Rose Thorns & Love Letters

47 ➪ Love, Sweetheart

•Camilla•

My heart falters in its place. Fuck that. My heart falters in everywhere but its place. I swear I feel it tickle my toes.

The heat in Phoenix's stare could be enough to light a fire with nothing but stones. He looks the same as he did when I left him behind. Better, even. Smooth, black lines. Crisp and cut. Dressed to the nines.

I hate it.

For a strange reason, I can't find enough oxygen to carry out the basic process that is breathing. My skin, despite the chilly weather, must be hot to the touch. My mind is in fifty different places all at once. My legs haven't stopped shaking since that door closed behind me.

And I can't take my eyes off him.

No. Not when the sight of him walking over to me in nothing but a perfectly fitted dress shirt is obstructing my view of everything else.

Isn't he cold? Isn't it a little too cold to be parading around in one layer of clothing to cover his chest in the middle of December? More importantly, why do I care?

It hits me like a wrecking ball. I thought I had left it behind when I left my home behind, but how could I be so stupid? I thought I was in love with this man. Sure, I may have been wrong, considering the way he betrayed my trust and literally threatened to take my life—

The gun. The gun that Phoenix pressed against my skin. It all comes rushing back. The overwhelming feeling of helplessness and the sheer pressure of his deception being held against my neck in the form of smooth, cold metal.

The Junior's Junior.

I was given the hints. The sneaky behaviour during the first few days we were aquatinted with each other, his smooth and cunning remarks about the man I was deceived into calling my father, hell, even the guns that were pointed in my direction by his friends.

Friends. I could laugh. I may be uncertain about a lot of things in this fucked up thing I call my life, but if I know one thing for certain, those men are not his friends. Boss. He is their boss.

Happy to be at your service.

The more I look at him, the more I begin to wonder about the whole existence of our relationship. The thoughts are consuming me so much that the fact that he is stood directly in front of me now does not phase me the way that it should.

You are disposable to me. If he doesn't kill you, I will.

All the trauma, all the insecurities, all the secrets. Were they all contributing factors to the three act play he composed with me as an unknowing and unwilling actress?

The Phoenix I got to know. The Phoenix I learnt to love. Was any of it real at all?

The thought of the answer to that question being the one I don't want to hear is what has tears brimming in my eyes. His mouth is moving now, but I can't hear a word he is saying.

I don't think I can hear anything at all. Everything around me has turned to white noise. Indiana is quiet as it is, but right now, I feel as though I am drowning and my ears are bearing the brunt of it all.