Page 51 of Shattered Echoes

Our motions are lethargic. Slow measured thrusts, while her soft moans echo through my bones, filling my senses. The outside world fades away as I pour every ounce of passion, every shred of tenderness into worshiping Colette's body.

For this blissful stretch, it's just me and her and the trembling releases we build toward together. No guilt or anger or upheaval. Just two souls finding solace in each other's arms, if only for a little while.

I climax after just a few minutes, although with Colette, the duration always feels like such an irrelevant concept. She holds me tight as I fill her with my cum, a distracting smile on her face as she holds my gaze.

When I finish, I hold on to her, my length still lodged inside her, pulsating in her creamy wetness. We say nothing. Words are irrelevant to us right now. Our embrace is worth more than a million words, and there’s nothing we could say that can describe the wild thoughts raging in our minds.

So, we lie there in silence, basking in each other’s warmth, enjoying the cool morning breeze drifting in through the open windows. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Nothing else I’d rather do. I pull Colette close and kiss her deep. I can’t describe how truly alive she makes me feel, so I don’t bother trying.

Some time later, I disentangle myself from Colette's sweaty, sated embrace to grab a bottle of water and collect my thoughts. My footsteps are heavy as I pad out to the small patio off the living room, the cool morning breeze raising goosebumps along my bare skin.

I sink onto the worn wicker loveseat, open the bottle, and take a long, greedy swig. Leaning my head back, I exhale. Colette's cries of pleasure still echo in my ears, mingling with the phantom screams of terror that jolted me from a dead sleep. My chest still feels tight with lingering dread, the fear of losing her to some unseen horror almost suffocating in its intensity.

Shaking off a shudder, I take another swallow to steady my nerves; the water is cool. Her nightmares are fewer and farther between these days, and while I’m doing better too, I still have longings — a lingering side effect of my time in the dark spiral of addiction that will never fade completely.

But whenever I feel those longings, eviscerating me with their cruel blades of doubt and self-loathing, Colette is there. A calming solace and a steady presence to ward away the demons, even if she doesn't realize it. Just knowing she's beside me is enough to keep the darkest shadows at bay — most nights, at least.

I finish the water and reach for the battered leather journal tucked away on the side table, the one I used to jot down the fragmented thoughts and emotions that ambush me at random moments. The habit of putting pen to paper, drilled into me by my doctor for months, has become grounding, a way to process my internal chaos into something more coherent.

Some pages are filled with rambling musings, lines of poetry, or random lyrics that come to me in flashes of inspiration. Others contain letters–half-finished missives addressed to my former self, my family, or my ex. Letters I've never worked up the courage to deliver.

Flipping open the journal, I smile at a yellowed newspaper clipping that's been pressed into the first few pages. The article is from a few months back, detailing the emergence of a mysterious street artist who'd been leaving their bold, evocative murals across abandoned buildings on the outskirts of our little town.

A color photo accompanying the write up shows a beautiful female figure with sunken, haunted eyes that seem to gaze right through me every time I look at them. The subject's tears are rendered in inky black brushstrokes that streak down hollowed cheeks, carved by unspeakable heartbreak and loss.

The imagery has resonated deep within me from the moment I first saw it. Those hollow, beseeching eyes echoed the emptiness I felt clawing at my core, the anguish that seemed to follow me no matter how far I tried to run.

Which is why I saved the clipping and tucked it between the pages of my journal — a visceral reminder that I'm not alone in my anguish, even when it feels that way.

The soft pad of Colette's bare feet against the tiled floors steals my attention. I look over my shoulder, greeted by the vision of her emerging in just a towel, her damp hair hanging in tousled waves over one shoulder.

God, she's breathtaking.

I drink in the sight, as heat kindles low in my abdomen. Rivulets of water trail down the curves of her body, over the swell of her breasts, before disappearing beneath the terrycloth. My fingers itch with the urge to trace their path.

Colette smiles almost shyly upon catching me staring, tucking a damp tendril of hair behind her ear. "See something you like?"

Her teasing lilt, combined with the coy look in her eye, draws a low rumble from my chest. "You know I do, Col."

Rather than responding with playful banter of her own, Colette's gaze drifts to the journal resting open on my lap. Her expression turns quizzical as she walks closer, brow furrowing. "What's that?"

"Oh, this old thing?" I glance down at the tattered pages, tracing my fingertips over the edge. "Just something I've been using to help get my thoughts in order."

I angle the book so she can better see the news clipping nestled between the sheets. Colette brushes my leg aside to perch on the love seat beside me, leaning in to study the haunting portrait.

"This is that street artist everyone's been talking about, right?"

"Yeah." I nod, tapping the image. "Pretty amazing stuff, huh? The emotion this person captures is incredible."

Colette murmurs her assent, her eyes roving over the piece with a hint of wistfulness I can't quite place. "I can see why it spoke to you. There's a raw, inhuman quality to their work that just…grabs you by the throat."

My fingers drift along the curve of her spine, savoring the way she shivers at the simple touch. "It's beautiful, but gut-wrenching at the same time. Really gets under your skin, you know?"

Rather than responding, Colette draws the journal closer, flipping through the pages. I tense for a moment, self-conscious of sharing this part of myself–the fragmented, chaotic thoughts I've poured onto those tattered sheets.

But Colette doesn't laugh or mock. Her eyes roam over the scattered bits of poetry and lyrics with a soft, wondering look, absorbing every smudged scrawl of ink. When she comes across the half-finished letters, she pauses, lips parting in a silent 'oh' before moving on.

Finally, she glances up at me through a fan of dark lashes, her expression one of gentle adoration. "Antonio… this is beautiful. You never told me about this."

---