The Heartthrob Won't Leave

Chapter Forty-Three (New Chapters)

"Are you feeling a bit better?" she asked quietly, watching as he nodded in his seat. "Hear my voice, let it soothe you" She leaned up further, still with a calm grasp on his hand. "Think of a place" she insisted, almost a whisper

"What kind of place?" he answered, his voice falling a few noise octaves as well

"I place where you remember being happy" she claimed gently, watching as his eyes stayed closed, his body fell into the chair softly. It was only then that she noticed the rather dark patches that stained the skin below his eyes, not even counting the slight swell still existing across his cheek where the bruise lay, prominent and eye-catching. She wondered if he had been sleeping properly, because it certainly didn't look that way.

"I have it" he responded, lifting up his chin slightly in his seat.

"Tell me" she claimed

"Tell you what?"

"Everything. Tell me what you saw...what you smelled...what you felt" she whispered. He sighed, breathing out deeply.

"My family used to go to the beach all the time-" he claimed "Before I was diagnosed, that is" she watched as he shuttered "Before my father realized his son had been born defective and decided to create a new family instead of staying with the one he already had" Blake found her eyes glossing slightly. "The sand...it was like each granule felt different against my hands...against my feet-" he continued, eyes closed and voice soft "We used to have a dalmatian-" he smiled suddenly "His name was Patches, and he'd always play in the sand with me whenever we went" Suddenly, rather than having his hand within her own, he gripped hers, stopping her fingers from moving against the pressure point between his fingers.

"It as like you could smell the sun...the heat, you know?" she nodded, even though he had his eyes closed. But, she did give his hand a reassuring squeeze "The salt...it smelled like salt"

"That memory is important to you?" she asked gently, watching as he shook his head. "Why is that?"

"A simpler time...I guess" he claimed, truth on his tongue. "When I was a less complex person...living a less complex life" She could understand that. The older you got, the more of the world you started to understand. She kept being reminded of her younger self, as a toddler, claiming that her mother was still alive because she had said she'd always be with her, even when she was nowhere to be found. When she still believed her father loved her, he merely got angry sometimes and had to take it out on her to make himself feel better. In a way, being unaware makes you happier than realizing the truth of what life is, and what it means.

"What about you?" he asked, his eyes fluttering open suddenly, looking at her.

"What do you mean?" she asked

"What do you do to relax?" he questioned, meeting her avoidant eyes. She was still for a few moments, just looking at him. No one has ever asked me that before.

"This isn't about me, it's about you" she retorted, adjusting his hand within her own to continue the pressure point therapy.

"What? I can't ask?" he exclaimed. She just sighed, slumping her shoulders slightly and letting a small smile pull at her features.

"Well..." she started "When I was small, whenever I was upset...there was always somebody that would brush my hair for me"

"Brush your hair?" he asked, seemingly intrigued

"It felt soothing" she responded "It would always stop me from crying" It was Clay that did that when she was little, sitting on her bed behind her as he ran the brush through her hair, every stroke pressing against her scalp. She'd always close her eyes, leaning back, and sometimes she'd even fall asleep against him when he did it. They never spoke, it was always silent, and because of the upheaval within the walls of their home most of the time, there was nothing more relaxing than simply having peace and quiet.