Trying To Heal

Chapter Eighteen

April

His force was miniscule and mastered the majority. As he grew up, as he matured and attained essential growth, that force shaped into a darker and brighter light of power, like a hawk birthed in a dark cave that flapped to the clouds in its very first try. It did not require the assistance of its mother nor father. It required its own assistance, one that took its gradual, divine time to flourish.

Something has adapted in his bubble. As fierce as Arctic ice, as dismayed and isolated as the bottoms of seas. Dark circles of dread horrify his chiselled, sculpted face, clawing in dread, anxiety and paranoia for the worst. He fluently hides those unfamiliar sentiments, as how any individual that suffered from a childhood of depression could, and they settle on the broad length of his tense shoulders, in the firmness of his Adonis build.

I open my mouth to speak for the words to be lost as he instinctively advances forward. Suddenly, so am I, my legs involuntarily moving with their own minds. He widens out his arms. I fall into his humble chest, enriched with that soothing scent of basil and mint that sends my senses into haywire. His body is a brick, hard and solid. His hug is a cloud, soft and snug. His hands press flat onto my slim back, no doubt feeling the bones, rising up to gently grip my nape. His nose and a part of his eyes are submerged into my brunette coils.

His arms squeeze me so excruciatingly tight; I can still breathe. "Thank God," he murmurs into my hair. "Thank fucking God."

I close my eyes as he rambles words in foreign tongues, marking behind an inveigling tingle in my ears. I do not know why I want to see him the most — someone I have seen and known from afar and got close to in a couple of months.

I am the first to break away.

"I was — I —" He endeavours to regain his composure. 

This is not like him. 

I have never seen Derek so ... dishevelled. 

If he was disturbed, he would reveal it in his reserved manner, in the distasteful and disappointed tilt of his lips, in a glare so sharp it leaves behind unhealing scars. 

"I was fucking drowning," he confesses finally. 

His hands run down my arms, prickling my baby hairs. "I thought you were — we thought you were — I thought you were going to die — and —" He swallows the nervousness, concluding to be attentive to the relief. His eyes roam me rapidly, absorbing the bandaged scars on my arms, to the wounded temple, my pale skin, the darkness in my brown eyes.

I distinguish the brim of his tears. He washes them in a swift blink, as if he wanted only me to witness that vulnerability. In fact, this is the first time I have seen him so exposed.

"I pulled a Jesus," I say in a humorous tone.

He chuckles, the pressure draining. Sadly, he lets go of my wrists which burns in coldness at the lack of his touch. 

Before I could move to the next Matthews, Tanner abruptly wrenched me away and attacked me in a rough embrace. My face strains into a pleasant smile, hugging him as my eyes flutter close, inhaling his usual cinnamon and bark odour upheld by the spicy Armani cologne.

Releasing me, he leans back, his large hands on my shoulders. He looks into my right eye, then to my left, and repeats the action twice. His new dreadlocks are what made me stumble in surprise. They are gathered into a ponytail, strangely complimenting his alluring, sensual, downturned dark eyes. It perfectly suits his charisma and somehow enhances his handsome looks further. He is wearing a grey Bonheur shirt that accentuates his soft-muscled frame. Inked at the collarbones are detectable tattoos.