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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

The door slams open, and she jolts back, eyes flickering straight to him, the light, the sun, the centre of attention. She loves him. What else is there to say?

Submitted: August 28, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 28, 2018



“So what do we do now?” he murmurs, after a few long minutes, the smoke from under the bumper reflected in crisp brown eyes. 

She doesn't respond, but he doesn't notice, not yet. 

There’s a hole in the wall and they’re through it.

The left indicator is still on, ticking.




At two second intervals.


Orange light is making the tarmac glitter, and he turns his head. 

“You alright?”

She shakes her head, as though clearing it from cobwebs, turning her neck to meet his half-interested glance.

“Just ghosts.”

“So now what?” he repeats, hands too still and too white against blue denim jeans.

“I dunno. I guess I pull this glass from my head, and we get out.” she responds absently, purple tipped fingers touching her face. 

“And then?” he asks, and he isn’t looking anymore, not at her. He’s still watching the road, oblivious to the whisper of a wince as she pulls the chunk of glass from her head, dropping it onto the floor next to them.

“We go home.” she says to herself, lifting one leg and kicking the passenger side door open. 




She’s dancing on her own, and his fingernails are eating groves out of his left thigh as he watches.

There are people there, but there may as well not be, because his vision has darkened into a tunnel. 

Her teeth skim her bottom lip as she raises the bottle, green liquid sloshing absently against glass. 

The music is winding to a close, and she still has her eyes closed as it trails away, so it’s just her, and him of course, and she’s dancing to the sound of his heart racing. 

His fingers creep to deepened pockets, reaching for a bag with two singular white pills, without looking at them, just her, but the silence shatters.

“Where’s my fuckin’ whiskey?”

And there it is. 

He lets out a gasp of air, blows it hard, out of his lungs, as her lids snap open and she grins, intoxicatedly at him, as he comes storming in, dark hair tousled from the wind, the bitter smell of illegal smoke following him in.

She holds it teasingly above her head, and he plays along, although he could easily overpower her.

He snags one paper wrist in his hands, his damn hands, prising the second bottle from her, taking it away. 

His bottle. 

He lets the bag slide back into his pocket, leaving just as she stands on her tiptoes, closing her eyes again, just as he leans over her.

He snags a frosted white bottle on his way, cracking the lid off with blunt teeth and spitting it onto the corridor. 




She stumbles out, and he stares for a fleeting moment longer before following suit. 

His jaw is bleeding, maybe from the force of teeth hitting lips, though it felt like he hit bone, and now they’re stood on a soaking wet road, surrounded by crystal glass that’s glittering from the shine of the single light left on the ruined van. 

Rain is saturating the dark hair that hangs down her face. 

He limps over, pressing a palm to sullen cheeks until she turns. 

He presses their lips together, her mouth falling open at the feel of his, and he pushes the pill into her mouth, only pulling away when he feels her swallow. 

She grabs his hand, blinking up at him, as rain continues to splatter down next to them, and they run. 




She finds him alone, sat in the dark with a half full bottle, although it’s only been ten minutes, and slides down next to him, blinking the light out of her eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” she’s asking, but she’s slurring her words, and he can smell aftershave on her dark shirt, aftershave and cigarette smoke and the ever present stench of bitterness. 

He shakes his head instead, although she can’t see him, and turns his head away, throwing back another three shots in a mouthful and swallowing with only the slightest of grimaces. 

He feels her before he makes out her silhouette. She’s climbed to her feet now, and she’s standing over him. He can feel the heat radiating from her cheeks.

“Where’s he gone?” he asks, unable to keep the soak of bitterness from his tone. 

She either doesn’t notice or she’s too far gone to care, instead prising the bottle of vodka from his fingers and swigging it. 

“He doesn’t matter.” she says, with conviction, but she’s fucking lying again, so instead he grabs her wrists, spinning her round and throwing her onto the mattress. 




Nobody’s home when they stumble through the door, but the porch light is on.

He punches in a code through trembling fingers.




“No…we can’t…” she murmurs, through numb lips, as he tugs clumsily at the hem of her shirt, pressing kisses to her neck. Her hands are on his chest, pushing, pushing, but he just presses down more, desperate just for one fucking taste, to mark her as his…

“Stop!” she yells, snapping him back into a world with more than just her golden scent and burning scarlet. 

He leans back, breathing heavily, staring at her through heavy eyelashes.

“Why do you keep running back to him?” he demands. 

“I love him.” she says, as she has so many times before, but it still hurts, still kills him inside. 

“Why?” he asks. 

She just shakes her head, watching him guiltily, swallowing slightly at his gaze. 

He watches her chest rise, her bottom lip catch on her teeth, the flush across stretched cheekbones, before he gets up. 

He sweeps the vodka off his desk, leaving and slamming the door behind him. 




She’s lit a cigarette. He can smell the bite of the dirty smoke behind him, hear the faint squeal of the flame as it lapses into nothing.

He pushes the door open, ushering her through and snapping it closed, and follows her wearily up the stairs, down the corridor and into his bedroom. 

Blood has frozen across her head, in a lewd streak. 

She kicks her shoes off, turning and sitting so that her legs are out of the window.

Ink black strands of hair slip forward to wind round her face, revealing the arch of her neck.




He throws the bottle aside, watching it smash into shards against the bland wall. 

She slept here. He can smell her hair, see neon blue underwear tossed under the bed.

He stands up, staggering, falling heavily against the wooden drawers. 

His head is swimming, hands shaking, bile rising up in his throat, and he groans as waves of dizziness crash into the shore of his brain three more times. 

He pushes open the door, stopping to dry heave on his way out.

Stumbling into every wall he passes, he makes it down the stairs, somehow, clutching the banister. 

He’s half blind as he walks into the kitchen, into a chair, into the table, reaching for a bottle of gin because that’s all that’s left, and outside.

There’s a cold rush of air on his cheeks, and it bites into him, sweeping away some of the haze. 

He blinks, still hanging off the handle of the patio door. 

She slept here. 

His jacket, hooked on the headboard. 

The gin burns, but he keeps drinking, drinking, because he can’t bear to stop, and maybe if he keeps drinking, he’ll stop seeing her, stop seeing him, her underwear, under the bed. 

The bottle falls, in slow motion, tumbling, tumbling, tumbling, until it shatters.

And it would almost be funny, how dramatic it all was, the shaking hands and the broken glass, if that weren’t the last bottle of hard liquor in the house. 





“Rachel.” he slurs, against the radiator, fingers trapped in dust. 

She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, body still against the windowpane, legs still dangling. 

Her eyelashes are crescents against moonlight skin, chest barely rising. 

“Rachel.” he says again, voice lacing with urgency. 

Her cigarette burns further down, spluttering itself out of existence, against the blanket of night. 

He needs to go, go to her, but his legs are useless, frozen into place, and the only thing moving is his numb lips, wrapped around her name, pushing it out again, and again, and again. 

Behind him, the radiator stays cold, burning into his dull frame.




“I want something more. I need…something more.”

The worst words, flickering from his mouth.

Maybe if he’s fast enough, he could catch them, before they get too far, stuff them back into his fucking mouth, but it’s too late, because she’s already turning, gazing at him with fearful eyes. 

Her hair is wet, split into two separate plaits, nestled into the nape of her neck.

“Jesse…” she murmurs, delicate eyebrows knitting together. 

He’s out of the room now, cigarette dangling from between thin lips, and really, what does she see in him? 

This was the moment, the only moment, but her eyes are mired in sadness, lips moving against things he can’t, won’t, hear, and it was only two sentences but now everything is fucked up, ruined. 

“…thought you understood what this…us, was.” she’s saying, digging out her fingernails. 

His hands are knotted against his legs, knuckles pale, trying to swallow back the burn in his chest, the churn in his stomach. 

He can’t take it back, can’t lean forward and pluck the words from the air, and maybe he can live without something more, something defined, because she’s there, and she’s everything, and she’s still talking, somehow. 

He leans forward, knocking into his bottle, but it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, because she’s there now, lips inches away…

The door slams open, and she jolts back, eyes flickering straight to him, the light, the sun, the centre of attention. 

She loves him.

What else is there to say?




She’s still, like silent wind, until she rises, moving in one fluid motion across the room. 

Her eyes don’t glitter, instead dull, full of apprehension, sadness. 

“Rachel.” he says meekly, from the floor. 

Her hair lies flat against her skull, jaw rolling. 

“Don’t worry so much, Jesse.” she laughs, but the sound is empty, forced. 

She sits on the mattress, crossing one long leg over the other and cracking her knuckles. 

“Are you happy?” he asks, and she smiles dully. 

“Happiness is subjective.” is all she says, and his eyes flicker down, resting on a spot near her foot. 

“Just call him.”

He trips over his own words, throat resisting the vibrations; he forces it out anyway. 

Her eyebrows crumple, paper thin, chewing on a loose fingernail.

“He doesn’t want me anymore, Jess. Besides, I have you now.” she shrugs. 

Her tone is levelled, carefully sized.

She pats the bed adjacent to her, and he stands, unsteadily, eyelids heavy. 


She’s on top now, hair tickling his nose, yanking at his shirt. 

It comes off easily, landing on the floor, and she keeps her eyes closed as her lips press into his neck. 

“I love you.” he murmurs, into the still air. 

But she pretends not to hear, pressing her hips harder into his. 


© Copyright 2020 lordylordylookwho's40. All rights reserved.

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