THE PICTURE OF YOU -rafe cameron-

021; the walk home

Around three o'clock in the morning, oh what a time to be awake.

Or alive, barely. Myra was up on her feet and moving forward, but she couldn't say she felt more alive than a zombie would have at that time. Her head was pounding harshly as the alcohol was slowly being flushed out of her system. Her mouth felt dry and the taste left on her tongue from before was bitter. She could barely hold her eyes open, blinking her eyelids profusely as the feeling of being so overwhelmingly tired washed over her. Her legs were weak and her hands were still tingly. A yawn slipped out. Breathing was exhausting and the warm summer air felt sticky against her skin.

Rafe walked a few feet behind her, probably around three or four to be exact. He was keeping his distance, giving her the space he had promised her before the two of them had left Barry's house, yet keeping his gaze glued to her. He took notice of every wobbly step she took, ready to rush forward to catch her if she was about to fall again. She had been stumbling all night, swaying back and forth all over the place. She still was doing so, but not as badly at least. Rafe watched every harsh breath she drew in, suspecting her to be feeling a little bit nauseous again. He saw the way her messy blonde hair was caught by the faint breeze, and how her hands laid by her sides as she walked. He could sense that she was coming out of her alcohol infused haze, so he kept quiet a little longer, offering her some peace. It was for his own good too, his sanity, he didn't want to get too close.

Somewhere along the south side things were still. The woods laid rather quiet and dim as they walked, branches creaking gently underneath their feet. No birdsongs were heard, and no cars in the distance either. The late summer night, or perhaps it should be called an early morning by now, was warm. Not as humid as the passed day had been, but gentle winds graced the tree tops. It made the green leaves dance against the branches.

They were now far away enough from Barry's house to not be able to hear the loud music, which was a relief to Myra. Rafe and her had walked in silence for a few minutes, neither one of them knowing what to say. Myra was mostly putting all of her focus towards walking straight forward and not throwing up again. Rafe was stuck in his head, still not sure if he liked the company of the pouge girl or not. He wanted her around for whatever reason, he just couldn't seem to keep a conversation civil with her. Whenever they spoke, it always seemed to end up with a stupid argument. She both infuriated and intrigued him, which was an odd combination. Yet he more than often found himself going towards her, like some kind of dark sorcery was drawing him in.

Soon Myra had to stop, the nausea getting too much for her. Rafe almost bumped into her as her unsteady steps so abruptly came to a halt. "Woah" he muttered, reaching his hands up by reflex, his hands grazing her upper arms for a split second. He was warm to the touch. "You alright?" he then asked, calming down a little. "Mhm" Myra mumbled, closing her eyes as she leaned her back against a tree. Rafe watched her, unsure what to do. Yet again, he didn't want to get to close. It was as if someone like her, a pouge, was infectious to someone like him, a kook. A rotten apple, bad news, a simple no go zone. Rafe's head was spinning like crazy, he couldn't seem to make sense of any of his thoughts. Myra however soon realized that the world didn't stop spinning just because she closed her eyes, if anything it only made it worse. A million different colours mixed with the pitch black behind her eyelids, making everything feel unreal.

Myra's body jolted forward a little as she opened her eyes, causing Rafe to take a step forward. It was, once again, him acting on pure reflex. "You sure you're okay?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowed as he gazed at her. He once more held his hands up, not touching her, but ready if she was to fall. "Yeah, yeah" Myra spoke lowly, staring at the ground, "I'm fine, I'm just nauseous as fuck". Rafe nodded once, letting his hands fall to his sides. "Do you need to throw up again?" he asked, making Myra glance up at him. He looked a little worried, but Myra assumed it to be because of the now sudden possibly of vomit. The stench, the yucky noises, the sight of it. He was a clean cut rich boy, he probably minded things like that a lot. "God I hope not" she then muttered, exhaustion laced within her weak voice. She gazed down again, trying to stabilize everything. Rafe stood still, watching her as he stuck his hands in his pockets. "Please talk about something" Myra blurted out, her hands resting on her knees, "distract me"