Ethereal | Twilight |

006

Unedited : will be present grammar errors

Torpid and burdensome, his tattered, sodden shirt beneath the unrefined cleanse of the shower scrapes and grinds against his epidermis. He exfoliates his skin until it seems bleached by an excess of chemicals. The gap between the rug and his flesh engulfs him like a decayed bloom in his mouth. Hell, he hates it.

His mind feels lunar-struck, and his limbs have become numb. His body heat sabotages the pleasure of the frigid water running over his bare form, repulsively expelling all the cold into an embodiment of warmth. By the time he exits the shower, his skin is despoiled, and he clings to a demonic voracity, bloodied yet unbowed.

His mouth, too, and if he traversed the fissures of his gums and bones and worshipped what he had accomplished, perhaps he would discern that night's voracity, replete with oozing crimson and horrendous deeds. The way he tore his head off, made him nothing.

He brushes his teeth more than once, tainted with mint and blood as he clenches the toothbrush and forces it down with increased pressure. He doesn't feel clean, despite the essence of ozone ravaging his skin.

——

Leah's calls have become consistent, as has the attention of the girl who nearly tripped over him in the library, asleep among the stacks.

He's aware he shouldn't indulge the anger lounging within, especially with Sam viewing his temper as a match for Paul's—though he firmly believes Paul's fury eclipses his own. The realization that he must eventually leave Sam's and Leah's home looms large, compelling him to reintegrate his old routine with the new necessity of patrol duties. Behind in his studies, grades, and assignments, he assumes Bella's help will be convenient.

Jared is convinced he's ready to return to school, buoyed by his ability to read thoughts during the split second of his transformation while preparing for patrol with Paul. In that fleeting moment, Jared glimpsed into Sora's mind, catching fragments filled with anger towards his invasive thoughts. He vividly recalls Leah's slap, her sharp accusations echoing in his memory.

For Sora, not shifting in response to the slap—a moment when his anger didn't override his control—signifies his readiness. However, Sam sees it differently; he attributes Sora's restraint solely to Leah's influence, reminding him that his suspension stemmed from a fight, not this newfound self-control. Despite believing he should be back in school, Sora finds himself still lingering, aimlessly flipping through a book in the quiet of a guest room.

Despite the words bouncing around in his head and his tongue forming them unnoticeably in his mouth, the words shrivel—sun-dazed, scattered like stardust. He hears Emily rise, unaware that he has been at the kitchen table, engrossed in a book for the past three hours.

"How long have you been awake?" He shrugs, his gaze shifting subtly towards her. "More hours than I care to count, I suppose." She presses on, delicately trying to navigate through the layers of his stoic demeanor. Taking a seat opposite him, she places a glass of coffee on her right. She doesn't fix her gaze on him for too long, choosing instead to look at how the sunlight spills past the windows, bathing their shoulders in warmth.

As her thumb draws lazy circles on the glass, it emits a faint, high-pitched squeal— a sound only his inhuman hearing can pick up. "You do realize it's not your fault, right?"

He closes his book with a definitive snap, a silent declaration of his eagerness to exit this increasingly uncomfortable exchange. Emily's head swings in his direction, her lips curving into a brief, mocking smile. "Is this your typical thing? Leaving whenever a conversation doesn't align with your interests?"

An all-too-familiar itch begins to prickle beneath his skin, a nagging sign of the shift he's always on edge to control. This irritation, a silent battle against his own instincts, escalates as a surge of annoyance threatens to break his calm exterior. His body tenses, a subtle but unmistakable signal of his inner turmoil, which doesn't escape Emily's keen observation. Her eyes, astute and piercing, widen a fraction, capturing the silent struggle playing out before her. The air between them thickens with unspoken tension, her gaze momentarily tracing the contours of his strained expression.