• “You’re so pretty with that bow in your hair.”

    He’s never called me pretty before. It melts my core, and I bet it’s pretty visible, because my spine sort of dissolves and I lean into his warmth like I’ll freeze without him.
    Let me paint this picture a little clearer.
    I hate rap music, but the bass is vibrating the walls and sinking through my skin and getting at my bones. It’s rather dark, and the only thing I can see through the smog of smoke is a big, glowing screen. I think somebody might be playing a video game. I’m not sure. It’s the middle of winter, and we’re gathered in somebody’s room. A few friends, a few people I don’t know, and him. That perfect ******** face with those wide, brown eyes and the constellation of freckles peppering his cheeks. His fingers are playing along the curve of my ear and down my jaw line, and leaving little prickles in their trail. The vodka dissolved in my stomach and left me in a rather needy, warm pile leaned against his chest because it’s the only thing that feels solid anymore. I’m exceptionally tired, and hungry – no, make that starved. I haven’t eaten in days, and the pills are blossoming inside of me and making everything extremely intense.
    Time keeps ticking away and with every thud of the bass I lose a little bit more of myself. The only thing keeping me coherent are the butterflies flipping around in my stomach, making my heart flutter and my head reel. I’m well adjusted to him putting his hands on me. I think that’s what made him my core thought for the past year in the first place. I can’t quite adjust to touching him, though. We’re sharing my coat like some sort of blanket, but in reality it’s a shield. He keeps whispering things in my ear that make me swoon, but all I can really absorb are the fingers creeping across the lace of my top, and the stitching running along his thigh. His vocabulary is sprouting new colors I haven’t seen before, and I guess I should’ve expected him to tug at his zipper, but it still shocks me.
    I’ve never touched a boy because for the most part I ******** hate them. But he’s some sort of god-like exception that’s creeped into my soul over the past couple of months and after all is said and done, he presses his mouth against mine and the entire concept comes to a head all at once. I’m in love, and it’s tearing me apart.
    He doesn’t think I’m pretty when he’s sober, or really even give me the time of day. But if I can fill him with powders and poisons just for awhile I mean something to him. I consider myself some sort of teenaged gypsy in that way. I know his system like I know mine. I know what drugs make him laugh, and I know what alcohols make him touchy. I’m far from perfect, but I’m pretty damned good at getting what I want.
    I slept alone that night, though. I clambered up the stairs and collapsed on my bed, but not before I snapped. Something inside of me broke, and I really ******** lost it. I know I’ll see him tomorrow, with his mask elegantly placed so he can lace fingers with his lover and give her everything I desperately need.
    In the end, he got what he wanted. He got his girlfriend and his drugs. I, however landed myself in a hospital with a terrible fit of psychosis. I have these memories, though, and if I weed out the ugly parts I still have these pretty little pieces to review whenever I feel exceptionally alone.

    I haven’t seen him in a few years. I think he’s probably the same person, though. I like to hope so, at least. I still have his ring. I stole it from him that night. I wore it for awhile, because I figured it gave me a little piece of him to hold on to. After awhile it started to hurt my finger, and I realized I was having an allergic reaction. It wasn’t anything exceptional. It was just a cheap piece of silver. The same goes for him in a way. Nothing exceptional. Just another guy. A heartless piece of s**t.