skinny love | shyland

twelve

ryland's pov

guilt. there's a certain guideline to how it's supposed to make you feel, the order of the different phases that either cripple you into a state of insanity or lurk in your peripheral vision. the first wave of guilt is often the sickening panic, the realisation, the surge of anxiety that flies from the pit of your stomach to the core of your chest. it's hot, sticky, sweet – but still sour enough to leave a bitter taste in your mouth, and rough enough to scratch the side of your throat with cool, sharp edges.

the sensation coated my skin as i stood alone, mouth agape, in the doorway to the bedroom. i'd been home less than a minute when i called out to say i was home, but had received nothing back but silence. and then my gaze had been filled with nothing but noise.

"please stay five more minutes." shane had whispered into my neck half an hour ago, frowning when i pushed his chin away from sucking on my skin. "what about four? four minutes seems fair. you'd be surprised what i can do in four—"

"i need to get home."

i had crawled out of his lap and rubbed the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger, taking a few steps back as i watched him bask in the sunlight, acting like a cat who'd come across a sunspot. his eyes closed and crinkled at the corners as he moved his face to be in direct contact with the rays, and when the beep of a car horn sounded loudly, he barely flinched.

"that'll be my taxi. i'll see you later."

i didn't get much but a hum back, yet as i walked out, i could see the smirk crawling onto his lips with one eye peeking open in the reflection of the glass doors. the look stayed in my head for the whole drive home.

the door slammed loudly downstairs before i could even step into the mess, and suddenly the first wave of guilt crept back up again. my lungs felt tight, smothered by the sensation. the makeshift desk in the corner of our bedroom that i used to study in had been emptied, papers everywhere, a biro pen homeless on the floor, taking shelter near my open, dented folder. my work diary, filled with tiny notes on who to call and when each meeting was due, lay open on the centre of the desk table, the only thing which had seemed to have held out the earthquake that had rippled through seemingly just my belongings. the chair had toppled over at an angle and left a scratch mark on the walls i repainted last june. as confusion and anger rose up through my chest, the urge of confrontation was suppressed by the patter of tiny feet.

"daddy's home!" madison squealed excitedly and tore off her beanie and shoes, taking two steps at a time as she thundered up towards me, flinging her tiny body into my arms. i stood at the top of the stairs and held her tightly as she rested her cheek on my shoulder with her arms around my neck. i stole another fleeting glance at the carnage in our room and swallowed thickly, not even wanting to meet conor's stare as i watched his shadow from the corner of my eye.

"makes a change." he called out, not even greeting me and walking straight into the kitchen. i heard the sound of the fridge open and madi wriggled out of my grasp, racing into her room and sitting down to play with her toys.

"can you come play with me daddy?" she shouted, having no spacial awareness and, like most five year olds, forgetting that i was just a few feet away. i walked into the explosion of pink and felt my eyes strain a little, my hangover making the harshness of the tone seem even brighter. my head had only just stopped thumping. i crouched down next to the tiny girl, whose legs were now crossed with each hand holding a toy, and ran my hands through her slightly knotty blonde hair.

"did dad not brush your hair for you this morning?" i asked warily as i untangled each piece, listening carefully as she muttered the voices for each imaginary character. how i envied the simplicity of her worries. she shook her head before thrusting a blue horse into my palm and looking up at me expectantly. "we'll play later. i've got to go talk to dad now, okay?"