Trigger Warning-Gun violence and mild gore
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I woke up to the slam of a door, and Pete looming over me in only a pair of gray shorts. My vision was blurred after my deep sleep, but I could still make out some kind of tattoo near the bottom of his toned torso.
I drifted in and out of consciousness as Pete unlocked the handcuffs, and laid me on a mattress that he must have pulled out.
When I was fully awake, I sat up, completely amazed that I wasn't restricted from movement at all! I intertwined my fingers, and stretched my arms behind my back. They hit a cold object, it fell over making a slight cracking noise. I turned around and sat with my legs crossed.
Pete gave me water.
It was a simple plastic water bottle, droplets of moisture clung to the sides. The top half was partly crinkled, which I assumed was from when I knocked it over.
I desperately snatched it off the cold ground. After fumbling with the cap in my frantic, dehydrated state, I finally slid the cap off. Relief flowed through my heart, and I swung the bottle to my parched mouth carelessly. The sting from my cheek was barely noticeable while the cool liquid slid down my throat. Water dribbled from my chin into the mattress, and I laid down. The wet spot was cold and uncomfortable. It soaked into my skin through my sweater, and I shuddered. The cold pierced me like a knife, but I relished in the fact that I at least had water.
After I finished off the water bottle, I turned to my side, temporarily content. A small piece of paper that I hadn't noticed before in all my excitement was set next to the wet patch where the water bottle was originally set.
I rolled over once more, so I was close enough to get to it and snatched it cautiously. Cradling my head with my hand, I held the paper up to my face with the other hand.
"Don't try anything. I can see you. I'll be down soon. We'll tall then.", I read the note aloud.
The note must have been from Pete. His handwriting was horrendous.
A prick of hope pierced my heart. Maybe Pete wasn't all that bad. Maybe things will turn out okay after all. In that moment a seed of deadly hope was planted into my heart. Though it was surrounded by dead shrubbery, at least that small seed of hope was there.
While I was lost tending to the garden of my mind, an all too familiar door slam, played as a peaceful melody to my thoughts. A set of footsteps approaching kept the time.
Something smacked me in the head, locking the picket fence, and throwing me out of my garden escape. I whipped my head around to see Pete, completely clothed now. The mattress sank down an inch when he plopped down onto it. The hood of his red jacket flopping behind him. He set his feet on his thighs covered in black skinny jeans, and his red converse were stained, and one was spray painted black.
I glanced at my lap where the object that assaulted me fell. To my surprise, it wasn't a torture instrument, but a protein bar. Caramel flavored.
"Thank you.", I managed to murmer before I devoured it. The caramel stuck to my throat, and I regretted chugging all the water at once.
"You need clothes.", he simply stated, and headed to a cabinet in the back corner of the room. "It's not exactly your style, but it'll have to do.", he called back to me. A pair of baggy jeans, and a long sleeved shirt slapped me in the face.
"Was that really necessary."
" Of course it was honey."
"Why do I need new clothes anyway? These ones are fine.", I mumbled, and stared at my shoes. They had a scuff on them. I didn't remember how I got it.
"Angel, you're going to have to speak up."
"I said why do I need new clothes.", I growled.
Adrenaline spiked in me as he rushed over, sat in front of me, and whispered,
"Don't you take that tone with me, Angel. Just trust me. You're gonna want these."
A random wave of confidence surged through my, and spewed out my mouth.
"Tell. Me. Why."
"Oh. You're gonna be a bratty one aren't you. I suggest you calm that mouth of yours."
"Why"
"I guess I'll just have to help you", he sighed nonchalantly.
"What the fuck does that even—"
He cut me off, when he smashed his mouth into mine. This wasn't any romantic fireworks kind of kiss. This kiss was fueled by anger from him, and fear from me. It was a break up kiss, and we never even dated. He thrust his tongue into my mouth.
Why did he taste like cherries? Why was this almost enjoyable?
I pushed these invasive thoughts out of my mind, and tried just to enjoy this while it lasted. I just let him win dominance. He fucking kidnapped me for God's sake. I'd be an idiot if I thought I would be controlling this kiss.
To my surprise, the kiss slowed down. There was no more anger. Just lust. His breath was hot and heavy.
He pulled away, looking into my eyes. His brown ones looked pained. He bit his lip with his crystal teeth.
"So why do I need them.", I decided to be a smartass.
He whipped out a gun, and before I even knew it, I lay clutching my leg with my mouth ajar.
"Don't think you're gonna want to stay in those jeans now."
I gritted my teeth, put me hands on the ground, and pushed up so I that I was sitting up straight. Blood already soaked most of the thigh part of my white jeans.
I looked up to question Pete, or beg for mercy, or ask for help, but that goddamn door slammed shut, and he was gone.
An unexpected cold front was the forecast in my head. I hadn't seen it coming, now the seed sprouting in my head was frozen in my cranium.
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I left him on the floor, blood soaking into his pure white jeans. While I walked up the stairs, I turned the safety back on. He was weak. It was hard to be too critical though. Nearly everyone fell for the kiss. Everyone believed that a kiss from someone meant that they would be safe. Kisses mean nothing.
But he was still weak.
Emotionally and physically. My interest levels spiked, when I saw how serene he was even after last night. He had already given up on his self. I could relate in a way, but he doesn't seem like the type to always have been this way like I was.
He started out in his world as a shining slab of gold. His excellence was blinding. He's parents and peers shaped him into a beautiful statue. A model student, friend, and son. He grew up with privilege, but never took it for granted. He was the kind of kid to volunteer, and sit with the lonely kids at lunch. He grew into his adult years as that same perfect statue. His smile never faltered.
Then, someone came into his life. His need that person was immense, excruciating. His own passion for that individual was melting him. He melted into a puddle of liquid gold. Defenseless, valuable, and impressionable. That fucking person that made him like this finally noticed.
That person took him and turned him into what he is today.
A gold kaleidoscope. Gorgeous at first sight. Breathtaking, but when you take a moment to really look, it's just a mess. Fragments of emotions scattered in his mind.
My long drawn out metaphor got me lost so deep in thought that I was on autopilot. Apparently I managed to put pizza bites in the oven while I was getting all philosophical. It was unexpected, but I wasn't complaining. I'm a slut for anything related to pizza.
I waited on my pizza, and tried to think about anything but that kiss. That goddamn kiss.
It was different. It started the same as always, but it was softer. It was broken. He smelled like my childhood, and that was fucking scary.
Oh fuck. I wasn't supposed to be thinking about that. Ummm how about pizza and pizza related items?
Would pizza bites be the child of pizza, or like sibling. Maybe pizza was the grandparent or something, or even a creepy uncle.
Who knows, I'm just glad it exists.
My introspective thoughts of pizza were interrupted by the oven beeping like a sirens call.
I slipped on a pair of oven mitts, and set the pan into the counter. The aroma of pizza wafting through the kitchen. Spinning around, I opened a cabinet, heaped a paper plate, and a glass cup. I filled the cup to the brim with water from the tap. I gave Patrick the last of my good water, I leaned over the sink and sipped a bit of water from the cup so it wouldn't spill. Feeling like I was actually Gordon Ramsey, I picked up the pan and I'm one fluid moment dumped the pizza bites onto the plate. Surprisingly, nothing went terribly wrong, and my kitchen wasn't on fire. That's always good.
Carefully, I carried the water and pizza bites up the stairs. There was almost a incident with my pizza bites halfway up that stairs, but I skillfully maneuvered and saved them.
I truly do live a blessed life.
I set my meal next to my laptop on my bedside table, and climbed under the cover. After enjoying my meal forged by God his self, I leaned over, grabbed my laptop, and set it on my lap.
There my Angel was.
He had hoisted his self into the metal table, fiercely biting his lips and holding his thigh. His now red jeans clung to his skin. Blood was still tricking out of the wound, and left could see the bullet ingrained in torn flesh through he hold it had made in his jeans. A thin line of blood now ran from his lip too.
Staggering down intro the floor away from the mattress Patrick picked up the shirt, balled it up, and stuffed it in his mouth.
"Fuck", the word was muffled by the shirt. Pete assumed the fuck was because he still had his blood ridden jeans on, and couldn't get properly to the wound.
He kept the shirt in his mouth, unbuttoned, and unzipped his pants. Laying back on the ground, he began pulling them down. Every time his jeans slid over his wound he winced.
I almost felt bad.
Soon he lay out on the on he ground in just his gray boxers, sweat rolled down his forehead, and his face was scrunched tightly in pain. After he dragged his self back over to the metal table, he rested his back against the leg of it. He leaned over his torn leg, fear prominent in his ocean eyes, then he took a deep breath, and started moving his hands towards his thigh.
His finger grazed the wound, and he screwed his eyes shut, the shirt clenched between his teeth.
I winced when he put both hands onto the side of the grotesque flesh, and pushed down. The bullet started making its way further up the wound, tears slipped from his closed eyes.
He removed one hand from the side of the wound, and began digging into his skin to retrieve the bullet caught in his flesh. Sweat poured from him like acid rain, and he bit down even harder on the shirt.
The bullet came lose, he ripped it from his skin, and threw it across the room. He crawled back to the mattress, sobbing with blood gushing from his thigh. He spit the shirt out, and barely had time to lay down be before he passed out.
"Goodnight Patrick", I whispered to the screen.