I swop the expensive dress and heels higher than my priorities for shorts and a tank top. I tie all my hair in a mushroom above my head, ignoring Casey rolling around on my bed and digging around in my junk scattered around my room.
As if he doesn't get enough time to dig around already.
"Can I borrow your jacket?" I ask obnoxiously, turning around in the mirror to see if the jeans and shirt at least hue together. I don't actually care about my fashion statement, but I don't want to appear homeless when I wore Chanel to a stupid [much more fun than I'd like to admit] school dance.
Casey snorts at me amused, stretched out across my bed like a lazy cat, paging through a little sketchbook I have. His attempt in drawings are in there too, which must be the reason he cringes every second minute he pages over.
I didn't dress with him in the room, I'm not that careless; I chased him out of my room until I was done, then he could come back.
"You have like half of my closet," he carps. If I don't keep him awake, the kid's going to fall asleep on my bed, and I don't think my parents will appreciate it. Tonight will praise him with some good sleep. He actually went out and did something other than his usual lazing in bed and play video games until he falls asleep all without even being aware of it.
"So?" I lilt, shrugging, strolling closer. "I like your clothes more."
"I like your clothes too." I feel a bad tingle in my toes about the words that may follow. I suppress a smile, already blushing like a lovesick little girl. My sarcasm sensors kick in every time he opens his mouth.
He pushes himself up after putting the book on the pillow next to him. He cocks me a brow, a cheeky grin slicing across his cheeks.
"Especially when they come off."
Whoop, there it is.
"Shut up, Vincent," I narrow my eyes at him, crossing my arms over my chest.
He shrugs. "Can't help it," he whines. "Sorry, your majesty, won't do it again." He holds his hands above his head. He sits up from my bed, rubbing his eye with the ball of his palm.
"Shut up," I repeat, slumping down at the foot of my bed. My feet dangles like a swing left alone in the wind while my eyes scan above at the blank canvas.
"Just take it," he says, hooking the blazer over my face. I try to stop him from wrapping the thing around my head, but he beats me, blinding me.
"Casey!" I shriek, kicking and thrashing my limbs. He doesn't let go, pushing me over. "Now I know how your lungs feel," I stutter, trying to grip his wrists.
He lets go of me and plants a kiss on my cheek before he jumps up from my bed. He grabs onto the backrest of my desk chair to keep his balance from stumbling. He got up too quickly, making his body stutter and halt. I ready my arms to catch his weight.
If he has another attack [be it me or his lungs], he'll have to go to the hospital.
He picks up the book Dorame gave me when he was in the hospital—I finished it a few days back. "I hate this book."
"I like it, you dick," I snap, folding my arms over my chest defensively.
He snoops around my desk before grabbing onto my pencil case. He tilts it over, pens and pencils scatter around the table top like rain drops, messily casting back a shard of white light from the light hanging from the middle of my room. The pens settle over every carcasses of papers covering my desktop like snow.
ESTÁ A LER
last resort
Ficção Adolescente❝Sometimes you've got to bleed to know that you're alive and have a soul, but it takes someone to come around to show you how,❞ She's the tear in his heart, he's on fire. She's the tear in his heart, she makes him higher. He's the butcher with the...
