Her Eyes

“I don’t want to do this,” I told my mother, my voice thick. She was brushing through my hair with a comb. It got stuck in a knot, she pulled at it roughly. I bite my lip to stop the groan of pain in my throat. She started to twist pieces of hair and pin them.

“You have to.” She said. Her voice was commanding, and I knew she would not budge. Not now, not ever. If I pursued it anymore she would get angry. I wouldn’t want that. “Besides,” she continued. There was another harsh tug at my hair before she pinned the last piece. She brought up the mirror to my face. “Wouldn’t you like to meet the man that would be marrying this beautiful girl?” My eyes flickered to and from the mirror. I hated mirrors. They showed my reflection; me.

I wondered if I, too, would curse myself if I looked into it for a long time.

My hair fell around my face in dark waves, pieces were pinned back in twists. I pushed my bangs over my right eye — the bad eye — the eye no one must see. My mother drew back the mirror and I felt my body ease. “Are you ready?” She asked. She started to get up, I did too, straightening my dress.

“No.” I replied.

She smiled, “Good.”

Today was a slow day. Only a few men came to the main room. Most of them with a mother, father, or relative, accompanying them. I couldn’t blame them. I would want to protect my family from myself if I were them too. Each time, I had to draw back my hair to reveal my right eye. And each time, they failed the test.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted. Who knew it drained so much energy from me, making people fall in love with me.

I started to get up. I wanted to leave, but my mother — who was sitting next to me, cross-legged, and calm — stopped me. She pulled at my wrist. “There is one more,” she said. “And I believe this one is promising.” A quick smile. I did not return it.

I sat back down.

There was no such thing as ‘promising’. Everyone failed at this test. Everyone. One look at my right eye and bam. It’s head over heels love. A curse, I call it. A gift, my mother calls it.

A curse.

He was tall. Everything about him was black. His hair, his clothes, his shoes; the only thing that wasn’t black were his eyes. They were blue. A gray-blue that reminded me of the ocean on a cloudy day. I thought I could almost see-through them.

And they were glaring at me. Those eyes.

I swallowed as he walked in. Behind him, was an older man. His father, I inferred. My mother stood up and bowed towards them. The father returned it. The boy did not. He just stood there. I shot my mother a glance, she ignored it, and motioned them to come closer.

I noticed the father was helping the boy walk towards us. A jolt hit my stomach as they got closer. He wasn’t, in fact, glaring at me. He wasn’t even looking at me.

“Welcome,” my mother beckoned. She finally sat down.

The father nodded, “This is my eldest son, William–”

The boy turned his head to his father, “I can speak for myself, father. I’m not deaf.” He interrupted. The older man nodded silently. He cleared his throat and looked back; straight. “I’m Will Brooke.”

My mother nodded, “Good, good.” She motioned towards me. “But do you think you’re the one, dear?”

Will was silent. His father answered for him. “Of course, he is.” His confidence was overflowing. It surprised me. My mother gave me ‘the look’. I took in a deep breath and pushed back my bangs. The father looked away. My bad eye was showing. The eye that was blue, instead of brown — like my left eye.

The dark haired boy stared. He made no movement, no sound. There was no change in his expression. My mother gasped. It had no effect. “How…?” I whispered. I covered my eye again. The father looked back in our direction. He was smiling.

“Couldn’t you tell?” He laughed. I stared at him, puzzled. My mother was speechless. She didn’t know anymore that I did.

“I’m blind.” I boy said suddenly.

Of course. Everything fell into place in my mind. It all made sense. He couldn’t see it. It couldn’t affect him.

He was the one.

My mother hit my shoulder. “See?” She exclaimed. “I told you he was ‘promising’, didn’t I?” I didn’t reply. Just a few seconds ago, she couldn’t believe it either. She just got lucky.

Will stepped forward. His eyes were pointed towards me, but I knew he could only see darkness. “But I do have a bit of a change — to your agreement, that is. If I could?” He waited for my mother’s approval.

“Go ahead.” Her eyes were narrow.

“I wish to transfer the money given to me, to my family instead. I’ll agree to live with and marry your daughter, miss. But, just…please, give my family the money.” His voice was ragged. His father said nothing.

My mother thought for a moment before agreeing. “It can be done.” She said.

“Thank you,” Will said. A small smile, and then he tried to bow — which was almost unrecognizable as one. His father had to assist him up. “And, Abigail?” His eyes searched for me.

“Yes?” I replied. His eyes locked on where my voice came from.

“I won’t disappoint you.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. Now it was my turn to be speechless.

Prince

Prince Lewis stood in front of the mirror, surrounded by the darkness of the room. The bright morning outside, was unseen in the room; blocked from the pitch black curtains. His blond hair curled around his ears, and his were green eyes blazing. A thin line was across his lips. Some would say he looked angry. Maybe he was.

He buttoned up the sleeves of his white shirt, and then pulled at the collar until it fell in a comfortable angle. He pulled on a pair of fingerless gloves, and then his heeled boots. Not one ounce of skin was showing. He glanced in the mirror one last time before leaving the room. He wanted to gag.

His reflection disgusted him.

Prince this. Prince that. Lewis tensed up at each question every person came to ask him. He just wanted them gone; to leave him alone. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Today was the ‘big day’, as his mother called it, afterall. People from all over the kingdom will be coming. It was going to be hell.

His thoughts were only wishful thinking.

He step towards the back door of the castle — the only place people don’t gather. It led to the garden, his favorite place. It was peaceful there. No one bothered him. He could finally remove some of the disgusting clothes he had to pile over himself.

He went to the fountain that sat in the middle of the entire garden. It’s water slowly trickled down the sides. The sound of it almost removed all that tension building up in Lewis. Almost. He leaned back and took in a deep breath of the fresh air. It was beautiful out. Might as well enjoy as he can. He started to pull off his gloves.

His hands, he thought, were the least noticeable, when it came to his ‘problem’. They were a little pink and swollen, but it was nothing that an average person would notice. He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up. Now, this, was were it got bad. Purple and yellow blotches covered his arms. His veins popped out and shone bright through his skin. Skin was irritated almost all over. It was disgusting. He was disgusting.

He decided that today, there will be no removal of his shoes. He didn’t want to see it.

He spent those few minutes at the fountain just sitting, closing his eyes; breathing. He was aware that his ‘problem’ was showing, but he was also aware that no one would come out there. At least, not right now — in the morning. No one ever did.

It wasn’t until he heard footsteps coming towards him that a pang of worry hit his stomach. He shot open his eyes to see a girl staring at him in horror. Her blue eyes were wide, her mouth slightly ajar. He stumbled for his gloves — accidentally hitting one — and rushing to grab it off the ground. The girl took a step forward and picked it off the ground. It hung in front of his face in her hand.

She stared at it. He was silent, too scared to say a word. No one knew about his ‘problem’. No one but his parents. And God knows they did everything they could to make it like that. She knows, he thought.

(your secret is no longer safe)

“So, that’s why the Prince Lewis always wears gloves,” she whispered. She glanced down at his shocked face and smiled. She handed him the glove. She made a curtsey towards him. “Pleasure to meet you, Your Highness. I’m Princess Annabelle of the Fifth Sea.”

He buttoned up his sleeves and pulled the gloves back on, not daring to look at her bright blue eyes. Instead, he stared at her dress. It was blue, like her eyes; like the ocean. It’s skirt fell on her legs like a rumble of waves. Her brown hair laid over it, so dark it almost looked gray. “Prince Lewis,” He finally replied, dipping his head slightly. “As you already know.”

He went to get up, but she pressed his shoulder down. “No, wait.” She told him. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” She cross her legs and tilted her head at him. She was watching him curiously. It made him nervous.

“What do you want?” He said, his voice low.

“You’re not going to ask me to keep that–” She tapped his left hand, “–our little secret, no?” She smiled.

“Why would I? You’re just going to go back and tell everyone, whether I like it or not.”

She laughed, “Do I seem like that kind of person?” Yes, he thought but didn’t say. She sighed, and brushed a piece of hair from her face. “Well, you’re right.” She waited for him to reply, but he said nothing. Then she continued, “So, that’s why I’ve come to an compromise.”

A glanced at her, “A compromise?”

“Marry my sister.” She uncrossed her legs. “Do that, and I’ll agree to forget that horrid rash — or whatever that is of yours.” She was wearing a grand smile. Lewis leaned back, with his mouth slightly twitching. A sister, huh, he thought. But the apple never falls far from the tree…

“So,” she said. “What do you say?” He remained in thought. “She’s a beauty. Not much of a talker, but she’ll do the job, I’d say. A bit stubborn though. Her name’s Silver.”

“Silver?” He said. It just keeps getting better and better, he thought. He closed his eyes, “Fine.” He paused. “I’ll do it, okay? Just keep quiet, Annabelle — or whatever your godforsaken name is.”

She grinned. “Of course, Prince Lewis — brother-in-law-to-be.” And with that, she started off. He shook his head in her shadows.

“Sliver, huh?” He muttered, and then: “I’m doomed. There’s no way that princess’s keeping my secret for long.”

He didn’t dare trying to remove his gloves again that morning.

A Rainy Day

Celia Kaye stumbled to the bus stop, her purse tucked between her arm and hip, and an umbrella in her other hand. The rain was pouring down on her, and it seemed it wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. She slide onto the bench, that conveniently was under the overhang of the bus stop. There was another person at the far end of the bench; an old man in a raincoat that was far too big for him. But she took no notice to him. Instead, she fumbled onto her phone that held rain drops on it’s screen. She then took the sleeve of her coat and wiped it off before responding to her husband, Hank’s text.

She did not notice the old man peering over at her, curiously.

It had almost been ten minutes when she finally took attention to the man. “Excuse me,” she said. He glanced over at her — his face, she noticed — was so tired, but kind. Very kind. “Do you know the time the bus comes? My husband is getting worried.” She laughed nervously. “I, uh — I usually don’t ride this late, you see.” The old man smiled, and nodded to himself. He was quiet for a moment, seemly to be collecting his thoughts.

“It should be here in…oh, let’s say…20 minutes at the most, dear.” She gave him a thankful nod, and went back to her phone. The old man continued to look towards her. And this time, she did take notice.

“Nice weather we’re having, huh?” She joked. Perhaps, he just wants to talk, she thought. He sure doesn’t seem like one of those mad old men, right? She nodded. Yes. Right. She was right. At least, until she could make a better observation.

The old man choked out a laugh, Celia was somewhat startled by it. “Quite so, my dear. But we need the rain in this drought.” He paused. “My wife always loved the rain. I never could understand exactly why…” His face grew sad. The lines in his face deepened. She felt a pang of sympathy for the old man. She couldn’t imagine a day without her Hank–

She shook her head. No. She mustn’t think of that.

They fell silent. She wasn’t sure what to say without saddening the old man. He glanced over at her again, this time her eyes met his. She quickly looked away. The old man grunted. “I’m sorry,” he apologized.

She shook her head, “No, no…it’s fine–”

“You just remind me so much of Alice, my wife. She looked a lot like you in her younger days. Same eyes.” The old man looked down. The street was being drummed with water that streamed down it’s sides. Celia remained silent. I guess that makes sense, she thought. But I can’t help it being a bit uncomfortable…

“Yes, I was young once too, dear.” The old man whispered. His eyes now stared out in the distance. He was lost in his own memories. He mouth tugged at a small smile. “I was a such a prick back then, dare I say. Thank God for Alice. She fixed me up good.” He laughed. Then his mouth went to a frown. Celia waited to finish, but he was quiet. Then an idea hit her.

“Tell me a story,” she told him, a kind smile on her face. “A nice story. I could use one of those right now, mister. This weather is bringing out both down, it seems.” The old man returned her smile.

“I like your thinking, deary. Let’s see…a story, you say?” She nodded. “What a great way to pass the time.” He muttered to himself.  Then his face brightened. “Ah!” Celia glanced at him curiously. The old man pushed up his sleeves. A good story he will tell. A very good one. One that would only fit a raining day like this.

Injection

Alice Melville stood against the counter, her back to the condemned, whose name was much too familiar — Alen Daemons. He laid behind her, strapped to the chair. Not making a sound. She didn’t dare to look back at him. The hood that fell over her face made sure of it. She mixed the injection drug together carefully, measuring each and every ingredient. The she placed the flask down. It was time.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She had volunteered to do this. She had to do it. She took the flask and poured it into the IV bag. Then she took the IV lines and brought them to the small table next to Alen. He glanced at her as she placed them and went back to the counter for the syringe. “It’s time, isn’t it?” He said. She said nothing and continued to pour different drug into the needle. She could hear him breathe in. “Can I ask for one last thing?”

“The condemned don’t get favors, Alen Daemons.” She told him quietly. She could hear a small laugh behind her.

“Of course, you would be the one, Alice. Of fucking course.” He cursed. She pushed the syringe down, it splashed out the liquid. She then started to sterilize all the needles with alcohol. It’s scent burned the back of her throat. “You know, they wouldn’t let me drink alcohol for my last meal,” Alen grunted, as if he could see the disgust on her face from the smell. She grabbed a swab and dipped it into the alcohol, then brought it to Alen. She dabbed it onto his arms. They were pale and looked almost translucent, allowing his veins to be seen easily under his skin.

He looked up at her face as she did this. It had no emotion, but inside, she knew he was feeling something. Something that he would keep hidden to his death. Fear. “Is that favor still in thinking?” He asked. Alice made a mistake of glancing down at him. His blue eyes locked on with hers. She looked away. “No?”

“What is it?” She asked, picking up the syringe.

“Can I at least see your face before I go?” He said. She hesitated. The hood was the only thing from hiding herself from him. Once she took it off, he could read her like a book. He always had. But, unconsciously, she did it. Immediately regretting the decision. “Thank you.” He whispered.

Alice took the first IV tube and Alen’s right arm in her hand. She pushed it’s needle into his skin, then taping it on. She took the other and did the same on his left arm. He didn’t fidget once. “The first time I get an IV, and it’s for this.” He laughed bitterly. “Can you believe it?” He looked to her for a response, but she said nothing. The syringe was now in her hand, and the moment it goes into the IV, he’ll be dead within moments. Alen took notice of this and went quiet.

“You’re really going to do it.” He commented. She went towards him with the needle. His hand twitched slightly. “Are you really going to do this?” Her eyes flickered. When she still said nothing, he said: “Alice?”

The syringe remained in the same place. “Yes,” was the only word she could choke out. She wanted to back out. Then and there. But she couldn’t. No, she had to. She promised.

Alen turned his head towards her. “Then, make it quick.” His voice was firm. She had to give it to him. He was brave. She had always liked that about him. She still does. The needle went into the IV tubes slowly. It felt like eternity. They both held their breaths, it seemed. When she pulled it out, his eyes were closed. She wanted to close hers too.

The Holter monitor still beeped, but it had slowed. And soon, it will stop. “Alice?” He asked.

“What?” She replied. Allowing last ounce of her empathy she had for him in it.

“I’m sorr–” He started. He took in a gasp that would never finish. The monitor’s beeps slowed to nothing. Hot tears flowed down Alice’s cheeks.

Alen Daemons was dead.

Headache

I have a headache. The headache that comes out of nowhere, without your realization; until it starts to throb with pain. The headache that comes at anytime, day or night — it doesn’t matter. It’s still a headache. It feels like someone is pushing a knife into your skull continuously. No pain medication can cure it. Only sleep.

And, of course, with a headache like this, it is difficult to sleep. You toss and turn, praying to go into unconsciousness, so you can finally get rid of the pain. But instead, you lay; wide awake. Uncured. The pain only gets worse.

By this time, tears might be drenching your cheeks. The salty taste on your lips. It might be the first time you’ve cried since childhood, or maybe the second time that day. It doesn’t matter. It’s still a headache.

You might call in work late. Say that you have a bad headache. And you’ll get connected to the only co-worker that can’t understand how bad a headache can get. They’ll say something like: “You’re missing work, just because of a headache?”. And you’ll just ignore it. Because, they don’t know what it’s like. They can’t feel the invisible person digging the knife into your head.

Maybe, at this point, you get lucky. Sleep has taken over. The headache is put on hold. For now. You might have a nice dream for once, or a horrible nightmare. It doesn’t matter, does it? No. You’re asleep. The headache is gone. Or is it?

You wake up. It’s a sunny morning. You’ve slept a few hours. You feel good. The headache is gone. But you’ve already forgotten about that. You’re mind is on what you’ve missed the previous day; what the headache had prevented you from doing. So you do all of it. You make it up. You explain how horrible it was to that co-worker that you had called. They stare at you, smiling, but still not understanding a word.

Weeks pass, months pass. The headache you had is a mere memory. Your life continues. But then, one day, something happens. You start to feel different; sick. You shake it off and go on with your day. It starts to get worse as it goes on. Suddenly, it clicks. The throbbing in your head is back. The headache is back. You rub your temples and prepare for what is to come. Because it doesn’t matter. It’s just a headache. And you’ll get through it.

Eventually.

The First Mistake

My mother always told me to stay away from humans. “Stay away from them, my dearest, Lillith,” she would say. “They all hold dark hearts within them. Nothing good comes from a human. Nothing.” Then she would pause, and collect herself. “You understand?” She would finally say. I would always nod.

But deep down, I questioned it. I questioned it a lot. Why were humans so bad? I couldn’t see it. They seemed the same as us, so why, why did we always try to hid from them? These thoughts always came into my head. Sometimes, it would even make me start to question my mother; the person who I trusted the most. She would never answer me. She thought she was protecting me, but really, it only made me more curious. And when I was curious, I was more interested in to figuring it out. Much more.

Now, go a few years forward. My mother died. By whose hand? Mine. It could have been only mine. Sure, maybe, it was unclear. But I will take it on my own accord that I did it. That was the right thing to do. Plus, it was one hell of a story to tell people. They always run away after. Always.

I lived alone. In a forest, on the outskirts of town. Same area, same house; but no mother. It was hard, I guess. But I survived. Sometimes, a boy my age would come wandering around. My mother always had told me to avoid him. But she wasn’t here anymore. So I approached him. My first mistake.

He was blond haired and blued eyed; beautiful. I’ve always respected those who had nice features like that, since mine weren’t. I was all black — like ink. Black hair, black eyes; not beautiful.

We stood staring for moments. He blinked, I blinked. There was no spoken words. Then he smiled. I wanted to run. My mother smiled, yes. But it was never like that. It was always closed-mouthed. His, his had teeth. It was so childish — cute. It made me uneasy. “Hello, there.” He said.

“Hi,” a small voice inside me said. My feet pointed away; where I wanted to go.

“Wanna play?” He asked, his eyes bright. I didn’t know what to say. I just knew if I said no, his face wouldn’t be so bright, so kind. It would fade into disappointment. I nodded.

He wanted us to climb a tree. I didn’t hesitate to do so. My mother never let me. I could finally do it. We got to almost the top. Him in front, me behind him. The entire time, my eyes kept going to his neck. That neck. At the time, I didn’t know why. But as we climbed, it only got worse. I started to hear sounds. Pulsing. His blood’s pulsing. It started to become the only thing I was thinking about.

Then, we got to the top. My head was pounding. Bloodbloodblood, my thoughts screamed.  felt sick. My mother had spoken to me what this was once. But I had forgotten it until that moment. The moment I snatched onto his neck and bite him–

“If you ever do meet a human, Lillith — I pray you never do — but, if you do, the first thing you will notice is their blood. That is completely normal, dear. And maybe you’ll even attack them for it. That is normal too. That is why we must hide. You understand?”

He screamed, but it wasn’t for long. Then he fainted. I drank a lot of blood that day. It had a disgusting taste, I had to admit. But it made my body feel good. So warm. I liked it. I left the boy’s body after that. I still wonder if he ever recovered, or if he died right there. I may never know. Oh well.

That was my first mistake.

Berries

Alice Melville sliced the blueberry pie and pulled out a piece onto a place. She got a fork and a napkin, holding them with the opposite hand. She then walked up the stairs. Her stomach was churning. She had been wanting to do this for days; maybe even months. But she had to wait, until the perfect moment — which happened to be today. This pie in her hand was no ordinary pie. To others, yes, it would be a blueberry pie; but to her, it was a blueberry pie with a special ingredient: Atropa Belladonna, commonly known as Nightshade. Just enough of them to kill someone. Easily.

She got to the top of the stairway, and headed down the hall to the left. She then knocked at the half-open door. She used her shoulder to pushed it open. Alen was laying on the bed, one hand on his forehead, the other massaging his temples. She looked over at her as she came in. He sat up, “Oh thank God. I’ve been waiting all day for that pie.” She said nothing and placed it next to him. It wasn’t until that moment, where she was only inches from him, that she noticed how tired he really looked. Dark red was formed under his normally bright blue eyes, that now were like muddy water. His nose was pink from irritation. And his pale skin was a light pink. He rubbed his nose and picked up the fork with his left hand. “Blueberry pie — my favorite.” He smiled at her. Alice remained silent. She was holding her breath, looking down at the pie. One bite was all she needed him to do.

(one bite)

He narrowed his eyes and put down the fork. Her stomach felt a jolt. He knows, was her immediate thought. “What’s with you?” He asked. She looked away. “I’m sorry I hit you, if that is what you’re being so bitchy about.” Her hand went up to her cheek. It was still swollen and red. In a few days, it might even began to bruise. She swallowed. One bite and she’ll be free. That’s all she needed.

He let out a deep sigh and picked the fork back up again. Her eyes flickered back to him. He looked at her from the corner of his eyes, “Can I eat this in peace?” He motioned her to leave. Alice spun around and went to the door.

(don’t look back, or he’ll know)

She obeyed her conscious, closing the door behind her. She waited outside the door. It felt like eternity. Then she heard it: a loud choking sound. She ran back into the room. Alen was sweating profusely, his pupils dilated. He was shaking. “Wa-wha-what did you put in th-thiss?”  He yelled, his speech slurred. The pie was on the floor of the bed, splattered everywhere. “Aliss!” She ignored him and bent down at the crumbled pie. “Bitch, tell me n-now!”

A smiled formed across her face. “Nightshade.” He made a sound that sound like a hissing cat that was being strangled. She sat next to him. She brushed his damp bangs away from his forehead, and kissed it. “Goodnight,” she whispered. Alen let out a belt of gibberish. Then he felt back, unconscious. He was burning from the inside out. And soon, it would be over. For both him and her. Alice walked to the door. “See you in hell.”

And, for once, Alen Daemons was silent.

The Bathroom Stall

Tabitha Grace was simply washing her hands in the girl’s bathroom when she felt uneasy. There was an odd feeling something was watching her, it’s eye burning onto her back. She turned off the cold water and pulled out a paper towel to dry her hands. Throwing the paper away, she glanced behind — where the stalls were located. All of them hung open except for one; the fourth and last stall. It had been closed when she came in as well, but it wasn’t until now it had registered in her mind.

(knock…knock)

Her conscious whispered repeatedly. She stood there for a moment, deciding whether to go to her next class or to knock on the stall. She could leave now and ignore it; that was the easy way out. Her hand tingled with anticipation. She shouldn’t, but she wanted to. And, in the end, she did knock. There, of course, was no reply. “Hello?” She called. Nothing. She drew in a breath, “Are you okay in there? It’s passing block you know…don’t want to be late.” Silence. Her mind was screaming to go — leave. Run. But her feet were glued to the ground. She had to look; to see.

(run)

She pressed her hands against the stall, the door fell open, stopping half-way open. It’s croak echoed across the walls. Tabitha slowly glanced down. A foot. She made a small gasp. She pulled the stall door open more. A leg…then an entire body. A very bloody body. She drew back, a hand over her mouth. It was the girl she always seen walking the halls to their classes. The girl she continuously passed by almost every day. The girl that once caused her to trip while walking to English and apologised profusely for it. The girl who she never learned the name of.

Tabitha dashed towards the closest adult there was, completely forgetting her backpack and cell phone by the bathroom sink.

The girl’s name was Claire Priest. She was 16.

Awoken

Alen Daemons woke up abruptly; flinging his body up, and pressing his hands to his forehead. He was drenched with cold sweat that still streamed down his face. He took in a gasp, as if the awaking had shocked him. But it did not. No, he’s had this dream before. Many, many, times before. And just like all those time, he will forget it.

He brushed his damp fringe back with the palm of his hand, glancing over at the other side of the bed. A women’s back faced him, pale as a ghost. Her blonde hair fall around her back like a curtain. Alen sat there, staring at her back, trying to remember her name. It started with an “A”. Alex? Ann? No. He couldn’t remember. She shuffled a little in her sleep, but kept asleep. Her breathing was quiet, he could barely hear her. If he didn’t know better, he might of thought of her as dead.

(maybe it would be better that way)

No. He shook his head. No. He wasn’t a killer — a murderer. But…yet, there was something that continued to itch his conscious with this thought. Why? He didn’t know himself. She moved again, but this time, it was more sudden. She now faced him, her wide eyes staring back at him. Wide blue eyes. Almost the same shade as his. He stared back at her, neither eyes blinking once. Then the thought came to him–

(Alice)

That was her name. Alice. Such a simple name…

She drew herself up, the sheets of the bed no longer covering her chest. She bent over the side of the bed to pick up a t-shirt. She pulled it on. She then looked back at him, he almost wished she hadn’t. “How long have you been up?” She asked. She drew her fingers through her slightly messy hair.

“Sorry did I wake you?” Alen replied. His eyes flickered from her to the bed.

“No,” she said, her voice quiet; raspy. A low voice, that would sound seductive to most men, but to Alen, it was just another voice. He thought for a moment if he should respond. ‘Good’, me might say. He decided not to in the end. A waste of breath.

A movement came to the corner of his eye, Alice pressed her hand on his bare shoulder. He drew back. Her hand remained held in the same position, her expression the same. “No?”

“No.” He said, almost a whisper. Her eyes closed. She pulled her hand back.

“Then what?” Her voice was thick. Her eyes, her eyes were narrowed. She was angry. Alen wasn’t surprised. “I can’t touch you anymore, Alen. I try to do anything–” She moved her hand back to Alen, he slipped away. “See? What’s wrong? Is it me?” Alen was silent. “What is it? It’s like I’m a monster…I can’t even kiss you anymore without you being disgusted with me. I want to love you, Alen. What’s wrong with me?” Her eyes were glossy. She glanced at him for an answer, but he had none.

“Alice…” He started. “I don’t–”

“Don’t know? You don’t know?” She started to shout. She slipped out of the bed and gathered her clothes. She held them in her face, “These– you see these? I took them off. For you! But you did nothing.” She sloppily put her clothes on, furious. Alen could only watch her. When she finished, she went out the door, slamming it behind her. “Call me when you’re better.” She told him.

Alen sat there for a moment. How can I get better if I don’t know what’s wrong with me? He thought.