❝A boy and a girl,
feathers and flames.
A tragic love story,
and a life that came to an end❞
➳
The body dies but the soul survives; Punished by the gods, Icarus is cursed and doomed to centuries of pain. Reborn every eighteen years, He is bound to...
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War
"The night is young...we're young...let's live a little!" Lip shouted while scampering through the park.
Chester was behind him pacing a firm but relaxed step to make sure Lip didn't do anything stupid because of the drunken stupor he was in. Cassie and Tate were still holding hands. Mac was behind them.
Tall shrubs caressed Cassie's legs, leaving a ghost trace where the plants tickled her skin. She didn't mind the cold climate but rather appreciated it. The wind was a refreshing mere gentle artic breeze that her complexion welcomed, not like getting doused with bucket of cold ice water.
Cassie was honestly confused about the whole situation. Just holding his hand felt awkward. A high-pitched voice in her head kept saying so...what are you going to do now... as if there was anything to do but enjoy the moment, feeling so alive next to the person she was forced to love.
No...not forced. Cassie rephrased her thoughts, destined, yes, that's the word she was looking for. Destined to love...and destined to die for love.
"When is the festival?" she asked.
She closed her eyes and thought, how could you have asked such a lame question?
Lame or not, it took Tate by surprise, he squeezed her hand as he tried to remember...the dates and events seemed a bit blurry in the fog of all the alcohol swirling around in his brain. Then, he remembered.
"On the 4th...like two weeks from now, right?"
"Yep."
He sighed, "Tomorrow we have an interview with the managers and Uncle Jon is giving us the video."
Cassie couldn't see anything but his lips. He dragged his words off his tongue a bit, making his mouth move slower.
"Can't wait to see it."
Cassie redirected her focus to the empty and abandoned playground. Chester was trying to take Philip down off a rusting kid's climbing frame of bars.
"It'll be great!"
"Right...because I'm in it," she laughed.
"You are starting to sound more and more like me," Tate teased.
"Unlike you, I'm confident not arrogant."
Tate dramatically placed his hand on his chest and threw his head back in representation of ironic agony worth of a scene in a Shakespearian play, "You are killing me."
"Like I always do..."
After a few seconds, Tate replied, "I feel like I've been through a nuclear war and my heart's become a radioactive core."
"Ugh, not your poems again." She rolled her eyes and stepped away from him, but Tate grabbed her hand and pulled her next to him, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.
