chapter 006.

                                    

                                          











Lyra couldn't take her eyes off him. He's so beautiful, she thought, glancing between the road and Tom's peaceful, sleeping form beside her. The occasional jingle of the zippers in the backseat filled the silence, only heightening her excitement. Harmony was far behind them now, fading into the distance. Every mile brought them closer to their new life together.
Her eyes flicked to him again. Blood had seeped through his white shirt, staining it from the wound beneath. A frown tugged at her lips. He looked so serene in his sleep that she couldn't bring herself to wake him. Sweat dotted his forehead, glistening faintly in the dim light. She checked a passing road sign—ten minutes left. Just a little longer.
She resolved to let him rest until they arrived. Once they reached their destination, she'd change his bandages and tend to him properly. Still, guilt gnawed at her. The chaos of the past week, the pain he'd endured—it was all her fault.

"I don't know what you want from me, Lyra. I am not the fucking killer."
Tom's words struck like venom, each syllable laced with fury. Lyra froze, startled by a tone she never thought she'd hear from him. He brushed past her, stopping dead in the doorway when his eyes fell on the pickaxe and mask resting by her bed.
His heart thundered in his chest, each beat threatening to tear him apart. He stared at the mask, his identity reflected in its cold, lifeless gaze.
"Tom?" Her voice wavered, filled with worry. She stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his chest. "Tom?"
His eyes fluttered shut, lids twitching as if trying to block out something too painful to face. When they opened again, his expression was unreadable.
"Harry?" she whispered.
At the sound of the name, his head snapped toward her. His jaw clenched, and for the first time since that bloody Valentine's night, Lyra felt a pang of fear.
"Move," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
His frustration, stress, and hatred swirled into a palpable rage, a storm threatening to consume him entirely. His fingers twitched, aching to grip the handle of his weapon.
"Harry, wait—" Lyra's plea caught in her throat as he reached for his mask. She watched helplessly as he secured it over his face. She ran her hands through her hair, desperately searching for a way to help him.
To her surprise, he paused. Mask in place, he turned to face her, as though awaiting instructions.
"You need to let off steam," she said softly. "But after tonight, it's over. No more. We're leaving." Her voice broke as she glanced toward the stairs. Her mother was downstairs, completely unsuspecting. The miner's mental state was fragile—too fragile.
She didn't know how to stop him. All she could do was nod at her own words, trying to convince herself that she could fix this. She gave him a quick hug before stepping aside. "Stay safe. Don't hurt my mama please."
He stomped down the stairs, weapon in hand. Panic surged through her. Please, God, keep her out of his way, she thought, sprinting after him. She reached the bottom step just in time to see a sight that shattered her.
Her mother was kneeling on the couch, a handgun balanced on the armrest, aimed directly at the miner.
"Lyra, run," her mother ordered, her voice eerily calm.
Lyra did not run.
"Mama, put the gun down," Lyra begged, extending her hands.
Her mother didn't respond. Her focus remained locked on the towering man behind her daughter.
"Lyra, move," her mother snapped, her tone harsher than Lyra had ever heard.
But Lyra didn't listen. She stepped closer to Tom, wrapping her fingers gently around his hand and coaxing the pickaxe out of his grip.
"Please, Mama, listen to me. He won't hurt you. Just—put the gun down."
Her mother's silence was deafening, her grip unwavering.
Desperate, Lyra turned back to Tom, resting a hand over his chest. "You need to run. Now. Please."
Tom remained still, manoeuvring the pickaxe back in his hands.
"Please!" she cried, her voice breaking. But it was too late.
The gun fired.
Time slowed as the bullet tore through the air. Before it could reach Lyra, Tom shoved her aside. The bullet struck his side, ripping through his suit with ease.
Tom groaned, collapsing to the floor. Lyra dropped to her knees beside him, frantically pressing her hands against his bleeding wound.
"Tom?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
His eyes fluttered open, soft and pained. "Missed you," he murmured before unconsciousness claimed him.

The next hours were a blur. Lyra fought to convince her mother to spare him. Her mother demanded a choice: leave with him, or stay and let the police handle it.
The decision was easy.
Now, as they drove to Tom's second home, Lyra prayed her mother would someday understand. But she wasn't naive—Tom had killed people her mother had cared about. Forgiveness wouldn't come easily, if at all.
She glanced at him again, blood-soaked but alive. That was all that mattered.
Tom traced his fingers over the scar on his abdomen, the faint reminder of the bullet that almost ended everything. Harry Warden was gone, or so he told himself. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, he wondered if the monster still lingered, hiding in the corners of his mind.
Their escape had gone as smoothly as it could have. Yet Tom couldn't shake the feeling that something would go wrong.
Their new home was under Lyra's name, a precaution against his past catching up to them. It was a strange place, filled with an unsettling energy. Whenever Tom was alone, he felt like he was being watched—from the windows, the walls, even the mirrors.
But in Lyra's presence, the unease faded. She was his anchor, the light that kept the darkness at bay.
Late that night, they lay in bed. Lyra traced her fingertips along his jawline, brushing through his hair. Tom watched her, captivated by every movement. Her hazel eyes belonged to him, just as his heart belonged to her.
He wondered what she was thinking. The new house? Her mother? Their future?
In a week, they'd begin their new lives as student and teacher. Lyra would study psychology and art. He'd teach cinematic media—a field he barely understood but had been lucky enough to land a job in.
For now, he watched over her, unwilling to close his eyes. Sleep could wait. She was all that mattered.








edited : 19.11.24
word count : 1100