ओह! यह छवि हमारे सामग्री दिशानिर्देशों का पालन नहीं करती है। प्रकाशन जारी रखने के लिए, कृपया इसे हटा दें या कोई भिन्न छवि अपलोड करें।
𝕵UL didn't cry. She wasn't a crier, she hadn't cried since that night twelve years ago.
Emotions just thickened and went stale. She liked to let them sit and curl up blackley, food for thought, a reason to be lonely. Last night she'd been desperate for tears, wanting a real and tangible kind of release. They never came.
She slept late into the next day, the September sun hot and accusatory through the window, yelling brightly. When she woke properly after nightless drifting, tangled up in her bedsheets somewhere around one, she kept her eyes closed; desperate to remain asleep. Unconscious and unaffected.
Sleep was a fake kind of friend to Jul. The day after her parents had died someone had plunged her under with a sedative; she'd woken up, heavy and blissful, completely out of it, the horrors buried somewhere in her conscience. Like she'd mowed it all down into a nightmare she couldn't remember.
Then her Aunt Marie had come in and sat on the edge of her bed and said, methodical and catholic, that her parents were gone and all that gory horror was true.
It was like that now. The remnants of sleep were wearing off, her brain balled up into a bad hangover, and underneath it all she could still remember everything she wanted to forget.
You're cute. Don't get me wrong. Each word thumped painfully in her head, his voice echoing, still velvet, low and liquid. Addictive.
She squeezed her eyes harder, turning her eyelids hot pink in the sun. Leave me alone, she thought lamely, the memory sending an unwanted thrill through her. Just leave me alone.
