Emperor of Mayhem

t h i r t y - f o u r

From where I sat on the couch in the room, I couldn't help but forget the book I had in hand just to watch Mikhail again, a sudden subconscious habit of mine.

It wasn't as though he was doing anything significant that might have required my rapt attention. He was on his laptop doing heaven knows what but it seemed pretty important to him as his gaze never for once shifted from it. With his reading glasses on which must I confess, made him ten times hotter than he already was, he had his lower lip casually tucked between his teeth in concentration, long fingers running along the keyboard as they made consistent rattling noises.

Having nowhere to go other than being cooped up in the room with nothing to do but to eat, read a book, sleep and repeat the same tiring action, I tended to have found quite a great hobby in simply watching him do anything or even nothing. And you would think watching him 24hrs would tire me out but it didn't. There was no end to his beauty. So no matter how hard or how long I stared, I would still be left drowning in the depths of it.

I sighed dreamily when he leaned off the table, eyes closed as he threw his head back slowly, tattooed hands raised to massage the back of his neck before the head came back to its position again.

His eyes cracked open slowly, and air almost knocked itself out of my lungs when those diamond orbs fell on me, piercing into my soul. And it took me just a breath away from falling off the couch when he flashed me a heart-melting smile that was accompanied with a wink.

Flutter. Flutter. Went that feeling in my chest again, my stomach swimming with butterflies and I felt dizzy.

Clearing my throat, I quickly returned my eyes to the book I had in hand. It was the one he read to me every day when I was in coma. I understood why he chose that when I was reading it for the third time in a row yet still not tired.

The rattling sound of his keyboard began to echo in the room again, indicating that he had saved me the embarrassment and returned to doing his work.

I continued reading my book, but I barely made it through ten pages when I felt the urge to look at him again. It was as though it had become a bad habit, a sort of addiction. I just always needed to look at him as if the more I looked at him, the more I would be convinced that he was real and not a fiction of my imagination.

I simply just found it hard to accept that someone of this nature existed in the life of someone like me. I felt like I didn't deserve him. And he was so kind to me I just didn't know what I did so right to score someone this beautiful as a friend.

I enjoyed being with him, enjoyed his company and heaven knows I was so addicted to the way he treated me like I was some princess. The way he cared for me like I was the most precious thing in the world to him. And God, I loved it when he called me love. To me, that was the sweetest word to my ears.

Loving every minute with this strange, beautiful man who seemed to be more dangerous than I could imagine, I didn't want to know what he could have done to me before my accident that made me tag him a monster and utter such a harsh word as hate to him. If he treated me this well before my memory loss, then I must have adored him for that. And if I adored him, it must have taken some pretty bad shit he probably did to make me call him a monster and say that I hated him. And so whatever that was, I didn't want to know. I was scared to know. Because knowing meant I would have to hate him all over again even though he had done nothing but be the kindest thing in the world to me. Knowing meant I would probably want to leave even though his presence currently felt like home.