It took me a few moments to decipher what he had just done. I could feel the wetness on my cheek gradually cool into the air. I felt awkward now, uncomfortable as Real withdrew from his closeness and stared down at me.
He had a tiny smile on, his bangs disarrayed and tangled in many places. His eyes shown brightly despite how black and malicious they were.
All I could do was stare, stare at him with my mouth wide and agape. What was going on with him? What was he thinking? How could he do something like that and still get out of it as if he had done nothing at all?
I shifted under him, his weight pressing down on me. I was starting to grow more and more uncomfortable as the moments passed. We weren't doing anything. I was just on the floor while he was atop of me, simple as that.
I felt cool and placid fingers trace along my cheek, making an invisible line down my neck. He brushed the tendrils of brown hair that speckled my face, pushing the strands behind my ear. Then he rolled off me, he too lying on the floor.
I went stiff, my heart pounding and my mind working to the maximum. What was I supposed to do now, wait and see what happens next? I pressed both of my arms to the side of my body, laying stiff as a soldier. My fingers tapped against the wooden floorboards, scraping against the layer of dust that had formed on it.
"You're strange," Real said softly, so soft that I barely made out what he said. I did a double-take, glimpsing at him briefly then returning my gaze back up towards the worn down ceiling. What in the world was he talking about?! He was the one who was crazy, he belonged in an insane asylum! I was slightly irked at being called strange. I wanted to protest and give him all my arguments and reasons why I shouldn't be called strange, but for some reason my mouth wouldn't move, my vocal chords rendered lifeless.
Suddenly I felt my fingers being parted, another set of fingers sliding in between my own.
We were holding hands.
My heart pounded extremely fast, threatening to burst from the stress. Why was he so confusing? I couldn't understand him. His antics were strange, his ways odd and eccentric. Why was he doing this to me? I wanted to cry again, to let the tears fall to show how stressed I was. I was too young to be in these sort of situations!
Instead of crying, I let out a gargled gasp.
"What?!" I asked with ferocity but stopped when I felt him squeeze my hand sharply, sending tiny pains scrambling up through my arms. It was weird how he had such brutal control over me. I could hear Mom's voice floating in the background, telling me to never let any man control me.
For some reason, I didn't bother to listen to it, just letting the voice echo and filter itself out in my mind. It was strange, odd, the way I felt. I was thoroughly infuriated by him, disgusted even at his behavior towards me...but...I couldn't help but feel that I had to do something to please him. To get him smiling at least and not in that mischievous I'm-gonna'-kill-you way, but a genuine smile.
I found that hard to wish for when I felt myself being yanked from the floor to stand upright on my feet. I went dizzy, but soon regained my balance as I steadied myself.
He was leaning against the wall, his lithe body glowing as the moon's pale light reflected off of him. He looked like a ghost, a hauntingly beautiful ghost. Even though the picture looked angelic, I knew better. Mom told me to always read between the lines. What I was reading spelled out: the Devil's child. Like that movie with the little girl who was bad. It was an old movie, in black and white. I forgot the name of the movie, but it was about a little girl who was really wicked. She acted all innocent enough to trick people into believing she was a perfect little angel, but deep inside she was horrible; evil. She even killed a little boy! She was a bad seed. Maybe he was a bad seed?
"You're a bad seed," the words left my mouth before I could even control myself. I stiffened, afraid of what he was going to do me for that slip of tongue. I clenched my eyes shut, waiting for whatever punishment that was to be flung at me. Right then, I realized how pathetic I was. Was I actually afraid of him now? The thought disgusted me, my insides twisting and writhing with anger. I always told myself that I was going to be a strong girl, one of those girls that never cried at a break of a finger nail or the break-up of a boyfriend. I always wondered why teen-age girls did that. Why did they cry so hopelessly when either they got dumped or they dumped their boyfriends themselves? I'd just move on and get over it. No one likes being stressed and depressed.
I opened one eye, my orbs probing around the hallway. I gasped as I found that he was right in front of me, his black eyes glinting. I edged back instinctively, trying to get as far away from him as possible. He was smirking, his thin lips curved upward. It was fascinating, his smirk. Not too overly-done but just enough to get you intimidated.
"Who's to say that I'm a bad seed," he started, his breath tickling my cheeks, sending blood rushing to my face. "Good can be bad, bad can be good. You're not allowed to say something so vague." I stared up at him like a frightened deer. My eyes were quivering, trying to stabilize themselves as I challenged his black orbs for dominance.
I watched as his hand came up, edging towards my face. Warning bells went off, sending me instinctive messages. Run, move or do something 'cause he's gonna' hit you!
He did the exact opposite. He cupped my cheek, his black-painted thumb rubbing up and down against my flesh. All I could do was stare, stare up at him as his form towered over my own.
Then I ran.
I took off down the stairs, my shoes pounding against the wooden floorboards.
Past the brown stains, pass the child-like indent. I ran away from it all. Kicking the screen door open with a powerful kick, I scrambled outside, the chilly air slapping against my face and raking against my arms.
Then I fell. For the love of all that was holy, I had to trip! I found myself in an all too familiar position, just like in those horror movies like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre or even Chucky! I cursed to myself, letting all the most foulest language I knew to spill out into the air. I was too young to curse.
Then I felt it, the searing pain, the prodding sting. It spread up my leg like a horde of raging bee stings. It was painful, truly painful but I managed not to cry, grinding my teeth together to keep from howling out in pain.
I looked over at my leg, a shiny piece of a sharp see-through object poking out of my jeans. It was glass, a piece of glass had gashed through my jeans to pierce at my flesh. I watched as the blood leaked through, spreading over the dense fabric like a splash of ink on paper. I was grateful that it wasn't a lot, not like most accidents where blood was practically gushing out of a person's flesh. I wasn't afraid of the sight of blood, so I just stared at my injured leg, as if I were waiting for someone to magically fix it. Of course, the world didn't work that way did it?
I snapped my head up, my eyes meeting Real. He was standing before me, his hands behind his back as if he were hiding something. His jagged black hair was flowing in the breeze, swishing this way and that.
He came over to me, his chucks (converse) sneaking through the decayed grass and trash that had accumulated there over the years. He bent down, leaning on his knees. He looked down at my leg then up at me. His smirk had vanished, a thin line had replaced itself on his lips.
"Don't make a sound," he said quickly and before I knew it, his hand shot towards my injured leg and tugged at the shard of glass. It came out, leaving a searing pain after its wake. He flicked the glass shard away, sending it bouncing across the patched grass as it sent out a glinting glow of blood and light. I watched as it was swallowed by the long stems of green.
The cold air lapped at the gash, the cut still deeply stinging. I didn't know he'd take it out that fast. I was a bit grateful, since it hadn't hurt as much as I thought it would. At least it was out.
I let out a large yelp as I felt his finger prod straight into my open cut. I stared at him with wide eyes, bewildered at his actions. He was hovered over my leg, his index finger dripping with droplets of red. He was staring at his finger intently, enjoying the way the red liquid dripped from his finger. It weirded me out, seriously. My leg starting hurting even more now since it was so rudely...prodded at.
"Why'd you do that?" I yelled over to him, his head snapping in my direction due to the loud noise. He crawled his way over to me, his knees padding through the wild grass.
"You can stay there if you want, I didn't want you to come over!" I said quickly, not really caring what his reaction would be. He leaned into me, his black eyes feral and wry. He smirked and trailed his finger down my cheek, leaving a red smear to fester there.
"You freak!" I yelled at him, kicking at the ground in means to escape from him. I halted as the pain in my leg nearly doubled, causing me to yelp out. It was really starting to hurt.
"I suppose you're a freak then," he said calmly, his voice tickling my ears. "Freaks hang out with freaks." I was stupified at what he said. He had a really good point, no matter how much I wanted to disagree with him.
I was lifted from the ground, his hands holding my body bridal style. I tried to fight the blush that was threatening to take over, but I guess I lost the battle.
"Let me go!" I said fiercely to him, my eyes hardening into a penetrating glare. I was starting to pick up on his ways. He didn't comply, his hold on my body growing even more tighter.
"It'll hurt even more, you know. Don't be a retard," he replied shallowly and began walking. Why he was doing this, I had no idea. Why? He was so mean and downright terrible towards me. He had kicked me, forced me to ground, chased me like a banshee around a-could-be haunted house and now...he was helping me? Nothing seemed right anymore, like the last piece of a puzzle that wouldn't fit.
Real carried my like that, my feet dangling in the air. The wind lapped at my face, goosebumps rising like mountains up along my arms. I really wish I had a sweater, it was starting to get terribly cold. He walked down the middle of street, his feet occasionally wondering off into a little step- dance. Sometimes he'd act as if he were drunk, teasing me into thinking I was going to fall or he'd halt suddenly, almost causing me to fly out of his arms. Why was he so freaking weird?
"Why?" I asked harshly, low enough as to not wake the whole neighborhood. I saw him quirk an eyebrow, his black orbs staring down at me in wonder.
"What? Why boys masturbate, why girls finger themselves, why--."
"Stop!" I said loudly, my ears trying desperately to mute him out. Why'd he have to
blow (:3) things way out of proportion?
"If you don't wanna' hear it, then I'd suggest that next time you don't ask such ridiculous questions without specifying them," he said harshly. He dropped me to the ground, not forcefully enough that I landed on my backside, but harsh enough to send all my weight crashing down onto my injured leg. I bit back the scream of pain and glared daggers at him.
"It could mean anything," he continued, non-challant and indifferent. "Don't try to confuse people with your stupidity, they don't deserve it." He turned around and stared at me, his face expressionless and naught of emotion.
"You deserve it," I muttered to myself, leaning towards the side as to not add any more pressure onto my leg. He walked over to me, slowly and gracefully like a cheetah would do when hunting its prey. He halted in front of me, leaning over my body. He suddenly grabbed my hands and held them within his own, a smirk etching itself upon his thin lips.
"Would you like me to play with you?" he asked wryly with a feral glint in his eye. His nimble fingers rubbed against my own, stroking them in way that I did not like at all. His bangs shielded his eyes, an occasional sparkle of black leaking through the straggly black and bleached strands. I was astounded by his...behavior. No one had ever treated me like this before, never...ever...ever. It was weird to be touched like this...so frequently, but I guess it wasn't as weird as all those pedophiles. I heard stories...
"Come on," he said simply and picked me up, arms coming under my thighs. My legs were wrapped around his waist, my hands clutching his sweater. I liked bridal style better, this position was a little too...odd for me.
My cheeks tinged pink, my head turning towards some other direction. I didn't want to look into his eyes, I just knew they'd mock me.
He started walking, I didn't really care which direction because I was too busy thinking. I saw his house coming into view, thinking that he'd head towards that direction. But he didn't. Instead I saw us heading towards my house.
I rested myself against him, my fingers un-clenching the fabric of his sweater. I was tired, too tired to care that I didn't have the key to the house, nor why we were going there in the first place. Shouldn't we go to his house instead?
My head was hurting, too painful to think. Not to mention my throbbing leg, probably already crusted over with dry blood. I didn't want to think of it, all the faults and impurities. I just wanted to rest, to close my eyes and wake up anew. Maybe this was all a dream, a very strange and intimate dream. I could care less if I suddenly woke up and found that it was indeed a dream, yet my heart slightly saddened at the thought. Real was so weird that I found myself lured in by his strangeness.
I let out a small sigh and rested my head onto his chest, the scent of faint cherry cigarette smoke filtering in through my nostrils. Not a really bad smell, actually.
Then my eyes grew heavy. I finally allowed them the pleasure of closing as I found my self hurdled towards the dream world. I drifted off and all the while I was saying to myself,
"We don't have the key..."
OMG....short, short, short, short chappeh D: im soooo sorry that's it's this short, seriously! i read this over and was like...woah o.o; well, the 6th chappeh is complete!! im happy about that.