raulson

sleepless night

Sarah's POV

I rest my head on Lily's warm chest. The skin to skin contact makes me feel somewhat safe. I trace small circles lightly onto the exposed skin of Lily's stomach , her lose t-shirt having ridden up.
Her hand is gently stroking my hair, her breaths running lightly across my scalp.

I know we're both awake, and probably will stay awake all night.
But I can't bring myself to say anything.
It hurts, it hurts too much. And I just want to freeze this moment, both of us together, our limbs tangled under masses of white sheets, skin touching, breaths hitching.

I don't quite know how I feel, of course I'm upset, but also my body is filled with doubt. How could, after seeing one text, and jumping to conclusions, could she be willing to throw it all away, to make me feel the way she felt for one moment, eternally.

I had always felt, in some ways, empathic towards those murders, who got less time due to the fact it was claimed that their crimes were 'a crime of passion'. To me it felt comforting. ( I know that sounds barbaric but hear me out ) I had always been the type to read those Cinderella stories as a child, how the princess finds a prince and falls head over heels in love. Of course the Prince Charming side of things never appealed to me, but this 'love' that was so hyped up about felt so un-reachable to me yet unbearably desirable.

When I was in my teens I doubted the mere existence of love. To me it all seemed like drunken make-outs in filthy public toilets, rushed sexual encounters, and meaningless conversations over nothing much in particular, and to be honest that didn't appeal to me.

But these stories, these 'crimes of passion' ,they made me realise that maybe love is real. This strange thing, that can posses a person, can fill their every cell, cloud their every thought.
Of course the crimes were despicable and totally unforgivable. But something about the idea resided in me.

In some far fetched way, what Lily did could have been described as an act of passion. Or at least I imagine that's the way she'll sugar coat it when she tells me.
She acted impulsively, defensively when she saw the message, and thought only with her heart and not with her head.
I'm sure that fits the definition, right?

I feel sleep tug at my eyes, begging to take over my body. But I fight against it, I know if I let it take me, I will only be bombarded my ravenous nightmares.

I notice that the breaths escaping Lily's mouth are even and slow now, and her hand has stopped tracing my hair but is laying flat on the pillow next to us.

I check the time
"Fuck" I murmur.
It's 4.55am, definitely too late to even think about sleep, yet still to early to get up.

I content myself with the idea of lying here thinking for afew more hours. But I decide against it.

"I need a hot shower" I think to myself. A hot shower will somehow rid me of my burdens, wash away my sticky tears and replace them with clear droplets of scorching water.

I climb slowly out of our bed, and grab my silk white night gown, wrapping it impossibly close to my shaking body.
Goose bumps erupt all over my porcelain skin as I tip toe over to the bathroom.

The cool marble floor feels nothing like the cheap linoleum stuff I imagine was in Lily's old bathroom.
I picture her, hunched up against the bath. Her sweaty skin sticking to the cheap surface beneath her, and crimson blood trickling down her skin, forming swirling puddles of the floor.
Her body bruised and her cheeks wet.

I can't blame her, I can't be angry at her, how could I?
She was broken, just like me, and we needed to fix each other.