One Word | H.S.

Chapter Forty-Four

Never though I'd have to establish Presley's POV, but shit has become too crazy.

Also, I'm sorry.

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Red's POV

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Cry.

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I forgot that sleep was real.

My arm cascades between the tattered cushions and my neck, eyes hooked on the prison-cell ceiling, tiles of caged wake keeping me from entering my dreams.

The thumping of my dying heart proves I'm still set in reality, that I've not completely lost myself to the bustling ocean that has swept me away, the riptide of unrest.

He's all I think about, and that's quite honorable for him.

My mind is constantly on-go, the blinding, green light never refusing to shift red, even yellow, as I'm completely drowning in a peaceful attachment.

I hate it.

And, I hate that I've found myself captivated by the literal devil.

Used to sit upon my nimble shoulder, whisper the sweet-nothing of deprecation in my ear as he now resides in my heart, a supernova of longing.

Purple explosions, booming charm.

Romeo and Juliet are lightyears ahead of this weakened attempt of a forming relationship, them dying being more romantic than what Pretty Boy and I have.

Romance, development.

The starry night creeps along the never-ending realm above, the celestial circles pumping different beats of momentary gleam. Aiding the darkened sky with the shimmer of post-explosion, their death more promising than life.

Shifting my gaze from the ceiling, my eyes are absolutely hooked on the dreary streets, human souls all restfully rejuvenating their minds as I stay awake.

Never can sleep, silence my thoughts.

Been the longest day of my entire life, the whole jail excursion seeming easy, a walk-in-the-park, compared to everything that has happened today.

Unrestful panic, shifting quickly to normality for myself as I'm unable to calm any rise in my blood pressure, keep the Montague voices silent.

They're hushed right now, but that's because I'm severely intoxicated. They'll be back by morning, tormenting me as I can never seem to catch a break.

I guess I can, but he's not here right now.

My weakened arm hangs from the edge of the couch, the vodka bottle grasped firmly in my grip as the handle grows lighter. Learning from the master himself, the swigs taken are ginormous, getting my fleeting money's worth.

Monet-savvy alcoholic, my newfound title.

The record player rips through the thinning walls, the paint stripping with each scratch of the plastic. The not-so-mysterious song exudes the exact emotion felt, the purple painting my vermillion spirit.