Scar Tissue [2Doc]

//21//

My waking conscious pokes my mind, alerting me of the warm mass beside me. My eyes shoot open at the striking realization that Murdoc is in bed beside me . I'm immediately reminded of my invitation to him last night. The way I felt him pick me up and carry me. And being in his arms just making me feel so secure. My tired brain just desperately craved the feeling of wanting to feel warmth from another human. More specifically from Murdoc.

I slowly sit up so as not to wake him and cautiously turn my head his direction. He sleeps on his back, his arm beside me is placed across his chest. His other arm is sprawled out on the bed, his hand hanging off the edge. His head is turned away from me. His hair is a mess. And his shirt is ever so slightly lifted up, exposing his dark trail of belly hair.

He smells strongly of cigarettes, the oder surley already soaked through my sheets. But I'm somehow finding it too attractive. The way he seems so at peace as his loud heavy breathes move his chest rhythmically. I feel the exhaustion pulling at my eyes as I move them across his figure so quickly, studying him. I feel a twang in my heart, the string pulled resonating through my body. I immediately slide out of bed and pace to the bathroom. I quickly take a piss, avoiding the threatening boner.

I somehow feel robotic taking a seat on the couch in the living room to just exist silently. It's still slightly dark out, the sun streaming through the kitchen window is dull. The birds seem extra loud this morning. Or maybe its because I'm choosing to be aware of my environment right now. I scan my small space, so many of Murdoc's belongings now scattered around the apartment, then take note of the unexpected open space by the front door. The mess of shoes has been organized. Huh,, Murdoc must've done that when he got home last night.

My mind immediately starts to race to last night again. What prompted him to even carry me to bed? My brain slaps back the facts in my face. Because I was sleeping in his space, duh. I cringe at the thought, so much that my chest feels tight. But he didn't walk away afterwards.

Thoughts about him touching me begin to bubble through my brain. But I know he didn't. It's obvious that he kept to himself, his entire body language showing it, being completely turned away from me.

I mindlessly begin to pick the skin around my nails, thinking about what kind of day I'm about to experience today. Probably same old shit now, stuff down a breakfast with no appetite, take my prescribed drugs, and mess around with some tunes. That's how it's been playing out, and that's where it's seeming to flow again. I never protest at Murdoc's ideas, but maybe I'm just beginning to get a little tired of routine. Having a routine when sober feels,, tedious?

I stop picking at my skin when I feel my adrenaline heighten and witness the tiny crimson beads forming around my cuticules... It feels nice.

I only make myself a tea and toast some bread in order to take my meds. Murdoc sleeps in until close to noon, the guy always been an extremely heavy sleeper. Though he seems to have cut down significantly. He would sleep till five back in the days. I'm convinced hes nocturnal. When he finally wakes up, all he does is greet me with a "morning" and "sorry for stealing your bed," and makes his coffee.

We don't address last night. Neither do we the next day, or the next. It bothers me how he doesn't mention anything, but I can't complain cause its not like I did either. My better thoughts convince me that the only reason he didn't bring it up is because he doesn't wanna jump at me with an assumption of reciprocated feelings.

He started to attend open mics nightly after that day. He tells me that hes found a place he likes. Which must be a rare find because he was always picky with venues and stages. He always wanted top tier accommodation and attention. But maybe that stuff isn't important to him anymore.