Lethal Love

1 ; You Snooze, You Lose

A/N: 

First off, THANK YOU for reading this story!

I've been a hardcore fan of Wattpad for almost three years now. I've read countless stories about badboys, mafia men and goodgirls. And I've loved them all.

Between passionate fights and beautiful love scenes, I've also fallen in love with writing. So, here I am. Trying to write my own story.

This story will be somewhat cliché, but I'll try to put my own twist on it.

This is my first story, so be kind in the comments :) But I do appreciate constructive criticism as it will help my writing skills. I also don't mind if you comment grammatical errors as it will help me in the 'editing process' ;) (PS, english is not my first language, although I think my english is fairly good since I do only read/write in english when possible)

Happy reading!

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It's two, maybe three AM. I don't really know, I'm too tired. 

I'm sitting at my desk in front of my mirror. My cheek is stained with blue painting and I rub it off, a little to harshly.

It's the same, my reflection. And I should be glad for that, right? I should be glad that my wrists are clean and that my cheeks are dry. I should be glad that my stomach is relaxed and that my frame is squared. 

But I'm not.

And I feel guilty for that. Because what right do I have to be this miserable that I feel I am. People in Africa are dying of hunger, children in Asia are locked up in factories and our own planet is slowly suffocating. 

God, I'm an awful person, I think. 

"Get your shit together," I say. "You're not miserable. You're just making it up." I sit in front of the mirror for a few more minutes before getting into my bed.

I position my body so that I can look out the windows to my right. The blinds are up, as always. 

But I turn and lie on my other side again because the stars aren't out dancing tonight. They're tucked away somewhere behind the clouds. 

...

I startle up from my phone vigorously vibrating on my nightstand, making a God awful noise.

I quickly turn off the alarm and check for messages. None. It's 06.30 and I really need to get up.

"Jesus Christ why do I always do this?" I mutter to myself, regretting staying up so late.

I sigh and let my eyes wander around for a while. All corners of my room are clutter-free, besides my desk which sports a few small tubs of paint. 

The sun is shining through my windows at my right, illuminating the whole room, as rays from the sun reflect on my vanity mirror on the opposite side. My walls are a muted gray while my ceiling is a crisp white color. 

To my left my phone starts furiously shagging my nightstand again.

"Okay okay, I'm coming..." I say. My left arm reaches for my phone as my feet land on the soft white carpet on the ground. 

I quickly head to my bathroom and do my usual morning routine. 

My brother shoves past me on the stairs and I almost fall face first.

"Hey! Watch it bugger!" I yell. 

He doesn't even turn around, barely mumbling a «sorry» before he's out of my sight, probably heading for the kitchen. My eyes bulge at this and my feet fasten their pace. 

I'm running like a wild animal through half our house before I make it to the kitchen, breathing like my grandpa when he walks up the stairs.

"Mom! Save some pan-" I realize now that it's too late as I see Tyler practically inhaling the delicious golden circles.

"Ha! You snooze, you lose," Tyler says, shoving his tongue out at me.

"Oh, sorry honey. That was the last one," my mother says. She's still in her blue silk robe, standing behind  the stove on our kitchen island. Her auburn hair is in a low ponytail and her face is green. From a face-mask I should add. Her hands are resting on the marble kitchen top and she's smiling at me. 

I give a slight smile back before grabbing a red apple from the silver bowl on the counter.

"You should really start making more pancakes, mom," Tyler says. His voice is muffled from the three pancakes he just stuffed in that inhumanly big mouth of his. 

I see my mothers lips part and I quickly add, "or you should start eating less.»"

Tyler looks at me. He furrows his eyebrows and place a hand on his chest, as if offended. 

"Excuse me? I eat however much I see fit. I'm a growing boy, might I add."

I roll my eyes. "Well, if that's the case, you wont see your clothes fit anymore," I say. 

I chuckle when his eyes narrow.

"I'm not fat." He crosses his arms over his chest. 

"Oh I didn't say you were," I say. 

He holds his glare at me as he makes his way out of the kitchen. I smile at him while taking a few bites from my apple. 

I turn my attention to my mother who is wiping down the countertop. I'm fascinated by her concentration. 

"So mom. Did dad leave for work already?"

Her movements halt for a moment. "Yeah, about fifteen minutes ago."

I frown slightly. My dad has been working a lot more lately. He's had early meetings and late calls everyday for the past few months. But I guess it's a good thing though since business is «booming» as he would say. 

He owns a law firm. A very successful law firm he'd want me to add. I picture my dad at these early meetings, seeing him in a dark grey suit and black tie. His eyes crinkling at the corners when he gets what he wants, and his lips tightly put together when he doesn't. 

I can see his hands brushing through his salt and pepper hair when he's frustrated and his hands resting on his hips as he has to make a decision. 

He's a good lawyer. No scratch that. He's a really good lawyer. And I envy him for his work ethic. I really do. He's worked hard from day one. He's worked hard ever since he saw my mother.

Their love story is honestly really cliche, but I cant help but love it. I remember my dad telling me and Tyler the story around the dinner table with my mom making comments and correcting it if he got something wrong. He always missed a few details, but he did it on purpose to tease my mother. 

My mother, Rose. Her name was my middle name. Adeline Rose Benedetto. My brothers middle name was my dads name, Tyler Ivan Benedetto. 

She was happy with her life even if half her family was of Italian heritage. At least I thought so. 

As the thoughts are running through my head I find myself studying my mom. She's currently picking at a spot on the counter with her cloth. She's been at it for several minutes, and I'm convinced it's just a part of the marble design. 

But I choose not to word it out and just make my way out of the kitchen instead. 

My feet, which are clad in a pair of worn out Vans, make a squeaky noise as I walk through the house. For a minute I'm scared my shoes will leave a stain, but I shrug it off and just walk out the door  without looking back.

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A/N: 

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