She takes my hand under the blanket.
In any other circumstance, I’d pull away from that sort of physical touch and picture the person in a million pieces. I’d get pains in my hands.
But with Stacey, I return the sentiment by lacing our fingers.
She giggles, and I feel every muscle in my body go warm and taut with how fucking much I want to hear her giggle again.
I’m my own worst enemy.
I hate her, but I can’t live without knowing what she’s doing.
I lied when I said I’d leave her alone. She’s feeding into my obsession, and it’s only going to get worse. This is only the beginning.
-Kade
I flinch a little when her palm slides up my chest, the muscles pulling taut under her gentle touch. She tries to draw back like she did that night in the tent, and my free hand captures her wrist to hold her there.
Touch is repulsive and unnecessary. I barely hug my own mother. A person openly wanting to touch and cuddle and feel makes my skin crawl.
I’ve always been this way, but when Stacey touches me, even if it’s just a hand on my chest or shoulder, it feels different.
Not repulsive at all. But it’s still foreign to me. Unknown. Yet I want to explore it more. I press her palm to my chest, and I don’t let it go.
She must think I’m a weirdo, but I like her touch.
I’m not a gentleman who can offer sentiments and roses. Not anymore. I’m a creation of being used and abused, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. It’s my life now; I just need to live it.
-Kade
I’m a walking, talking contradiction.
That version of myself doesn’t exist now. I don’t get anxiety around her because she’s pretty and I have no idea what to do with her. No, I reckon if I touched her now, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from strangling her to death.
The anchor who broke me.
Fucking ridiculous.
My phone rings, pulling me out of the dream I wish I could erase from my memory. As much as reliving that night makes me want to smash
everything in the room, it keeps me grounded when I’m in positions like I am now.
My mind always goes back to her when I lose control, blacking out, and when my body betrays me. Memories play out like fucking nightmares,
mocking me for what we had and what she destroyed.
She’s so warm and comfortable. No bad thoughts are running rampant in my mind, telling me to get away from her.
Everything is calm. Everything is quiet. Everything is okay.
“I don’t want to go near you,” he replies, lowering his forehead to mine, his dilating eyes showing his lie. “I can’t stand you.”
🖤
Music will play, the genre completely dependent on my mood. I’ll tell myself that anxiety and unnecessary voices don’t exist. That they’re nothing but void thoughts desperate to destroy my calm. As each chord strikes, the black tendrils around my heart will shrivel away.
There was a time when one person was able to make me ignore that side of myself. I helped him with his own darkness, and he made me feel alive, sustaining me with tender touches and words, stolen kisses and nights in his bed when no one knew. I was happy.
I thought I was safe. I thought I was free.
Until I wasn’t.
Remember when they said,
"A burnt child loves the fire"?
They didn’t tell you this—
how desperate he is for it,
to burn just enough
and become ashes.
I love dancing in the dark.
When I’m surrounded by carnage, which is often, it’s peaceful – an escape. I enjoy mentally vanishing from existence, even if it’s only for a
moment.
The famous Tobias Mitchell, American psychopath. The insane killer who took over every news channel in the world. He’s labelled as ruthlessand unpredictable. Dangerous. A threat to life. Yet, when we visit the institution, he’s a caring dad who wants to know everything that’s going on in our lives. He tries to be involved as much as he can and looks at my mum like she’s the only woman in the world, full of complete adoration.
Even though he tried to kill her.
faint electric charge beneath the shield of skin
In spite of everything that had happened between us, this moment somehow felt more intimate, more vulnerable, than anything we’d yet shared. Everything else had happened while I pretended God wasn’t
watching, but this—there was no pretending now. Sacred and profane were blending and blurring together, fusing and welding themselves into
something new and whole and singular, and if this was what love was, then I didn’t know how anyone could bear the weight of it.
“I can’t stop myself, I’m sorry,” I said at the same time she said, “I tried to stay away from you.”
And then I kissed her.
This was more than friendship, this was more than lust. This was something raw and real and undeniable and it was not going to go away.
“I was wondering…”
“Yes?”
“This is going to sound stupid. Never mind.”
We were crossing the main street now, from shady sidewalk to even shadier sidewalk, and all around us was the noise of the breeze in the leaves and the birds and the faint roll of cars far away. I wanted to tell her that right now I’d give her anything, I’d give her everything, so long as we could stay in this peaceful bubble of early autumn forever, just the two of us and the leaves and the green warmth that made it so easy to feel loved by
God.
But I couldn’t tell her that. So instead, I said, “I don’t think you’re capable of asking a stupid question, Ms. Danforth.”
“You should reserve judgment until I ask, Father”
“I'm Catholic, judging is my thing."
Stepping away felt like stepping onto shards of glass, and I couldn’t help myself, she was so wide-eyed and so open to my love, and it was instinct more than anything else that led to trace a small cross on her forehead.
A blessing.
And hopefully a promise to do better.
🖤
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