09| winged wolf on a rope

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Two months had passed.

Neither of those months spent in Forks Point, due to Lana's orders. Jenny and I instead stayed in a small motel just on the outskirts of Vegas, a remote location that would apparently "hide my scent." I've hated every second of these two months and have also grown to hate Jenny.

It's immature, but I blame her. I blame her for sending me her and erasing my connection with Lana. I blame her for the sleepless nights. I blame her for trying to kiss me repeatedly after I told her I wanted nothing to do with her. I blame her.

I'm not absolved from criticism either. My previous infatuation with Jenny was painfully obvious and I cringe at how callous and unfairly I treated my mate.

All she wanted was for me to see things on her side, I mused regretfully.

It was too late now--she had probably forgotten about me and all the trouble I caused. Maybe she even found someone worthy of her attention. "Marcus," Jenny murmured quietly. "It's time to go."

Today was the day we were leaving the motel and thus returning me to my regular life. Without Lana. Sighing, I roll my belongings outside to the second-hand black car we were driving to get to Forks Point.

I sit in the car, unaware of Jenny's dreamy brown eyes staring at me, unwavering. I was unaware of most things these days. "Today is the day Marcus," she finally says, facing the road as we drove. "You're free."

We pass clusters of trees and bark, each one identical to the last. The sounds of drums and wave patterns flow through my ears, the low, growling voice of the singer like smoky tendrils clutching deep into my scattered soul. It didn't however block the slow whine that had occupied my brain for the past 8 weeks, nor did it soothe the aching emptiness that filled my body. I'm sorry, I wanted to scream. I'm sorry I'm so weak. We make a stop at a remote petrol station to refill the tank. "Marcus," Jenny begins, her slim fingers firmly grasping the obsidian carbon fiber of the gas tank. "You've barely said a word the whole journey. Are you hungry? Do you want me to get you a sandwich or something?" I ignore her, focusing on the solemn lyrics of the artist blaring from my earphones.

"Fine, ignore me. This may be the last time we ever see each other, but okay. Fine." It's those words that catch my attention and I slowly spin my head towards her, the expression on my face causing her to gasp silently. "You act like after all you've done, that I want to see you again." Not caring to hear her answer (that would probably come in the form of a whine or a "you didn't care about her anyways!") I spend most of the drive buried in a comic or lost in the patterns of the music of my IPod, effectively ignore Jenny's attempts to start a conversation.

After what feels like years later, we arrive at the entrance of my house. A gasp escapes my lips, betraying my shock and surprise.

The house was in near ruins.

The edges of the walls has nearly chipped off, the rotten pieces of paint and plaster covering the grass in a grotesque manner. The camel brown roof with its symmetrical tiles now lay sunken and abandoned, the familiar white stain of bird feces decorating the beige color with spots of trickled white.

The windows were fogged with dusts and intricate spider webbing, the slight porcelain strings interlocking in a never ending dance across the dirtied glass of the windows. The peonies that once decorated the lively flower beds have withered and died, the lifeless leave swaying pathetically in the chill, brisk air.

The atmosphere is haunting and deadly silent; a desolate feeling encasing the exterior of the neglected building. The front door was obviously damaged; as if someone had tried to break in using some sort of hammer or metal instrument.

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