this. To him, I had been nothing but a burden–a dark cloud over his life, a mark of his mistakes. And yet, here he was, his face painted with shock and something that almost looked like regret.
The soldiers stared, uncertain whether to reach out to him or give him. space. They could not understand what he was going through–no one could. He was utterly alone, a man haunted by his own actions, faced with the irrefutable consequence of his rage and disdain.
But for me, there was no comfort in his grief. His pain now was nothing compared to the years he’d left me empty, my heart weighed down by his hatred. And so, as he stood there, unable to accept what he saw, I whispered again, though I knew he would never hear.
“Isn’t this what you wanted, Sloane? Isn’t this what you wished for all along?”
Part Seven Morque Reality
22:07 Thu, 13 Mar BN-
along?
And as his eyes grew hollow, the truth sank into both of us.
