[the second half of this chapter was rewritten]
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SOTC: warmer — Bea Miller
• can't help but want it, don't know how to admit •
The ceiling fan turned lazily, its blades chopping at the dark like propellers of a midnight ocean. Its current constantly pulling downwards.
A small slice of light cut under the bathroom door. Yellow, illuminating the scattering of tiny dust particles, floating aimlessly throughout the vacuum of space.
And only if it wasn't a vacuum, if there were something for which the sound to grip onto, if only this empty space didn't feel like a weight encroaching on her consciousness—
If only they could hear her screams.
Each, a musical composition,
something jarring
Each note, the scattering of purple
fingerprints along the insides
of her thighs
She was a symphony in minor key,
something to be
revered, something to
seethe,
a stench of the
feverish
empty
air—
♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛
She woke with a jolt, heart thundering against the stretched skin of her chest. The stink of burnt hair lingered like an acidic fog.
April slowed her breathing, and swallowed down the sludgy lump in her throat.
Her eyes swung immediately to the bathroom door. For a split second, it seemed as if a rivet of light was lingering beyond the door, but each blink drove the illusion away. It was only her mind playing cruel tricks on her.
She paused for a second, then breathed again, sweeping rogue hairs from her reddened face. Her gaze flickered to her guns displayed on the wall, and to glossy membrane of her window, like a cornea over a massive, vacant pupil.
Carl's form faced away from her, at the wall. As if he'd fallen asleep staring at it. She imagined his eye, the listless way he always seemed to be awake.
She considered the cot on which he slept. Remembered how Oliver used to climb onto her bed from it, to feel his thumb graze her lips.
She wondered if it was all an illusion. The playful glint in his eyes, the blistering passion behind his fingertips, and the way it all vanished that final night.
And even as she looked at her own hands, and her crude red knuckles, and the uneven chips in her nail polish, she only then began to fathom the essence of method acting.
It was less a character than a change of personality. A drop of red food coloring in a glass of murky water.
At what point does the water succumb to darker hues of scarlet?
At what point do you become the person you are pretending to be?
♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛
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DEVILS ♛ C. G. 〖 #wattys2018 〗
Fanfiction[ c o m p l e t e d ] "She looked like a goddess. The kind that sends cities to their knees in fear. The kind that is never in picture books. The kind that twists people." - - - - - April is a devil. A demon. And above all, she is a...
