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39 || Lifesaver

How To Disappear - Lana Del Rey

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Adrik

I'd read three hundred and thirty seven books by the time i'd turned thirteenth. I read everything from Moby-Dick to Quantum Mechanics: The Theoretical Minimum.

If I didn't know something, I eventually read about it.

I knew everything there was to know about anything and everything. And because of this, I grew meticulous, particular, peculiar. I knew I was different. Special.

My father beat me for it.

And She put me through hell because of it.

There was never a time in my life where I truly ached for an answer I couldn't find in a study, a paper, a book.

But this feeling. The one that was to blame for the tremble in my hands, the heaviness in my chest and the antsiness in my veins. I knew the answer couldn't be found in any form of written text.

Not when the object of my attention isn't something I've read about, but someone I can't bring myself to look away from.

Darkness encases the room, but I can still see her. There's a flush to her cheeks, a natural part to her lips, and then there are her eyes.

Dazed, at ease and sparkling with something so infatuating, I fear the answers I'm looking for are lost within its depths.

My hands smooth down soft skin, bruised from moments ago where the same hands had gripped, squeezed and pushed.

My fingertips linger like it's all I can do to calm myself and she lets me.

She really shouldn't let me.

I touch her lips, the vein in her neck where her pulse thrums, and finally I smooth a hand down her sides as a silent heaviness settles between us.

"What?" Theres a soft rasp to her voice, her anger gone and replaced with a vulnerable tiredness as though she's begun to process what i'd just done. What we'd just done.

My fingers trace further down, to her hips where her legs are still wrapped around my torso. I graze the rough pad of gauze there and she flinches. It's more so an internal reaction than obvious, and I feel it only because she's so close. 

I tilt my head down and pull away slightly to get a view of it. I can't see anything in the dark, but I can feel the sloppiness of her application, the carelessness when it comes to keeping it clean. I cant help but wonder how she'd managed to survive this long on her own.

Slowly, I pull the gauze off, and skim my fingers over my near perfect stitching. She was lucky I'd memorized The Surgeons Guide To A Perfect Stitch years ago.

However she  doesn't even seem to be paying too attention to me, instead, she tightens her legs around me and tightens her hands on my shoulders.

She'd scratched and dug her nails into me, strong enough to sting and hard enough to scar. Yet for once in my life, i'm not bothered about the ugliness scars bring, but by the memories they'll provoke.