A Perfect Stitch

Chapter 69 | very delusional solution

"My back arches against the wall."

"His hands are everywhere, touching, teasing, grabbing."

"His calloused palms travel the length of my beach shorts, stopping abruptly in between my slender legs. Just then, a low groan escapes my lips, my hips squeezing around his fingers, begging for release which he denies with a grin."

"It is a wicked grin that is short-lived."

"He wants to be in control. He actively seeks for total control over me. That is why he leans forward to whisper dirty degrading things into my ears."

"His eyes forever green have darkened with desire. And my knees have given up, the pressure in my belly building. That is when he gets full control over me. That is when he positions himself at my entrance. That is when he claims what has always been his. That is when he claims me. He is now in control and the bastard knows."

Brielle's reaction to the last paragraph was immediate.

She threw a cushion across the living room, crossing her legs tighter than a Gordian knot while squirming in her seat at the audiobook playing on her Kindle.

Her cheeks were flushed, sporting a dazzling shade of neon red, perhaps it was even cherry pink, but my mind was crowded with a lot of things, making it an impossibility to focus on the forbidden romance we had been listening to for the past hour.

She had made a comment that necessitated a reply, something regarding the characters, but my brain was idling like a broken record, busy sorting out reasons as to why Elisabeth's narrative of the night of March 15th was biased whereas she was the one who initiated a relationship with someone who had no interest in her.

Elisabeth's delusion was pathetic.

It had landed her a first-class ticket to misery.

Not only had she asked a guy out, which anybody in her shoes would have done, but she had also blamed him for the lack of attention when the guy in question just dated her because of her delusional obsession.

Hear me out, context mattered.

Nobody should lead someone on.

Hence, I had frowned bitterly at Dwain's decision to date Elisabeth because of the incurable crush she had for him, despite the lack of affection for her.

No matter his reasons, introducing Elisabeth to an obscured lifestyle she had only tolerated because of the feelings she had developed for him wasn't ethical.

As I pieced out the puzzle of their tragic encounter, my brain went into a slump.

Elisabeth's delusion was comedic.

It required a solution.

However, this wasn't about her anymore.

It was about Dwain.

He needed to know the truth.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, my mind was troubled.

The thoughts irked my conscience each time I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, still unable to ignore the striking resemblance I shared with Elisabeth.

My mind, a tempestuous sea, churned with waves of anxiety, crashing against the shores of reason, reasons as to why Elisabeth resembled me.

Perhaps, we should have done a DNA test?

Even if it were true that we were twins, what were the odds?

How would I convince Elisabeth to take the test?

What if the test turned out negative?

How would we explain the resemblance?

I was identical to Elisabeth.

Likewise, she was identical to me.

Maybe I should just give the test a try?

After all, there was nothing to lose.

Keeping my identity a secret was unbearable.

Honesty was the only way forward.

I had to find a creative way to reveal the truth to Dwain.

Images of Dwain's previous reaction to my visit to Serenity Inn flashed like lightning bolts, illuminating the darkness within.

My mind, a kaleidoscope of emotions, spun in a whirlwind of confusion, unable to find solace amidst the chaos.

No matter the odds, Dwain would know the truth tonight.

My mind was made up.

But, I was still worried.

If someone were to be picked at random and asked to describe a worried mind, chances are they would say a lot of things linked to their individual experiences.

To describe a worried mind, context mattered.

If I were asked a similar question, asked to describe a worried mind, my take on the subject matter would be different from another person's description.

Yet, there would be some degree of similarity.

What's the similarity someone might ask?

A worried mind was a labyrinth.

Inside the labyrinth of a worried mind, thoughts danced like restless shadows, their edges sharp and jagged.

Doubts, like vultures circling above, cast their ominous shadows, ready to feast on any semblance of peace.

In this chaotic garden of thoughts, a hurricane of worry swirled, uprooting the roots of tranquility.

Like a spider's web woven with intricate threads, each thought entangled with the next, forming a tangled mess of uncertainties.

In the depths of this troubled psyche, a symphony of whispers echoed, each note a delicate reminder of impending doom.

The weight of the world rested upon fragile shoulders, bearing down with the force of a mountain, threatening to crumble the very foundation of sanity.

Each flicker revealed a different facet of fear, like shards of broken glass reflecting distorted versions of reality.

In the depths of this worried mind, a battle raged, between the desire for peace and the fear of what lay beyond.

But even in the darkest corners of this troubled psyche, a flicker of resilience burned, a tiny flame refusing to be extinguished.

It whispered hope, a gentle reminder that storms do pass and that even the most tangled of thoughts can find clarity.

In the labyrinth of a worried mind, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, lay the seeds of transformation, for it is within these depths that strength is forged, and the courage to face the unknown is born.

And with each step taken, the worried mind begins to unravel, revealing a path towards serenity, where the storms of worry are but distant memories.

Brielle broke my trance of thought, startling me with tales of her wild dating life.

From crazy nights out to fiery arguments with one of Dwain's sworn enemies, there was never a dull moment in Brielle's world.

I couldn't help but be both fascinated and amused by Brielle's audacity.

Engrossed in our conversation, we failed to notice the tiny footsteps approaching the living room.

It was none other than Liam, the adorable six-year-old with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Just as Brielle was recounting a particularly scandalous encounter involving a rooftop kiss, Liam burst into the room, clutching a lacy bra in his tiny hands.

His innocent curiosity was palpable as he gazed at the mysterious undergarment, completely unaware of the chaos he was about to unleash.