By the time summer was in full swing Bastian had become another fixture in my apartment that I regarded like he had always been there, like my couch or bed. He didn’t seem new or out of place, he fit in with the nooks and crannies like they were made to fit him as well as me. Usually when someone finally forks over a key to their place they are making something official, it’s a way of telling the other person that they are theirs and that they now belong, but Bastian didn’t even bat an eye when I slid a copy of my key across the table to him one afternoon. No words, just understanding as he pocketed it, our eyes never meeting like some sort of agreement that if we didn’t acknowledge it, we would never have to talk about it.
And we didn’t. Whatever we had was progressing like any regular couple’s would, minus the talking about everything. There was never any sort of awkward questioning about whether we were together or not, no fights about Bastian moving in, he just kind of showed up one day for lunch with a suitcase and has moved stuff in slowly but surely ever since. It might seem like a strange thing to say after all, but even though his nights are preoccupied with ending someone else’s I’ve only felt warmth and love in his embrace. You are probably questioning how I feel safe with him; he kills men for goodness sake. But what is there to fear when you are not a man from someone who only kills men?
I am falling. The ground underneath my feet is cracking, breaking, dropping and there is nothing that I can do to stop it. I feel my body start to plummet and all I see as I disappear into the darkness is a hand that is reaching out but that I cannot reach. This nightmare has been with me every night since I locked my door and my heart to the outside world almost two years ago. It’s cradled me, held me as I slept at night waiting to creep in and infect me with its fear. But with a magic kiss and an arm around my waist, this nightly visitor no longer had an invitation.