Everything Sinister

Fourty-One

I carried her upstairs. I walked down the corridor. I opened the doors to my room. It was a blur. I think. I think I was thinking.

Because otherwise I wouldn't throw up in the toilet but on the floor.

"Lovelle?"

I looked up. Oh. Demont was sitting on my bed, watching me storming by. He sat next to me on the cold tiles. He tucked my hair behind my ear. I threw up again and Demont held my hair.

I was so sick. I was exhausted. Everything kept repeating in my mind. Last words. Orders. Skin and blood. Bones and eyes.

"It's alright, baby. It's okay. You don't have to be scared. It's okay."

I threw up again, coughing. Demont didn't say anything to that. And when I cried with no tears, he wiped my mouth and pain, holding me close to his heart.

"It's okay to hurt. It will pass. I promise. I promise."

I wondered if he was real. If he really came to the gym and went up to my bedroom, where he couldn't find me. If he really sat on the bed, wondering where I could be and if he really sat beside me that night to whisper in my ear that everything will be alright.

This was one of the reasons I fell in love with him. Our love was immature. Rushed. Like we knew, we didn't have time to spare.

But he was real. Too real sometimes.

We weren't good for each other. Two sinners never are. But he was there when no one wasn't.

⁓

I didn't dream.

Demont slept in my room that night. We didn't cuddle. I think he knew, I wouldn't allow that. He kept giving me these looks. And I think I knew what they meant. I think I knew how he felt. I knew how I felt. But I didn't care. Not at all. Not even a bit. Not even when he kissed my forehead and cooed me to sleep.

When I woke up, Demont was gone.

I sat up and stretched lazily. My bed felt incredibly empty without that body of heat and I didn't feel like losing more of that warmth. So I just rolled in bed and looked at my phone. He left a text. I frowned at the bubble, blinded by the screen for a second.

Golden-eyed fucker: Sheila told me what happened. I'm gonna solve this.

I sat up quickly. The blanket flew off the bed. The text was an hour old. Demont has been gone for a whole hour.

I sprinted out of my bed, barefoot, in Demont's shirt, smelling of puke. I knew Shaw wouldn't like Demont's interference. I threw the door open, crashing into a hard body.

I looked up with wide eyes. Demont took my shoulders in his hands, looking down at me, concern in those cursed golden eyes.

"Who, Beautiful. Who's burning caramels?"

"Demont. This is not a joke. What have you done?!" I never heard myself so panicked. Never. And yet...

"Calm down..." his brows knitted together.

"I am calm! I just need to know what the fuck you told Shaw! You don't know him as I do. He won't let it go. He'll hurt you and...!"

Demont's hands covered mine. I was gripping his shirt. I was, wasn't I? I didn't notice.

"I made a deal. She doesn't have to come in tomorrow. She won't have to hold back anymore." Demont beamed and it was that smile that knocked the air out of my lungs.

I stepped back.

"What?"

"I talked to him."

My eyes widened even more. I didn't know what was happening. First, Sheila got stabbed. Second, Demont was... And now...

I didn't understand. Demont was my catalyzator. I still don't know if that was a good thing.

"I suggested that Sheila is old news, dragging out those fights... So-"

I looked up at him.

"Another kid is going to do it."

"But not Sheila."

"But not Sheila," he confirmed.

It was selfish. It was wrong. But I was glad another kid was going to get beat up so Sheila would be alright.

And I felt sorry for feeling that way.

I always blame it on Sincity. But Sincity was just a piece of land on which some buildings were built. It's deeper than this. It's us. Our immaturity. Our childishness. So when I say fuck Sincity, I mean, fuck us.

But sometimes, Demont gave me hope, we weren't so sinful after all.

"Thank you."

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