Page 4 of Deranged Imposter

I saw that in a video from a quack of an influencer.

She claims the shorthand of clocks is a pendulum, and we’re in a hypnotic state during daylight hours. It’s why we’re drowsy in the evening; because hypnotism wears down the body. So, when we sleep and do not remember the night, it means we’ve escaped the hypnotism.

I have a headache just thinking back to the moment I had the ambition to power through that ridiculous passage.

“I focus better where I can see you,” Mikah notes, tilting his head.

My heart trips over my bated breath, sending both tumbling over each other as I squeeze the spare shirt, just to make sure he doesn’t notice my blunder. But I’m an open book, so he knows.

“We can video call.” I look away, unable to bear the unnerving stare.

That does little to deter him. His eyes smooth over my skin with prickling daggers, cold like the embrace of winter white against autumn amber.

“It’s not the same,” he says.

“It’s even better,” I quip after a gentle beat of my heart drowns out the groan of him leaving the bed. “You get grouchy when interrupted, so it makes sense for me not to be there. What if I get hungry and try to whip up a soufflé, but you’re buried in books? You’ll be upset and—”

“I move in with you, or you come live with me.”

The pulse in his fingertips is volatile when they close around my arm. I swallow a startled hiccup as he forces me to turn and watch the dangerous fervor striking across his eyes. His hands leave marks, they always do, but he adores the bruises with heartfelt smiles.

Mikah changed after that ill-fated day in September.

There is bitter poison in his inked skin, colossal walls in his heart, and corroded kindness. But he tries; I see the efforts, and he says that’s all that matters to him.

A part of him is gone, and he did his best not to let the rest turn to dust. For his family, for me—he stitched himself together like a torn doll. I do what I can to ease the guilt and heavy burden by simply being there for him.

At times, in depths of uncertainty, I wonder if I stayed with him for this long because I would be abandoning him otherwise.

I wipe the frenzied shudder with a breathy laugh. “The room is not up to your standards.”

“I’m used to your standards,” he hits back with no remorse.

Small whines slip out of my pouting lips as he presses his thumb down on the juncture between my neck and shoulder.

I sniff loudly. “You don’t have to be so rude.”

The long silence emits the sound of a cricket and neighbors belting out a quixotic chorus. If it weren't for the off-key vocals, romantic lyrics, and rapping along with the rampant guitar strings, it'd be a nice song.

Perhaps I should rethink my living situation. But I don’t want Mikah to gloat about my poor decisions.

“And there’s not another bed,” I add, peering over to wheremybed is.

We can’t fit, and I’m surprised the frame could hold his weight. He’s all muscles and height. His feet almost hang off the edge, and there wouldn’t be room for me when he lies on his back.

“I don’t mind,” he says with a small shrug. “I always sleep next to you.”

We never shared beds when we were children. Ever since I turned eighteen, he ruled my bed was also his. He was so offended when I wanted to sleep on the floor, mainly with how strong his grip was.

He has octopus blood in his veins. No amount of squirming and calling for him could wake him up.

“Don’t you think we should give each other space?” I scratch the back of my neck and wince from the rigid muscle.

“What for? The dorm unit is eight-hundred square feet. Plenty of space.”

“No, I mean, people keep getting the wrong idea about us,” I ponder thoughtfully but am interrupted by the ending thwack of the neighbor’s guitar. “Rumors like these can hurt your chances of getting a good job.”

Mikah blinks and pretends to think about it for a moment. “Nothing I haven’t been informed of.”

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