“It makes sense, I guess,” she mused.
“What does?”
She stole the bottle back. “That my mom didn’t want a kid from a weird experiment.” My stomach dropped. She took a swig, eyes lost in her unbreachable mind. “Maybe that’s why my dad left. Maybe I was such a burden-”
“No,” I interrupted, grasping her hand around the bottleneck and glaring into the side of her face until she met my eyes. “You’re not a burden.”
Sadness and defeat shimmered on her lower lashes.
“That’s not what I’ve been told.”
More words like daggers.
“Then let me convince you otherwise,” I whispered.
She bit her lower lip again, the crack reopened, painting a thin line of blood. Nothing could stop me from closing the distance between us and tasting it. She inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away. I ran my tongue over her lip, sucking it gently into my mouth, the taste of iron mixing with liquor. Her hand tentatively cupped my cheek, a little sigh leaving her as she kissed me back.
“Is this you convincing me?” she breathed into my mouth.
“Is it working?”
A sad smile. “If it was?”
I pressed another soft kiss to the corner of her lips. “I’ll keep doing it as long as you’ll let me.”
Her forehead rested against mine, fingertips ghosting down my neck as she moved to straddle me. Everything in me wanted to savor her taste again.
“I’d tell you to never stop,” she whispered. “But then I might never come up for air. I’d drown in you to avoid our fucked up reality.”
“Is that so wrong?” I rasped.
She sat back, hand sliding to the center of my chest as she downed another mouthful of vodka. Already, her eyes glazed with exhaustion and the beginnings of a buzz.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
I tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “May I propose a deal?”
She tilted her head. “Depends on the terms.”
I chuckled, letting my fingers play in her silky strands. “For the night, we talk, we drink, but we don’t dwell on what we are. We can worry about existential dread tomorrow. Right now, I like the idea of avoiding our fucked up reality.”
She brought the bottle to her lips once more, pouring way too much down before pushing it into my chest.
“Deal.”
As the liquor went back and forth, so did the conversation. She told me about ballet- the escape it gave her from the wretched woman who birthed her. I admitted to never trusting anyone growing up, never having friends except for the characters I wrote about. She talked about the visions and how the first one of me made her feel less alone. I told her about the first time I looked in a mirror and saw my eyes change before blasting myself into the wall.
My tongue was heavy and my lips were numb, but I didn’t want to stop talking. I wanted to tell her more- every dark, depraved parts of me. I was intoxicated enough that I would've spilled it all if she hadn’t abruptly stood on unsteady legs.
“I think I’m drunk,” she slurred.
I snorted. “I can see that.”
She flicked me off with a lazy smile. “It’s your fault.”
“It is,” I agreed. “Let’s get you to bed, drunky.”
She rubbed her eyes, swaying. I hoisted myself up, my ass as numb as my face. She let me guide her into her room where she started stripping-
