02-21-2018, 02:50 AM
"baby, please don't go
if i wake up tomorrow, will you still be here?"
if i wake up tomorrow, will you still be here?"
It’s been this way for as long as he can remember.
They crumble in his presence, their resolve shatters to pieces—beings so mighty that some people considered them Gods fell at his feet and he has kept quiet about it. Secretly enjoyed it, even. They never suspected him, never took the time to consider that kind and quiet Adrian was the one making them sick. Some of them deserved it, others didn’t; she didn’t deserve it at all and he hated to look at her this way. She thought she was the problem, she thought something was wrong with her and he tries telling her otherwise but the words never come out.
It’s easier to blame her than lose her.
“Have you been taking the pills?” Adrian asks, running a hand through his dark messy hair. He stares at the hardwood floor, tracing the patterns in the wood with his eyes.
Honestly, he can’t bring himself to look at her so he avoids it while he runs through their regular checkpoints: He’ll ask if she’s been taking the medicine, she will insist she has, he’ll ask to look at the bottle and then insist she make another appointment with the doctor. It’s become routine. She’s so frail now that she hardly resembles the woman she was when they first met and the thought brings a dull ache to the forefront of his chest. He’s killing her.
Adrian bows his head, wrestling with the idea that maybe—just maybe—she will be better off if he lets her go. It’s better to do it now than never. He has turned her own magic against her, turned it to poison in her veins and what will he do one morning when he wakes up and finds that warm body wrapped in the sheets cold and stiff? What will he do when those pretty eyes of her have glazed over, when there’s no life left in there—just the pale, milky, dead film of a corpse? He shakes his head, wrings his hands, and then gets back up and starts pacing the floor again.
“It’s not my fault!”
She screams at him and he fights back a flinch—he knows, he knows it isn’t her fault—and yet the words still don’t come. ‘I know,’ he wants to say, ‘it’s my fault, it’s always been my fault. I’m sorry.’ Instead he ignores her and continues pacing until she starts to plead with him.
That’s when Adrian stops to look at her, truly look at her, and what he sees nearly makes him sick to his stomach. She’s beautiful despite her failing health and he eases forwards until he’s at the edge of the bed; he leans down, kissing her on the head and smoothing out her hair because it’s a mess and it’s all his fucking fault. All of it. She has black-blue feathers tangled in her locks and he gently picks them free—feathers in her locks, feathers strewn around the room, some of them still drifting through the air that they’d shaken them loose during their short-lived tryst.
Simply touching him had been enough to make her scream and not in the way he’d wanted.
Better now than never.
“Don’t cry,” he whispers, trailing kisses from the top of her head down to the tip of her nose before tentatively pecking her on the lips. Anything more and he might have figuratively burned her again. “I love you… but I’m hurting you.”
They crumble in his presence, their resolve shatters to pieces—beings so mighty that some people considered them Gods fell at his feet and he has kept quiet about it. Secretly enjoyed it, even. They never suspected him, never took the time to consider that kind and quiet Adrian was the one making them sick. Some of them deserved it, others didn’t; she didn’t deserve it at all and he hated to look at her this way. She thought she was the problem, she thought something was wrong with her and he tries telling her otherwise but the words never come out.
It’s easier to blame her than lose her.
“Have you been taking the pills?” Adrian asks, running a hand through his dark messy hair. He stares at the hardwood floor, tracing the patterns in the wood with his eyes.
Honestly, he can’t bring himself to look at her so he avoids it while he runs through their regular checkpoints: He’ll ask if she’s been taking the medicine, she will insist she has, he’ll ask to look at the bottle and then insist she make another appointment with the doctor. It’s become routine. She’s so frail now that she hardly resembles the woman she was when they first met and the thought brings a dull ache to the forefront of his chest. He’s killing her.
Adrian bows his head, wrestling with the idea that maybe—just maybe—she will be better off if he lets her go. It’s better to do it now than never. He has turned her own magic against her, turned it to poison in her veins and what will he do one morning when he wakes up and finds that warm body wrapped in the sheets cold and stiff? What will he do when those pretty eyes of her have glazed over, when there’s no life left in there—just the pale, milky, dead film of a corpse? He shakes his head, wrings his hands, and then gets back up and starts pacing the floor again.
“It’s not my fault!”
She screams at him and he fights back a flinch—he knows, he knows it isn’t her fault—and yet the words still don’t come. ‘I know,’ he wants to say, ‘it’s my fault, it’s always been my fault. I’m sorry.’ Instead he ignores her and continues pacing until she starts to plead with him.
That’s when Adrian stops to look at her, truly look at her, and what he sees nearly makes him sick to his stomach. She’s beautiful despite her failing health and he eases forwards until he’s at the edge of the bed; he leans down, kissing her on the head and smoothing out her hair because it’s a mess and it’s all his fucking fault. All of it. She has black-blue feathers tangled in her locks and he gently picks them free—feathers in her locks, feathers strewn around the room, some of them still drifting through the air that they’d shaken them loose during their short-lived tryst.
Simply touching him had been enough to make her scream and not in the way he’d wanted.
Better now than never.
“Don’t cry,” he whispers, trailing kisses from the top of her head down to the tip of her nose before tentatively pecking her on the lips. Anything more and he might have figuratively burned her again. “I love you… but I’m hurting you.”