Page 26 of Vermilion Desire

I’m not aware of how long this went on, but the heavy exhaustion finally perches onto my clammy skin. Sleep wants to consume me and drags me away from this moment of peace, and I grip the last defense of my resolve to not close my eyes.

“You’re okay, baby,” he murmurs, hooking his arm under my head and curling his arm tighter around my waist.

I’m surrounded by him; his skin hotly pressed to mine, voice reaching to the deeply disturbed soul that I have, and his scent is a lure that makes me step one foot into the slumber that I’m not ready for.

“Please, no…” I choke out, chest heaving as I shakily inhale. “Don’t leave, I’m sorry, sorry—”

He hushes me, running a hand up and down my arched spine. My eyes are dry and burning from keeping them wide open, and blinking causes irritation to tingle on my eyes.

“I’m staying right here, baby, with you. I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

Whether that is an empty promise or not, I had involuntarily closed my eyes, and the world turns black with an immediate snap of a finger.

The next time I open my eyes, it’s already morning with a strong source of sunlight breaking through the curtains. I feel empty, too hollow to be aware of anything else other than the empty space next to me.

Mr. Wolf lied. He’s not here. The bed is cold and wrinkled, but he was here. He’s gone now, but he promised he would stay with me. He’s a liar, a bad and cruel liar.

I throw the blanket off my body, sprinting to the bathroom and looking at the mirror. Whoever is staring back at me is not myself; it’s a woman of crazed roots and devastation.

I splash water on my face; the cold droplets drip down my chin and roll into my shirt. I look around in the bathroom, the only sign of Mr. Wolf being in here is a wet towel thrown into the laundry basket.

Shaking my head, I ride those irritating thoughts and the doubts that wickedly stand tall as they mock me with the smile from the woman in the mirror. I bite my lips hard enough to draw blood, and the smile disappears; crimson blood drips down on the sink and swirls into the running water.

It’s color washes away, leaving the clear water once again being tainted by another contaminating crimson color as it changes the clear water.

I swipe my tongue over the wound, tasting the copper and shamelessly grin for reasons that baffled me.

Why am I smiling? I don’t know, and I’m not going to find out soon as Braxton Berkshire’s face comes to my mind again.

He’s going to pay for making me have an episode of ghastly memories from the program where everyone is an enemy, stepping on those who failed to be the best. No one was safe, and the enemy of my enemy is still my enemy.

Friendship is a fickle lie. I didn’t need that, and I surely do not believe in the miracle of it. I have always been by myself, and I have survived on my own without my parents to take care of me.

My grandmother couldn’t do anything, and, in the end, she ended up in a nursing home. Fending for myself can be done as an out of body experience, and it’s easy to cut off the helping hands that try to aid me.

“No, no,” I hiss, yanking my hair and hoping it would bring me out of this state of sour, decaying deception. “I’m better than this. This isn’t the program. I have Uncle Cal and—”

A frightened tremor buckles my knees, and I fall. Do I still have Mr. Wolf? Did I even have him in the first place?

A hand jerks me to face Mr. Wolf. His eyes flash with unaltered worry and his black hair falls messily over his head as he pulls me up. My legs aren’t listening, and he doesn’t blink an eye when he picks me up, cradling me with such gentleness that causes my heart to spark a thrill.

“What are you doing out of bed?” he questions, his voice moving a pitch lower as he puts me back onto the bed.

He puts his weight onto the edge of the bed while my hand curls around his wrist. I can’t wrap my fingers around it, and that opening where I’m not touching pushes my anxiety to another level, demanding me to close the distance so he can’t escape.

I squeeze harder, eyes of a wild woman with no sense of self.

“Y-you weren’t—you left, you lied! Liar, you’re a—”

I am snapped out of my stupor by his hand gently cradling my cheek, caressing the cold skin with his hot thumb. The contrast is one step away from blistering, but I want to be burned because it would be his mark that I bear on my skin.

“I went to get you breakfast, baby.” He smiles, wiping away the panicked teardrop away.

“I’m sorry I made you worry,” he apologizes, and the sincerity plays a big part in shaking away the goosebumps on me.

Jumping into his lap, I sit on his thighs and wind my arms around his neck again. This position is familiar, and it’s a sweet relief to know that he won’t push me away, and he can’t leave again.

“We need to talk,” he mutters.

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