resolution♔ z.m

38%

"Hurt me." she said. "Hurt me until you heal."

His eyelids groggily open to the trace of sunlight beneath his jaw. For a moment, he feels lost. Despite the dryness in his throat and the pound in his head, a deep part of him feels... different. Different? He turns to his side and notices a glass of juice and two tablets of paracetamol placed on the bed side table with a note or two with something scribbled on them.

"You're up," he hears a soft tone. A pang in his chest feels like several bullets penetrating through his skin. "Take that," his weary view of the way she points at his side imprints in his head. That's the first thing he remembers.

"Take that, or you're going to regret it during the day," her body slips into the vacant side of the bed as she takes hold of his face and leaves a warm kiss on his cheek. "I love you, I love you, I love you," her laugh is so serene, he thinks his heart will swell from the adoration of the crinkle of her eyes, and soft fall of her head backwards whenever he says something funny. "Me too."

"You're going to regret it during the day," she says. But this wasn't Vera getting into bed and repeating her I love you's like a chorus to a song. This was Giselle. A shallow curve forms between her eye brows when she realizes he wasn't really there. They both weren't really there. She was in the future and he was in the past, both looking for things that weren't meant to be found. He sits up and takes the tablets, knowing her sight hasn't shifted from away him. He wants to know what goes through her mind. He really does. He especially wants to know why she has done this to him.

"What have you done?" he has his both hands against his forehead.

"What?" Her head tilts to the side, a twirl of hair cascading to the swell of her breast. She wore his shirt. No one wore his shirts except Vera.

"What have you done?" He says again, but this time, it sounds more strained. Those moments whenever his sister would ask what he has done after colouring the walls of her room when he was younger and getting that stare-, it was worse than that.

"You're not her, you'll never be her," he looks at his hands. He studies the lines that run through them and how they interconnect with other bunch of lines which is just an endless stream of lines and god, what happened?

"I'm not aiming to be," a smirk embarks on her lips. After a beat, she gets to her feet and strolls to the end of the bed, standing by the edge and partially leaning onwards to touch his hand, but he flinches and tries to avoid her glance. She redraws. He doesn't have the guts to look up at her, but he hears a shuffle of things. "Hurt me, Zayn," she knew it was a risk trying to touch him but she did either way and though it was expected he'd try to shove her hand away, she holds tight and continues, "hurt me until you heal." She leaves and with the audible shut of the door, he sighs out loudly while running his hands through his hair and lays back down, staring at the ceiling.
What's the good in this? Why was she so persistent on trying to heal him when he was the one wanting not to heal? He fists his hair in his hands and tries to feel the pain but it's incomparable to the pain in his chest. He was tipsy, she was as well, they spent the night and he know what he did was wrong, but she wants more. She offered herself. Does he take advantage of this?