BOOK II.
Four months have passed since Ashton and Ria's relationship fell into ruins. He's convinced that she hates him and she believes he never loved her. Giving up on each other, they attempt to mend their loneliness in the arms of their past; Ch...
❝You have no idea what I went through to be with you again.❞
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OBSIDIAN INKDEVOURS Ashton as he strikes his paintbrush across a virgin canvas. He stares at the surface, unwavering, falling into the painting as if falling into the sky. A starless night. Demons surround him covered in blood; crimson blood pouring from their sinister smiles.
The urge is here. The itch in his fingertips. The buzz in his ears. The dryness of his tongue, salivating for one innocent dose. A dose to keep the talons of these beasts from ripping at his soul.
Remember the steps. Find your sanctuary.
Ashton dips his brush into the maroon paint on his palette and drags them across the stained surface. Midnight bleeds into maroon, birthing a distorted image. They reflect the inky hues seeping into his chest. They fill his lungs until he's drowning.
Drowning.
Drowning.
Pain cracks up his jaw as he grinds his teeth together. Find your sanctuary. Your light. He dips stained bristles into the darkest blue he can find and flings it across the bleeding canvas. Every cell in his body is in flames. Breaths become laborious as he glowers at his creation.
It's horrific.
A lifeless abyss sucks him into its depths and imprisons him with every sin he's committed. It taunts him and teases his will, dangling his darkest temptations over his ravenous soul.
Where is his light?
He needs his light.
He needs-
"Ria," he pants, "after all this time I still rely on you. Why?" he yells.
Rearing back, Ashton flings his palette across the room, sending it crashing into the nearest white wall of his makeshift studio. It clangs and splatters a mess of dark blues, reds, blacks and bleak greys across the once plain surface; dripping like his resolve.
Fuck. Ashton digs his fingers through his hair and bows his head over his knees, foot tapping against the wooden leg of his stool.
Painting isn't working.
He's going to have to tell Dr. Rosenberg that they need a new method. He simply can't do this.Flashes of Ria seep into the most vulnerable parts of his mind despite his attempt to banish her.
Living a new life isn't working.
"Ashton?" The delicacy of Vivian's voice, stained in timidity, enters the room before she peeks around the corner and witnesses the mess he's become.
Trying to love Vivian isn't working.
"I'm sorry," he croaks, though he's not. Ashton isn't anything but frustrated and stressed beyond belief. After trying to hate Ria for the last month, he's only succeeded in making himself think about her even more.
