All Too Well - Erik Menendez

Your Lips Melt The Pain [18+]

Princeton. NJ. 1988.

Eriks POV:

I jolt awake.

In a pool of sweaty palms and raging anxiety. I check my senses, desperately praying my clothes are still on. They are.
I'm in Lyles room, I'm safe. It's a fact that takes a rapid heartbeat and sunken chest moments to recognise. The dark, unforgiving hands that was undressing me was a dream. Simply, just a dream.

My parched throat and overly-heated body demands refuge elsewhere. I hesitantly peel the covers from my body. In a black top and sweatpants, I quietly walk towards the door. Each step a calculated plea in an attempt to not wake my elder. We're back sharing a room together, my childhood reappearing right in front of me.

After ever-so-delicately pulling the door closed, I ruffle my hair and sloppily walk towards the dining room. The coldness hits my body like a thousand sharp knives, each more pointed than the next. I welcome it. My body welcomes it.

As I stand in the door frame, there she is.

Whisper.

A silky nightdress is the only thing that hangs from her body. It's the softest pink I've seen and it holds beautifully against her. Every curve, every outline, I can see it. Fuck, I can see everything.
She looks ravishing, a wondering angel which fell from the kingdom itself, she looks like every single humans heart-consuming dreams.

She's my dream.

Stabbing gently at a bowl of fresh fruit before she brings it to her full lips.

I approach, each step calculated, desperate to shrink myself not to frighten such angel, not to make her aware of my presence so she retreats with cold eyes and bitter pain.
When I'm so close that her eyes instinctively notice my presence, she cuts her eyes back to her fruit bowl and resumes her consumption.

Uncomfortable, I slip behind the kitchen island. My eyes unable to peel from the view of her behind. Her legs are slightly turned but hold a softness, a cushion-like view as her thighs go wider up her legs. The curve of her butt is obvious. So obvious. So obvious.

I feel my half-awake body jolting deep inside. It's a firework display setting off in the pits of my stomach. Her beauty, Cleopatra doubled over, set flames and storm within my chest, within my stomach.

It's undeniable the intense awkwardness that simmers through the atmosphere as I bring a glass from the upper cabinet and fill it from the tap. The water is cold as it meets my lips and cools my body down entirely. Its crisp presence is refreshing.

I hesitantly bring my glass and stand beside her, my hands resting on the kitchen island as I look at the smaller next to me.
However, she doesn't look up or even acknowledge my presence at all. I watch intensely as she brings each piece of melon up to her wet lips, the sight challenges to betray my privacy, and I find deep regret wearing these light grey sweatpants.

"You can't sleep?" I ask, shyly, hopeful for a response. My heart is in my hands, my stomach in my chest.

After a harrowing few seconds, she nods her head slightly. The response calmer than her outburst at dinner and I exhale a shaky breath I didn't realise I was so desperately holding.

"Can you look at me?"

The question forces her to slam her fork into the bowl, almost like it offended her. Her head turns up to me and I'm granted with a cold set of eyes and raised eyebrows.

Instinctively, my fingertips find their way to my mouth. Desperate to continue it's time-consuming work.

"Your fingers." She musters in wide-eyed horror. She examines the torn, raw skin that follows from my tips down to my knuckles. Each finger, devoured by unforgiving teeth. My blood vessels fully displayed as the open wounds are evident.