𝟎𝟑 │. 𝐌𝐲 𝐎𝐰𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧

___

T H E O N

My fist collided with the bag, the violent recoil reverberating up my arm.

I didn't stop. I craved it.

The ache, the punishment, the relentless attrition of flesh against resistance.

Sweat bled into my eyes, obscuring everything but the target ahead, my focus narrowing into something almost feral.

I struck it again, harder, until pain was the only thing I felt, colliding with the one rising in my heart.

I had a spare, cavernous storeroom, so I repurposed it into my own private little gym, good enough to distract myself when relentlessly beating the shit out of the bag.

I was shirtless, body glistening with sweat as I breathed hard. The bag swung back at me like it had a death wish, and I drove another punch straight into it.

The chain creaked, my knuckles throbbed in protest, and I still didn't stop.

Every time my glove connected, I saw her face, completely expressionless, devoid of anything, like my old Ashling had died, and replaced by something unrecognisable.

There was a fear inside me, a gnawing, suffocating fear of knowing that the person you would burn the world for doesn't feel the same anymore.

I hit again, a growl tearing out of me.

"Fuck." I muttered, wiping the sweat from my eyes. My body was wrecked, but my head was worse.

She said she'd moved on.

I'd been trying to believe it, but the second she looked at me yesterday, I knew she was blatantly lying.

I leaned my forehead against the bag, breathing hard. The leather smelled like acrid sweat.

"Dude," Rhys's voice carried from behind me. "How long are you gonna keep beating the shit outta that bag? It's been over an hour."

I didn't look at him. Just kept my gloves pressed against the leather, breathing through my gritted teeth.

"You're gonna split your damn knuckles again, and I'm not patching them up this time."

I exhaled hard, ignoring him.

My shoulders were on fire.

The gloves came off with a rough, brutal tug, and I started peeling the wraps from my knuckles, one layer at a time.

The skin underneath was red and slick, but I kept flexing my fingers until they stopped shaking.

Rhys leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You gonna tell me what happened this time? Or am I supposed to guess?"

I focused on the fabric winding loose around my hand. He waited a minute, then dropped it.

"It's about Ashling, isn't it?"

My hands froze mid-motion for a fleeting second before I went back to unwrapping.

Rhys's voice broke the silence. "Jesus Christ, Theon. Why keep chasing her like some dog off the leash?"

I reached for the water bottle on the bench, and popped the cap, causing the plastic to reverberate.

"Maybe that's what I am." I said, my lips lifting into a wry smirk. "A fucking dog that only knows how to run after her."

I took a sip. "Doesn't matter how many times she kicks me back, I'll still find my way to her."

Rhys let out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face. "Oh man..." He whispered, shaking his head.

"You sound fucking insane."

He pushed off the wall, giving me a disbelieving look.

"If this is what love does to people, I'll stick to my one-night stands. At least it'll be far less self-destructive than this." His hands flung around, indirectly pointing at me.

I laughed under my breath. "Yeah, well... you've never met someone worth losing your mind over."

He snorted. "And I don't plan to."

I ruffled my hair, sending droplets of water scattering to the floor as I grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from my face and neck.

Rhys grabbed a water bottle off the rack and took a swig. "Speaking of lost causes, Cindy Parker seems to be the new limelight. I didn't imagine you would hire her as your next model, knowing how volatile she is."

The name alone made my jaw clench.

Cindy belonged to a rich family. Her father was an investor but was involved in a string of fraudulent schemes.

Obviously, a dumb fuck like him didn't have the ability to make money through his own hard work, and unfortunately, from his useless sperm came Cindy, equally as dumb as him.

I gave a proper bollocking to my team for even hiring that brat.

"I heard you fired her. What was that about?" He asked.

I tossed the towel onto the bench, my hand tightening around the water bottle.

I could still see her hand raised, ready to hit Ashling. The image imprinted in my head.

I wanted to strangle her right there.

Wrap my hand around her throat and squeeze until she understood what fear actually felt like, but Ashling was there, and the last thing I could afford was to fuck up in front of her again.

Cindy had no idea how damn lucky she was.

"Yesterday, at the studio," I paused, the images flashing vividly behind my eyes.

"She ran her mouth, apparently wasn't happy with the final outcome of the photographs they took of her. She made a whole fucking scene about it, and then she—" I clenched my jaw.

"What did she do?" Rhys asked.

"She raised her hand at Ashling."

Rhys straightened, eyes widening.

"Didn't land it, though. She tried, but I stopped her."

"That's mad, bro. How's Ashling doing? Is she okay?"

I sighed, tipping the water bottle back and taking a long swallow. "She's fine."

If she had hit Ashling, I'd have snapped that bitch's wrist in two.

"Gosh, that bitch is seriously crazy as fuck. She's got her head shoved way up her own arse, don't ya think?"

Yeah, I thought.

I opened up my palm, brushing my other thumb over the healed scar slashed across it.

It was slightly darker than my usual skin colour, though faded enough to blend in well with the crooked jagged lines of the stitches left behind.

"You made any progress with Ashling yet?"

A humourless laugh escaped me as I dropped onto the bench. My elbows planted on my knees, and I buried my face in my hands.

"No." My voice came out rasped.

"She won't talk to me, let alone stay in the same room with me for more than two minutes."

I pulled my hands away and looked at the wall with tired eyes.

"It's been years, man. Why don't you just move on? She clearly doesn't want to get back with you, and you're only hurting yourself at this point."

I looked back at the scar on my hand, a very last reminder of my sins.

"It's not possible."

"Look, come out tonight. You, me, Rowan, we'll hit a club, get a few drinks. Go hook up with someone and get her the fuck out of your system."

I snapped my head up at him, fury surging inside me. His mouth quickly shut as I stood up, glaring hard at him.

"The hell did you just say?"

He raised his hands a little. "Relax, I was just—"

He knows what she means to me, and still thinks I'd go fuck someone else?

"I'd rather die alone than touch someone else just to forget her."

Rhys looked at me, guilt stamped all over his face, and I swallowed back the lump of anger.

"I'm sorry, man." He said.

"I just don't get it. I don't get how someone can stay so hooked on a person who won't even give them a chance. I really don't get how you're still this hung up on her. If I were you, I'd have given up by now."

That's because you're not me, Rhys.

Rhys would never understand, cause he had never been that fucked up.

He had never loved someone so ruthlessly, never felt that sick, possessive pull in his gut, never felt like a half-dead man knowing he'd nearly lost the girl he loved.

Or already lost the girl he loved.

Not that I was willing to let myself believe that. There was a tiny, stubborn part of my old Ashling still inside her, and that was enough to keep the hope in me alive.

Rhys would never understand that if I stop chasing Ashling, I'll lose her for good, and that's not a risk I'm ever going to take.

"I love her, and you don't give up on the woman you love."

I don't say shit I don't mean. When I say I can't live without Ashling, I mean every damn word.

I tried once, and it almost destroyed me.

One thing I knew for sure was that my story began with Ashling, and it would inevitably end with her, too.

───── ⚜ ─────

Moonlight leaked through the slit in the curtains, casting a pale streak across the floor.

The rest of the room was just shadows.

I stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, my reflection staring back like a detached version of someone else.

I tried to move on. God knows I fucking tried.

Different faces, different smiles, different voices trying to get close, but I couldn't do it.

I couldn't bring myself to touch them. Every time a woman leaned in, it felt wrong.

Filthy.

My body wouldn't move. It's like it already knew who it belonged to.

There was a thread between us, it intertwined our souls, our fates. It was something that was unbreakable, something that would rather strangle than snap.

My head tilted a little as I watched myself in the mirror, my locked eyes unblinking.

I could see the lines around my orbs reddening, the tears threatening to spill. My hair stuck to my forehead, tousled as it blurred my vision.

A tear ran down my cheek before I even felt it, my brows drawing together. The tension in my taut facial muscles held something in.

It didn't matter how far I went, or how long I stayed away; I still ended up back here, to her.

Ashling was my destiny.

I was incomplete without her. I felt so empty inside that I wanted to carve her into me, just to complete me.

She lives inside my heart, the only fucking reason I'm still alive.

I'd do anything to have her back.

"I hate you, Theon."

I froze.

My body snapped toward the sound, but I was met only by the darkness.

My pulse thrashed against my throat.

"I hate you." The voice hissed again.

I spun, scanning the room, every inch swallowed by darkness.

The space felt suffocating, as if something else was breathing with me.

What the hell was that?

"A-ashling?" I whispered.

"Is that you?"

Silence stretched for a moment, until the same voice screamed behind me, high-pitched and nearly deafening, making my skin crawl.

"This is all your fault. YOU DID THIS TO ME!"

My eyes darted to every corner of my bedroom, my vision spinning as I ransacked the room, yanking the sheets off the bed, shoving furniture aside, even dropping to check under the bed frame like a fool.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

My hands trembled, heart hammering as I struggled to breathe.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

"God, what the fuck is wrong me with?" I grabbed my hair.

I dropped onto the bed, elbows on my knees, burying my face in my hands.

I told myself I was just imagining things. That's what happens when you don't sleep well.

I only ever slept 3–4 hours max and, if it got worse, I would use sleeping pills, which became an old habitual escape.

Suddenly, a scream tore violently through the night.

It was high-pitched, broken, like the voice was clawing its way out of the dark.

It severed through the room like shattered glass, close enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

A whisper brushed my ear, repeating the same words until the walls began closing in.

"This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault."

"NO!"

I shot upright in bed, gasping, sweat soaking my neck.

My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

What the fuck was that?

I didn't know if I was awake or still ensnared in whatever the hell I'd just dreamed.

Exhaling, I collapsed back onto the mattress, focusing on my breathing.

The bedroom door suddenly creaked open, slowly.

My body coiled upright, my spine snapping into tension so fast I felt the blood rush down my body.

"Dad."

My breath whooshed out all at once. I dragged a hand down my face, a laugh slipping out with a sigh as the tension ebbed away.

A tiny figure stood in the doorway, hair sticking up in curls, clutching a worn-out teddy by the arm.

Eli.

He stood there barefoot, pajamas haphazardly draped around his small frame, and eyes dilated with sleep and fear.

"Can I sleep with you, please? I had a bad dream." He whispered.

"Of course Champ, come here." I said, patting the bed beside me.

He ran across the room, feet padding against the floor, and climbed up without hesitation. I caught him under the arms, lifted him the rest of the way, then pulled the covers over us.

He nestled against me, his small body warm against my chest, and a teddy bear squashed between us.

I pressed a kiss to his head, the scent of baby shampoo washing over me and dissipating the fear away.

My fingers combed through his thick, dark brown curls. "What'd you dream about, bud?"

He hesitated, voice wobbling. "I saw Mummy leaving... she said she wasn't coming back."

Everything inside me stopped.

Those words wrecked me more than any nightmare he could've had.

I rested my cheek against the top of his head, my voice barely above a hushed whisper.

"She won't leave this time, okay? She's coming back, very soon."

He nodded, already half asleep, implicitly trusting me in a way no one else ever could.

I lay there, holding him, listening to his breathing, eyes open to the dark.

I played with the strands of his short hair, not wanting to wake him. "I promise you, buddy."

I whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

"I'll bring your mother back, no matter what it takes. I will bring her back."