Trust is for those who have nothing to lose.
Caution is for those who know the risks of giving their heart away.
I have a feeling that if I were to fall asleep in this seat, he’d simply let me, and I’d wake up as if nothing ever happened–as if this torment were a mere bad dream.
This familiar comfort is one I’ve longed for ever since…
Huh, ever since what?
For fuck’s sake. I’m sick of this shit.
His honey eyes and that forceful concern put me at ease, and I know they remind me of someone, but I can’t remember who.
Some of my memories are missing, and they all surround the scar on my forearm. Every time I try to remember what happened before I slit my wrist, my head starts aching and I have no choice but to let it go.
The doctor who had been in charge of me told me that memory loss is a common occurrence after a traumatic experience. But in that case shouldn’t I also have forgotten how my blood trailed over my fingers and stained the bathroom floor?
Why didn’t I let the blood flow? How come I bandaged the wound?
I don’t understand myself. For someone who has wanted to die ever since I was a teenager, I’ve always found ways to escape its blissful claws.
I was a coward back then and I remain an utter coward to this day.
Why am I still alive? I didn’t do it for myself. I hate that I’ve forgotten the reason I chose to stop the blood from flowing whenIknowI couldn’t have genuinely wished for salvation.
What could have possibly been so important?
My eyelids slowly shut, and I let the car ride lull me to a state of in between sleep and awareness.
I like the sensation of floating on a little cloud while still being oddly conscious of everything around me. My skin prickles at the sound of Andrew’s breathing, his finger tapping against the steeringwheel and the odd feeling that he occasionally chances glances at me.
When I pull myself out of this trance, Andrew is staring at me with his head resting on the steering wheel. The sight makes me smile and I feel so stupid for wanting to see him smile back at me.
I blink away the fatigue and with each flutter a different image pops into my mind. Fragments of ragged breaths and golden eyes flash through my mind like thunder.
The longer I stare at him the more I have the feeling that I’ve met him before, but I can’t remember where or when.
Every parcel of my being silently tells me to touch him, to glide my fingers over that tanned skin, and carve the sensation in my mind to never be forgotten.
It’s odd that I feel like I’ve already claimed every inch of his skin, kissed and held every part of him like it was my right.
“Slept well?” He smiles sweetly, and I notice myself sink back onto that cloud. “We’re parked in front of my place. I didn’t want to wake you up. You seemed so at peace.”
I tilt my head, feeding on the curve of his lips, the glimmer in his eyes and the heat radiating from his body.
I feel like a lost letter being picked up and read for the first time in a millennia, delicate fingers brushing over my edges and unfolding me so my words can be spoken out loud with affection and interest.
“Yes, thank you.”
He doesn’t break the eye contact and simply observes me straightening up in the seat and stretching out my limbs with such intensity that a shiver runs down my spine.
I’ve seen that look before. I know I have and if I don’t remember where I’ve seen it in the next minute, I’ll reach inside my brain and pull the memory out with my bare hands.
“Do you feel better?”
“You want the truth or are you just asking for the sake of it?”
His smile drops and confusion washes over his expression. “Why wouldn’t I want the truth?”
