Trying To Heal

Chapter Twenty-Six

From this chapter and onwards, the content will be 18+.

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Derek

It is a magnificent blessing to mundanely spectate April Levesque unearthing herself. The pallidity, the tediousness, the morose masks are substituted by a dewy radiance so heartfelt, gloomy weathers shiver.

I am indolently trekking the treadmill, authorising my line of vision. It is aggravating that these treadmills are located in front of a mirror wall. Whenever I stumble into it, my reflection is invisible. Hers is not. She is dressed in a short-sleeved, red shirt swedging to not break apart at her cleavage, the valley perceptible. The matching leggings traces the inflects and arches of her physique. To make it even more challenging, her dark brunette hair is braided to her hip-line. Her hair is so treacherously long. It is one of the features I find myself mesmerising and envisaging how the satiny locks would look wrapped around my hand—

Scheiße. The spark reformed into a perilous, perilous blast. Conceivably, it could be the way I catch her surveying me, studying me, in these past few weeks. Like she wanted me to fuck her. And I do. This agitation in our sphere is so condensed and colossal, it could be mistaken for stress. I just want to fuck it out of our systems for the sake of our humanity, instead of feeling it corrupting our logic, senses and limbs into ashes.

She is so fucking irresistible, it physically, mentally, psychologically and spiritually hurts. Stunning. Heavenly. I can rant out the thousand synonyms and write it out using petals of roses, and it still will not be enough. It is almost disgraceful that the thesaurus for 'beautiful' is not infinite to scar my reality. Because she is infinite, and she is my reality. She is my existence.

When she landed on top of me, I should have been the epitome of a selfish man and kissed her then. I should have kissed her breathless till the sole oxygen was ours, in such a brutal, passionate, punishing manner for making me short-winded whenever I think, see, hear and feel her.

I look down at my moving feet, tempted to put on my headphones and abuse my ears as a distraction. Someone photographed us at the ice rink, and now she is all over the media. The press assumes she is either my girlfriend, a platonic friend, or someone I have chemistry with. They started to unveil more pictures of her. I asked her about this, and she said that the attention was the least of her worries.

But it is the most of mine. The press are unhinged. They act like starved animals. Whatever is a paycheck, is a paycheck.

Involuntarily, I increase the pace on the monitor, unconsciously sneaking a look at her facing back, her attention on her phone connected the loudspeakers.

My gaze descends. Would her skin feel as soft as it appears beneath my hands? She is so impeccably divine, I could ruin her. In so many ways. She is worth it to get on my knees for, in blood, sweat and tears. She is crucial for life to worship, and I would make sculptors to create everlasting statues of it — by force or not — and situate the impeccable art in prestigious museums. I want to show the world how to treat her right. I want everyone in the universes to treat her right, or else they will end up like those boys, but much uglier.

She turns. My attention alters, the heat in my abdomen lurking to my face.

"I went to the hospital earlier today."

That peaks my fascination. "To see the fuckers?"

"Yeah. They looked awful. Some had casts covering their faces. Apparently some were disfigured. And, God, you were right. Their hands were severed." She claps her hands. "I really want to know who did it and give them head."