𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫. — Courtney Peppernell, pillow thoughts II: healing the heart
Hoppla! Dieses Bild entspricht nicht unseren inhaltlichen Richtlinien. Um mit dem Veröffentlichen fortfahren zu können, entferne es bitte oder lade ein anderes Bild hoch.
┏━°⌜ 赤い糸 ⌟°━┓
CHAPTER FIVE CONFIDING IN YOU
YOU WERE STANDING IN THE kitchen of your apartment, spatular in hand, greased butter and pancake mix clinging to the plastic edges.
The scent of old coffee beans wafted alongside the sweet choice of breakfast; music fading into the background as your mind faded from work to dry cleaning to new relationships springing into existence.
As you flip the final pancake on top of your plate stacked with varying levels of sized crisped batter, and turned off the stove to then place the hot frying pan into the sink, you had a sudden premonition—no, a wave of emotion brought forth at the remembrance of a few nights ago.
When Dazai had let himself into your apartment; soaked to the bone in another's blood.
"I don't know why . . . but my body took me here without my mind allowing it."
Is what he had choked out, as your face contorted into one of horror from the way the thick ichor dried and cracked over his forehead. His state forced you into an out of body feeling; concern of his health driving you forwards to help him stand upright, only realising a few minutes after his intrusion he was barely able to hold himself.
You had allowed him to stay. In fact, you had to persuade him to stay. To use your shower, to allow you to clean his clothes in the kitchen sink. You remember the way the blood swirled and blended with the water, before disappearing into the drain. How the blood even caked itself under your finger nails.
Watching him from the corners of your peripherals as you hanged up his clothing; the way his body fit your oversized pyjamas, and the way he attempted to wrap the dirtied bandages back around his forearms.
He stared blank faced at your carpeted flooring; eyes widened, and you knew that whatever happened, was replaying itself over and over, confined within his mind.
You had sat next to him, although allowing a small distance between the two of you. He didn't move—even when you reached out to graze your fingertips down his damp hair, tucking the strands curtaining his face behind his ear.
