Our fallen souls [EN] (High Enough) : VOLUME 1

35 - Joséphine

I turn over and over in the bed.

"I've let myself go with this guy, I've done things to him, I've never done, and he's doing this to me?" I say aloud.

I get out of bed, my mind in turmoil, and walk in circles around the room, unable to find any appeasement. Hatred grows inside me, a seething rage that drives me to act.

"I'm going to kill him," I whisper with cold determination.

In a gesture of anger, I throw a cushion on the floor, the scene before me might seem ridiculous to others, but at this moment, I don't care. I hesitate for a moment, torn between the idea of barging into his house at three in the morning to express everything I think, or simply ignoring him. But ignoring him is impossible.

I dress quickly, slipping a bathrobe over my nightie, my head full of swirling thoughts. I grab a cigarette, place it between my lips, and light the glowing end in my apartment.

Without further thought, I storm out of my house and down the stairs, my resolve unshaken.

How could he think he could take me for a bloody toy?

My fist knocks frantically at his door, as I take several puffs from my cigarette, not giving a damn about smoking in the corridor.

The door finally opens, and I face Blake, dressed only in jogging bottoms, still drowsy, and rubbing his eyes to ward off sleep.

"Jo?"

Without waiting, I enter his house, jostling him, and he closes the door behind me. A small lamp lights up, casting a subdued glow in his space.

"What the hell are you doing here at three in the morning?"

"Think about it," I replied, tension pulsing in my voice.

"Look, if this is about..."

"I hate you," I cut him off sharply, not letting him finish his sentence. "You played me for a fool, I hate you."

He lights a cigarette in turn, and a sigh escapes his tired lips. "I already told you I didn't," he murmurs, sounding sincere despite his defensiveness.

"Bollocks."

"So, you're telling me that you, Joséphine Evans, came downstairs in your damn bathrobe at three in the morning to yell at me?" he asks, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"Yes, I did."

"You're crazier than I thought..."

"Something wrong? This is what it feels like to be taken for a skittle."

"Oh, stop, damn it. What language do I have to say it in? I wouldn't have brought you here if you were like the other two."

I take a drag from my cigarette, staring at him intently, as if scrutinizing every inch of his being. "I've touched you, you've touched me, two things I've never done in my whole miserable life, and you dare to say to me afterward: I don't want you to regret?"

He looks up at me, frowning at my assertion.

"You've never touched a guy before, either?"

"Kyle wasn't exactly preliminary, Blake," I want to tell him.

I sigh slightly at his reaction. It's strange to be so vulnerable and honest with someone like him. Usually, I keep my distance, keeping my intimacy to myself. But with him, it's different. He has this way of pushing me to reveal myself, to confront me with emotions I'd carefully buried.

"I don't want you to regret it," he says gently, this time without a trace of cynicism.

"I'm not a fucking child."