𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞-𝐝𝐞𝐮𝐱
𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚝
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H I M
All I saw was red as I moved across the cracked, foliage covered road. The only thing on my mind was Eleanor.
If I had learned anything from knowing her, it was that all actions have consequences.
That night, in the infirmary, the only thing on my mind was her. No future, no past. Just right then. This beautiful girl letting a deformed monster touch her. Something I had wanted, had dreamt of, had lusted for in an almost innocent yearning manner. Something I could not have unless it was given to me outright. I don't know why she let me, why she gave it to me. I had hoped it was because things were going to change. That she would accept me and her feelings for me.
But then afterwards, she shed me off of her, like a bird prunes unwanted feathers. Nothing hurt more than the walls she encased herself in. Why are you hiding from me? I've already seen everything. I know your heart. I want to take care of it. But she distanced herself all the same. As if it had never happened. And my joy turned to shame. She thought it was a mistake, that we were a mistake. She would come to my room at night and sleep on the mattress two feet away yet so far. While she eventually grew to accept a small gesture fingers on skin or even a deft kiss, she was not mine to hold, even after we had touched in the oldest known way.
But that gentle sin had a consequence we now suffered. The unintended creation of a new life.
How one moment we shared months ago can change the direction of everything. Can alter what once mattered into an entirely new set of responsibilities.
Can you imagine loving someone so much it physically hurts? I see her and she's just so beautiful that my breath catches in my throat and I just stand there strangled by my own adoration? To touch her was to die and be reborn all in one second. To know her was a merciful gift to an undeserving sinner and proof that perhaps there was some ultimate higher being that answered the prayers of a lonely boy who once cried himself to sleep in the cold dark.
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ALL THE LOVELY BAD ONES | CARL GRIMES
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