Dalaric "Ricky" Mikael was known for two things; being the country's best assassin and being a silent brute.
His demons enveloped him in darkness and he saw no light at the end of any tunnel.
Until a girl, who's weird and wears nothing but a pair of...
"Behind every beautiful thing, there's some kind of pain."
- Bob Dylan
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Fire.
That's what it feels like in my body as I limp towards the bathroom. I take off my blood-soaked shirt and pants while holding onto the sink for support. I have to hold onto the walls to make it into the shower.
A blood curdling scream echoes in the house, it takes me time to realize that it's mine. The hot shower stings each wound of flesh. Particularly my shoulder.
I should've paid the land lord extra to let me have cold water in the mornings. I scrub everywhere but the wound and get rid of the murky dirt and trauma.
I put my iPod nano on shuffle, something I bought at a garage sale. It doesn't really help when 'I miss you' by Blink-182 starts playing.
Stupid iPod.
After changing into a very oversized shirt that comes below my knees, I put on some knee high socks after bandaging my shoulder to my best effort.
How does one even do that themselves?
Maybe they have a YouTube tutorial on it. Too bad I don't have WI-FI. I only use the cafés computer to sync songs into my iPod. Shay tells me I need Instagram. It sounds mentally harmful.
After about thirty minutes of scrubbing the kitchen floor and washing my bloody sheets and clothes while simultaneously trying not to cry, I look at the time on the clock.
7:00 A.M.
Dalaric's here.
I force myself not to get up , put some pants on and run into his arms. I think I would even go as far as to skip the pants part. That's how much I want to be near him.
It's only when I peek out the small window in the kitchen do I let my eyes water.
I'm so selfish.
There he is, leaning against his car with his arms crossed, in all black. He's wearing a black turtle neck under a leather jacket along with black cargo pants. He looks good enough to eat along with his cornrows. It hurts when you desire someone you can see but can't touch.
I want to hug him. I want to boop his nose. I want to touch his hands.
But I can't.
I look around the streets below and my eyes widen as a smirking Joshua stands at the far end of the street, next to a red Ferrari. He winks at me and I retreat back into the house and sit on the now cleaned floor.
