inferno | 18+

XVI

"I am I and my circumstance."
- José Ortega y Gasset,
Meditations on Quixote

DEVINA

The cut on my face is healing slowly, but healing. It's been a week since everything with Pilgrim. I wouldn't say I'm myself again; I think that version died the same night Pilgrim did. But I'm better; stronger. I've barely seen Zakaria this week. An invisible wall has been built around us. Whenever I walk into the kitchen, and he's there he suddenly has business in the garage. Whenever I walk outside to get some fresh air, and see him I decide it's too windy to stay outside.

None of us has spoken about the kiss we shared. I know we kissed in the club, but part of me believes it's because I was feeding into his thoughts. Into the twisted idea that I could be the Harley to his Joker. Something in me was begging to let in; to let go; to be what he wants me to be, only to do something right in my life for once. To be able to feel wanted; needed; loved. But I know deep down that it's all a lie.

Everything he's telling me; doing to me; making me think is lies. He's a psychopath. He'll do anything in his power to get what he wants, when he wants it, and he'll eliminate anyone that decides to block his path. Zakaria doesn't understand his own emotions; how is he going to convince me that he can form any kind of relationship, platonic and romantic?

I think the boys are here with him because they owe him. I think if they had the chance they'd run like hell.

"Good morning."

My head turns to the living room. Speak about the devil. I smile at him, taking another sip of my espresso. Henry and Zain brought coffee this morning, and had it in their hearts to buy me some pyjamas. I was getting tired of stealing Zakaria's clothes anyway. Liar. I watch him from my peripheral, as he walks toward the kitchen and opens the fridge. He just looks in it, his hand on his hip.

Did I mention he wasn't wearing a shirt? He turns his head slowly, and I quickly turn my eyes down, looking at the marble counter. How pretty. I don't even have to look at him, to know he's smiling like a maniac right now. He closes the fridge door, and I look up seeing the grease marks on the door from his hands. He walks back to where he came from, and I arch my brow, getting up from the barstool. I grab my espresso and follow him. He opens the garage door, from inside the house, and I follow like a lost puppy, suddenly intrigued in what the hell he's building. If I'm lucky it's a plane to get me the hell away from wherever we are.

I stand in the door, and look at the red Formula One car that's just parked in his garage. I almost spit my coffee out of my mouth. I don't think he's aware of my presence right now. I watch him work the engine, his back muscles tensing every time he reaches for something. His dreadlocks are put up in a bun, and a pair of headphones sit on his head. I take my opportunity to look around at what he's got going in his little cave.

My eyes catch a glimpse of the electric guitar that's plastered on the wall, but my snooping is cut short, when I hear him hum. I feel my heart swoon, and mentally faceplant myself for even letting that affect me. I take a seat on the steps, listening to him humming the song he's listening to. How can someone so evil, look so kind? He looks peaceful in his own world, doing what he loves. He almost looks normal.

I don't have enough time on my hands to get up and run, when he turns around. My cheeks set aflame, and I'm sitting there like an awestruck moron, with my coffee on my lap, my head resting in my head, watching him fix his car, listening to him hum.

"Snooping isn't our thing, angel," he grins at me, and I try my best not to bow down to his intimidating look.

"I wouldn't call it snooping," I answer, burying my head in my coffee.

"No?" -he gets up from his chair and takes a step toward me. I stand up in pure panic, not knowing what to do- "what would you call it then?" he continues, holding eye contact. I look down at our feet, because they're suddenly much more interesting. My eyes grow twice their size when I feel his hand scoop my head up by my chin.

"You're an absolutely stunning, murderous little creature," he whispers, his eyes going back and forth between my eyes and lips. My body is fuming right now. Everything in me is telling me to lean in, and connect our lips. But I don't. I won't be the Harley to his Joker. I won't.

"Do you play?" I ask, completely disregarding how close we're standing and what he just told me. He scoffs, and backs away. I watch him bring his hands up to his face, before he rubs his chin.

"Yeah, Devina I do," he answers in a different tone. My heart sinks to my stomach- did I upset him?

"Can I hear?" I ask shooting my shot where it doesn't belong. He looks at me as if I've lost my mind for a whole minute. Then he walks toward the guitar, and takes it down from the wall. I sit down on my assigned seat again, and watch him plug the cords into the amp. He tones the guitar, and plays a quick riff.

My jaw nearly drops by the sound of it. He turns the amp down a notch, and puts his fingers on the strings. The song he plays sounds a lot like the one he was humming. I watch him as if he's the only thing to watch on earth. I could watch him do nothing for hours, and the thought of getting bored wouldn't cross my mind.

My eyes move up to his face. The look on it is almost indescribable. A mix of passion, and concentration. The slight furrow in his left brow. The tongue that's peeking out of his mouth. Everything about him right now screams angelic. He stops midway, and my brows go up. I straighten my back taking it as my cue to get the hell out of the garage, and go watch the news on the tv again.

"Come here," he says, his voice softer than cushions.

I do as he says, with no hesitation in mind. He pats his lap, and I sigh before taking a seat. "Do you know how to play?" he asks me, his warm breath hitting my neck. The hairs on it rise, and I gulp before shaking my head. He grabs my hand, and places it on the strings. He then separates my fingers, and places each finger on each string. He puts his own over mine, and just like that we're playing.

I smile listening to the tunes we're creating at this very moment. I follow his lead, and get comfortable. I lean back into him, and feel his body heat radiating onto me. I can feel his heart pumping against my back, and something about that comforters me. My fingers slowly let go, and he picks up where I left off, finishing the song off with a soft riff.

He places the guitar up against a shelf, but makes sure one of his hands is plastered on my lap. His unspeakable way of telling me to stay seated. He brings his other hand back to himself. I sigh when I feel his index finger run down my spine.

"Memento Mori," he says under his breath, and I suddenly become hyper-aware of my tattoo.

"Remember you must die," I translate.

"Sounds pretty grunge to me," he jokes and I smile a little. "Are you feeling okay?" he asks me, and I nod my head, knowing if I try and use my voice something stupid will leave my mouth. "I don't like it when we avoid each other. I won't bring you with me anymore. I'm- I'm sorry if I wanted too much from you," he struggles. The fact that he can find it in himself to apologise even though he probably doesn't understand why it's needed is enough.

"It's okay," I answer him honestly. He lets a breath out, and rests his head against my back.

"What is it you do to me, Devina?" he asks, and I freeze, not knowing what to say.

"That song we played. What's it called? It sounded familiar."

"Falling In Love by Cigarettes After Sex," he answers and my heart shrinks.

I have no idea what kind of limbo he and I are stuck in, but I know it's killing me. All I want to do is be able to give in. To know that he's willing to change for the better. But that'd be me setting myself up for disaster, and I may want it now, but is it worth dying for in the end?