Freddie Bianchi and Juliette Dupont are polar opposites.
She's hot, he's cold. She makes jokes, he takes them to heart. He's only an inch taller than her, and she makes fun of him ever chance she gets.
He calls her a dumb blonde, and albeit she's he...
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CONTENT WARNING: MENTION OF R*PE
I
bent forward as I heaved, the floor below me turned a blurry mess of colors. My chest burned and my nails dug into my palms, and the deep, raspy voice of Freddie turned into nothing but white noise as I felt my panic attack crush my lungs, set my brain on fire.
Wheezing, I looked up through tears and noticed the similarity between me and Jocelyn.
The same nose. The same eye shape. The same hair texture, the same fucking mouth.
I clutched onto a thick, warm forearm, quickly finding orange-brown eyes amidst the chaos behind my eyes. I heard him shush me, then take my whole chair with me in it and turn my back towards her, "It's just me," he said gently, "just us, roohi. No one else. Just you and me, my love. I need you to breathe for me, okay? Can you do that?"
His hands played a gentle melody over my thighs, the tips of his fingers softly dragging up and down my skin, soothing me slowly. I nodded my head, and that wonderful grin spread across his face. He inhaled with me, then exhaled with me.
I turned slowly, still seeing spots and hearing colours, but then she looked at me, slightly amused and said, "Oh, and I was in New York on the Fourth of July, four years ago. I was under an assumed name, would you like to know it?"
I nodded my head slowly, and Jocelyn's face cracked into a smile.
"My name was Amy Jackson,"
Every nerve ending in my body erupted into fire. Inside of me there was the frightening, violent push of anger and it clouded my ears. I whipped my head to Freddie, who's expression was surprise, and I could not hear a single thing. Nor could I see.
Anger flooded the corners of my age, the homicidal need for murder burned my very fingertips as my fist exploded against her nose, and I slipped out from Freddie's hold and was over the table before I could blink.
My fist was on fire as I hit her, over and over as tears ran down my cheeks, and my voice was a foreign sound to me as I screamed, "You! You killed him! You killed my dad!"
Two warm arms grabbed me from behind, but I wormed my way out. She had risen onto shaky legs on the other side of the table, but she fell back on her ass after I gripped the back of her head and crushed her nose on the concrete table in front of her.
Freddie hauled me over his shoulder before he opened the door and slammed it shut, ordered a nurse in there. I was blind with rage and pain, blind with the need to murder than even when it was just him and I, my hands connected with his wide chest. Yet he kept 'shh'ing me, his hands and words gentle.
We were in an empty office of someone, and he cupped the back of my head and pressed my face into his chest, successfully muffling my cries. My chest was on fire, my hands were throbbing and pissing out blood, and my heart had never hurt more than it was.
