METANOIA

Aletheia

I opened my eyes and took a deep breath, blinking slowly and looking up at the ceiling. I didn't immediately remember where I was or what had happened last night. Before my mind could dive into the stabbing memories I felt an uncomfortable shiver and withdrawal go through my entire body, and the ruined clothes that had constricted my movements in my sleep rubbed irritatingly against my skin. Lifting myself up on my forearms, I sat up and straightened my back, trying in vain to stretch my shoulders and neck, but every movement only gave off a pain that was impossible to hide. Each time I had to endure stressful events, and such emotions were slowly poisoning my flesh, my body took longer to recover from the beatings and injuries, and my head had no time to rest. I was tired of the string of these troubles — at this rate of life, I didn't have long to live; I wasn't immortal and each time the chance that I wouldn't be able to endure the next fight increased.

My shirt was crumpled and torn, dripping with blood and smelling like sweat, and all I could do with my trousers was throw them away — Vincent had cut the fabric where I'd been wounded enough to make a bandage, but they weren't good for much more than that. My thigh whimpered unbelievably, as if the wound continued to tear and burn the skin from the inside out; I ran my fingers over the white bandage, which showed no trace of blood. The wound hadn't opened overnight, which meant the man had taken good care of me. I tried not to think about what had caused such dexterity in dealing with wounds — such skills were associated with a lot of experience in the field; God only knew what Vincent had endured as a prisoner and mercenary.

"How are you?" the voice behind me sounded too distant, as if Vincent were standing outside the door. Exhaling tensely, I turned in his direction, holding back the urge to yawn. He looked as beautiful as ever. He had a pleasant scent, despite the tiredness in the air. My heart jumped as soon as his warming gaze began to caress my shoulders, and my breathing paused as the memories of last night gently caressed my skin.

"Alive," I wheezed, continuing to knead sore muscles and pressing my lips together at the growing awkwardness, "but in desperate need of a shower," I added, sniffing at my own body. I could only guess at how awful I looked as she tended to my wound and wrapped a bandage around my leg. Yesterday we kissed. It was as if I'd breathed again in that moment — I'd been transformed into the sea as I looked out the windows of my hotel, so calm, so alive, so real.

"I'll examine your wound," the man said, shattering my thoughts. He stepped closer as I tried to regain my breath and come to terms with what had happened. My heart beat faster as the man crouched next to my leg and touched his warm fingers to my skin, and my breath caught — he was too close, and now things weren't the same between us. My lips covered in a shroud of fire as I lowered my gaze to his focused face — he really did care about my health, a man whose story was a genuine surprise to me, mixed with frustration and anger.

He slowly unwrapped the bandage, and I didn't think about the reasoning behind his actions. We were so much alike that my gut fluttered at the thought, for I'd never before met a man who understood everything fate had put me through, but at the same time, I couldn't escape the feeling that there was still an invisible gap between us that yesterday had been imperceptibly overgrown by the soft colours that caressed my skin as nicely as his kisses.

"It's okay," the man uttered, lifting his gaze to me and bringing me back to reality, "I'll help you take a shower," he added, standing up and all I had to do was press my lips together.

The warm water enveloped my scarred skin like a feather, and Vincent's firm hand on my shoulder, keeping me from falling, made me feel strangely uncomfortable. I knew the man had seen me naked before, but I hadn't given it much thought before, but now everything was different, and nothing was the same. Instead of bitterness at the world, including Boyd, I felt condescension in his direction. A man who understood my self-destruction. As I ran the scratchy soapy flannel over my skin, I couldn't stop thinking about the man who stood beside me and kept me from falling. I had no doubt that he was looking at the wall, not at me, favouring the water that was soaking his shirt sleeve and tanned skin.