𝒂𝒎𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒂𝒎･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒊.

ii.

I watched Boris deposit the coat into the incinerator, freeing me a little more from the previous events.

"Do you want to wait here? Rest up a bit?" He glanced at my blood stained cuffs, "Get out of those clothes? No use in dragging you into shops now. You're white as a sheet."

The last thing I felt like doing was shopping, so I agreed to stay in the flat— an artist loft, practically empty except for a few frames and fake plants I assume came with the place. There were two floors to the apartment— the second floor visible from below, and a tiny bedroom located up the stairs. He gave me a "tour" of the place and let me have an old collared shirt of his before leaving again. Ultimately, now I could relax and attempt to forget about the problems I suddenly left at home. Everything was starting to get better, and for the first time in a while, things were feeling "normal"— if that's the right word for it. I still committed a felony, more than once— which would haunt me for a long while— if not the rest of my life. But it was all out of good intention.

I must've passed out on the couch for a while, because when I jolted awake, Boris was already back, messing around with things in the kitchen.

I sat up slowly and adjusted my glasses, remembering where I was. Boris— realizing I was awake, came over to me in a rush and put the back of his hand up to my forehead. "Boris what the fuck—"

"Thought so," He revealed a bottle of penicillin and needle. "This will help make you feel much better."

"I don't need that."

"You do too— look at yourself! I know these things," He grabbed my arm and rolled up the sleeve to inject the medicine. I made a face of discomfort. "There. All done. Want something to eat?"

"Uh— what time is it?"

"Almost 5pm. You slept for a good while, must be very hungry."

I adjusted my sleeve back as before. "Sure."

"Good! I'll stir something up and we can put on some Holiday movies." Boris ruffled the hair on my head before returning to the kitchen.

I Remembered back to the days where I would cook the meat we stole from the grocery store, and Boris would just sit on the counter babbling on and on— "You cook now?"

"Yes! It is Miracle!"

"I don't believe you." I stood up and made my way to the kitchen island. Marble countertops. The place was so white and bare, but somehow it still felt completely comfortable.

"Doesn't matter— I'll show you," He was banging around, looking for utensils, "I make a good soup."

I shrugged and slowly sank into one of the kitchen stools. My face felt hot still from the fever, and I was sweating profusely. I thought back to Pippa, Hobie, and Kitsey— how suddenly and inappropriately I left. Maybe I should call the shop. Tell them I'll be home soon. But the thought of talking to anyone about all of this already made me nauseous.

~~~