Ace (HS)

Witchcraft

He was entranced. Dark against light, cold against warmth, soft against rough. The most mesmerizing and haunting incongruities that casted a deep, dark spell on him. She was a witch, she had to be. Her sinful lips, tainted the most sweetest shade of red, called for him like a lonesome white pill calling out to its addict. He could almost feel her hands, touching him but never really touching him. It had been a year now, and finally he could see her facade. She didn't care for him at all. It took him seeing multiple hickeys on her neck to realize this. He knew now there was no authenticity to her words or her touch. There never had been.

She was a ghost, perhaps.

Her beauty still lived but the part of her that had once been somewhat humane, was now dead. Her eyes, now that he could see beyond their enchantment, were lifeless. Could she even see with them? Was the world in her eyes colorful like the one she imposed on him?

Sitting there in his desk chair, his back arched with the weight of his realizations, he stared at her as she lay on his bed. The sight was fluid and romantic; she was the perfect muse for any artist. The waves of her hair complemented the soft creases in the silk sheets draped around her, and the creamy pigment of her skin looked so pleasing amid the bed of white.

She was peering up at him through her eery lashes, her head near the edge of the bed. Any other day, and Stephan would've already dove into the lustful feast that was right before him. Not today though. His mind was too saddened by his thoughts for his hormones to control him like usual.

She doesn't love me. She doesn't love anyone.

This is what hurt him the most.

This beautiful, angelic woman that he had been so deeply infatuated with for a year, was not an angel in the slightest. She was not an angel for angels could love. Angels could see the beauty in life, in other people.

She was blinded by the greedy demons that haunted her. He could see this now.

He felt angry.

Her hand reached out, timidly almost, and brushed over his thigh. His body tensed.

"Don't touch me," he seethed, and her eyes widened in surprise. The peaceful silence of the room was shattered as Stephan stood up from his chair, standing tall and looking down at her with a furious gaze.

"What are you even doing with your life, Carmen? Where do you think all these lies and games are going to get you?"

She sat up slowly, her expression feigning confusion and hurt. It made his anger boil even further; how had he been so blind?

"What are you talking about?" she frowned.

"Stop," he closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. When he reopened them, they were softer and sadder. "Stop acting, Carmen. You don't have to do that around me anymore."

"Acting?" Her eyebrows raised. "You think I'm... acting?"

"Yes," he responded immediately, huffing out a breath. His eyes averted to the window, the fresh afternoon light seeping into the room. He swallowed thickly, the notch in his throat bobbing up and down. "Everything that you do... to me or to-to the other men that you're with... it's not real. None of it is."

"Not real?" Finally, the mask over her face was taken off and she smirked. "Am I not real, then? Am I just a figment of your imagination?" she mused, leaning down to lay against the feather pillows.

"Yes," Stephan breathed. "That's all you are. I have fabricated this-this idea of you in my head, and that's exactly what you wanted. Isn't that true? You have never had any feelings for me, none that exceeded your greed."