killer instinct - || h.s. ||

62

" 'cause every scrap of you would be taken from me "

---

aurora astor.

The storming rain pelts across the industrial windows surrounding me in the dead of night, dragging me further into the horrid pits of this hell within my mind. I just lay out over the tarp on my belly, gliding my worn-out brush across the texture of the canvas.

In the meanwhile, Leo's momentary curiosity got the best of him as he enthusiastically explored the new art studio room with a wagging tail and now he's passed out with his onyx fluffy body curled into my side with snores blending with the rain.

The hues of white blend with my furious strokes across this black paint to create shades of gray. The thunderstorm raging beyond the glass panes of the window flashes vivid moments of the night through my head over and over like some cruel loop.

And the more I stare down at this dark painting, stripped of any true color, the more I spiral deeper into this grief and guilt crawling through every inch of my skin.

I wonder what it would be like to still have them here – to walk through the art gallery with mom or sing at the top of my lungs in the kitchen to the 1975 with dad once more.

I wonder what it would be like to watch mom blush over a stupid bouquet of sunflowers that dad picked up on the way back from work once more.

I wonder what it would be like to become engulfed in their arms once more.

I have no right to wonder because it's all my fault.

I didn't even realize the guilt consumed me until a hot tear blazed down my cheek to merge with the hues brushed across the canvas beneath me.

"Ace?" His tired, accented voice catches me off-guard, rasping with sleep coated over his words. And my head whips over, finding an unfamiliar sight that has my glassy eyes widening in the process.

I just sniffle softly, quickly wiping away the evidence from the corner of my eye before he catches on while the clarity of the sight before me only confirms the odd sight.

I stare up at him, pulling off the doorframe he was leaning on and padding in. Yet, he's wrapped up in a fluffy, pink hooded robe that lays undone to expose his lack of clothing despite those snug boxers on his inked hips.

He rubs at his puffy eye with the back of his hand as the hood shadows his unruly chestnut curls peeking out at the top of his bedhead.

I have no idea how he manages to do it, honestly. I have no idea how he can stand there looking so cute in his fluffy robe with his puffy eyes from our disturbed sleep to contrast with his entire existence and the dark ink etched into his skin.

It beats me, all I know is that he's art in every way – an overwhelming well of inspiration to my paintings that could never run dry.

I can't help but softly smile at the adorable sight, only now realizing that ... I don't think I'd have this moment if they were here.

And the war never ceases within the knots tightening in my belly and my mind, conflicting for superiority in something as complex as the past and present.

He assesses the sight of me before him, pinching his eyebrows together at the time while treading over to settle himself beside me. He loosens a deep, reliving breath while he leans back against one of the colorful throw pillows, examining my features at eye-level now.