The eternality in our ephemerality

Chapter 40. He needs therapy. ASAP.

It at least would explain why I am so drawn to that horrible person and why he acts like a lunatic. Every time.

My mind lit sparks: His arrogance troubled mine and his vanity periled mine.

It became, without much thought required, that I could never comprehend his pretentious and vane attitude. Of course, excluding the fragment of acid that gulped through my stomach when his maniac driving skills carelessly could have taken my life.

My ribs tensed.

Two completely contradictory images of the Spencer : rough edged and deafeningly drawn to silence and the Spencer who wrestled against my frostbite and fought to get me out of my leafed prison.

Two visions of the same person: same face, same features yet so unbearably different.

His kindness suppressed by bitter rage, his bravery to truly be himself hidden under the spotlight.

Someone in his reasonable mind would simply let go, protect the last shreds of dignity that remained after the cruel words I had said. Never, ever, have I said such cruelty to someone.

Guilt.

Fighting, anger, the bitterness in the tip of my tongue rising and poisoning my thoughts.

A terrible fight, fights I always encounter myself fleeing from and yet, now, in this exact moment my cowardly eyes peeped through the window, only encountered with a boy who didn't seem to have eagerness to harm, to injure... but a simple boy hoping the girl would be fine.

After a terrible fight. After I had fled.

After I had hurt him.

Yet in his arrogance he believes he is excluded from any harm: both physical and intangible like a broken heart?

My shoulders braced up to the impact that would never come, his eyes told the truth he didn't want to fight... or at least I suppose so.

He is who he is, without words nor pictures to describe: I am forced to admire him from a safe distance, for if I didn't: my heart wouldn't support the damaging radiation.

A sabotaged mind, throbbing confused heart: the inked mark staining the landscape now appeared to be staining my mind and with such: my perilous sight.

Petrified I remained with my claws tearing over the window and staring, in a marmoled statue, at him.

I glared threat-fully at his next move. 

I had taken his Knight, he was my pawn. 

Snatched away his bishop, as he kidnaped my Rook. Jeopardised his king as he crawled up to my queen.

He knows where I live.

He knows why I flee.

He knows part of the truth no one, including myself, had the bravery to expose.

But it seems as if I had ignorantly believed it was my secret, when instead, it was ours.

His head tilted upwards, reminding his fierce body to remain chained to the car with the open door....He seemed uneasy, irritated perhaps. His hands constantly moving, giving steps and then retreating them... Grudging, murmuring....

Yet that unfairness in the softness of his eyes, I presume, unintentionally glowed.

He saw through my role-play, as easily as I saw through his leathery, metallic mask.

My queen against his lonely, vulnerable king.

With hands chained to the window, the sweat printed on it as a breath and my uncertain eyes neglecting the order to look away.