MATURE AND EXPLICIT CONTENT. Viewer Discretion is advised.
*The people inside of this work are FACE-CLAIMS. This has no correlation to any IRL individual.*
*This is messy plot. Made when I was a teen. Beware.*
The story of a young woman who finds he...
"Nothing's gonna hurt you baby, nothing's gonna take you from my side..." ♫ Nothing's gonna hurt you, baby by Cigarettes After Sex.
✰ ✰ ✰
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Three Weeks Later | June New York City
For the past three weeks, I'd been living in an absurd, twisted state of oblivion.
Everything? Shit.
Dog shit.
Shitty-shit-dog shit with extra flies on top.
Zayn was gone. Bella was still gone. The Aces were off of the radar and weren't showing any signs of life. Gina was an uncommunicative liar. And the worst thing of all, my anxiety, the lifelong companion I'd coined my other half, was... missing.
For the first time in four years, for the first time in our entire relationship together, waking up without Cherry or without anyone by my side didn't-- not even a little --scare me.
There was no yank on my chest in panic. No pit in my stomach. No itch in my palms.
When I woke up alone, which happened several times, several days in a row, I didn't stop once and wonder where Cherry was. I didn't assume she was hurt or bleeding on the street dying like I used to. I didn't picture her screaming for help and begging me to come save her because someone was dragging her out of the window.
I didn't freak out, and I... hated it.
The only reason being because I knew exactly where Cherry would be every day.
Since the day of her attack, she'd been too afraid to leave our makeshift home of a hotel room.
Even when Niko, Koi and I all offered to take her across the street to get coffee in a barricade of protection, she said no. She wouldn't open the door for room service or maids. She would leave the door cracked open when she used the bathroom or showered, which wasn't often. She rarely ate. Rarely breathed, it felt like. I offered to take her back to Chicago, and give her a break from all of this trouble, and she declined.
She hardly got out of bed.
I was a gross, sick bastard who wanted my anxiety to come crawling back like the ex who cheated on me; I wanted to kiss and make up. Lay one down, a good smack.
Nothing about anything was okay.
My anxiety was replaced with fear about her mental health and her well-being.
It was selfish of me to, but I wanted my old Cherry back.
The one who woke me up with kisses, sang annoyingly every twenty seconds and wore things like fuzzy bear hats unironically.
There were no kisses. There were no jokes or laughter. There was no singing. There was no whoring in bed together, and oh how fucking badly I just wanted to hold her.
