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I wrote this story when young, it critically needs editing and correction which I'm trying to finish as fast as I possibly can. Either wait with reading it or suit yourself when you get to the 2017-chapters.
adore you,
x Michelle ♡
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Scarlet Archer's POV
Opening my eyes to a new day was painful.
Opening my eyes and seeing Avery's sheets below me?
Torturous.
My body's heavy, my eyes two fires that my eyelids can't handle. Pushing myself up, I take a few moments to just sit in complete silence, paralysis, trance. My head's blasting with whatever toxic gas it is that's inflated it, my dry throat and filthy skin both demanding water.
I cautiously make my way out of the room and down the stairs, my balance, my sight, my steps similar to the ones of a hangover, a system recently hacked and trying to get back up on its feet. That system in question was in fact my immune system. Something is not right in my body.
When on the last step of the stairs, air is sucked out of my body, a sensation I fucking hate, especially since it's triggered by absolutely nothing.
I fight it down, burying it deep in my core and turning my head in the opposite direction of where I was planning on going, drawn by the grunts coming from the end of the hall leading to Chloe's room, my feet slowly steering me towards it, until the view shoves me two steps back. The air knocks out of me again, my own body slowly pissing me off.
Snap out of it.
The door opposite of Chloe's, one I've never walked through and won't be able to now either, reveals Avery. In nothing but a pair of black sweatpants, he's doing pull-ups in a quick, aggressive manner, sweat glistening on his back, two wireless earbuds in his ears. His legs are intertwined, grip hard around the metal pole, his hair glued to his skin where sweat connects the two.
I watch him.
For a few seconds, I watch his back, I follow the droplets of sweat as they find a path on his skin to travel down, either collecting in the visible hem of his boxers, or hitting the floor with a splat I manage to hear when I focus hard enough. I watch the muscles in his arms as they work their way through destruction to rebuilt what he's burning to the ground each time he goes up, down, up, down, up, down, up.....
Down.
Until he doesn't go up anymore.
He stands in the door, his position the one I can imagine the one of the fallen angel's was when he was kicked out of heaven. A beauty indeed, on his way to rule a hell he's being punished with, and for. His head bowed, all grace having left him.
A beauty indeed.
But a tragic one.
There's a certain sickening ugliness in this kind of beauty.
An overload, an unbearable, overwhelming, but yet, irresistible ugliness.
Hands on his hips, he breathes for a few seconds, reaching for something and in disappointment over whatever he finds, throwing a bottle of thick glass across the floor of the room, drawing out a shriek of fear from me before he turns around with the same beautiful ugliness, not ready to cover it up but forced to do so when he sees me.
