Being Shot

P h o t o #31 - Trust

P h o t o #31 - Trust

~Elliot's POV~

Impulses. I know for a fact that we all have them, residing in the deepest crevices of our brains, waiting to resurface after being suppressed. Of course, I also know that some of us have more than others, yet we all equally fight to keep them under wraps from time to time when they finally do slip through their locks.

Unfortunately for me, I fell under the category of the more impulsive. Even more unfortunately, mine had gotten the better of me this time.

That being said, this could perfectly explain why I, Elliot Jonathan Beau, was benevolently caressing Emma Leigh's hands within my own.

And yet it didn't. Not entirely, that is. It didn't explain why I would even have such an impulse in the first place. It didn't justify why the only thing I could focus on was the coldness of her hands, nor did it give reason to why I wanted to do everything I could to warm them up.

My eyes searched the dark tile of the kitchen, hoping some kind of answer would pop out of its faint light accents. What was I doing? How could I so easily reach out to her like that? Why did I feel as though I never wanted this moment, with our hands clasped together, to end?

I involuntarily looked up, thinking that if my gaze would leave its current direction then these rapid questions that I had yet to figure out reasonable answers to would end. Bad idea #1.

Her eyes bored into mine. Dark, dark brown that could easily be mistaken for black in the dim night sky only lit by the stars above caged behind two thick lenses. A stare full of confusion, yet understanding, softness. Full of heat, yet flinched ever so slightly when a gust of frosty wind found its way through the door I had stopped her from closing. Her hair, the darkest I'd ever seen it, flowing in long ebony locks in response to the small pockets of air, its curls more evident in the brisk cold. A pink flush tinged her cheeks as goosebumps puckered her white flesh.

"Y-Your singing," I began lamely, feeling as though I had to say something, anything, to somehow keep our contact from disconnecting

I watched as the wind ceased, causing the time around us to tick once more. Without warning, the distance between us grew. It only took a small tug from her to get her hands released from mine. I hadn't realized that my hands had grown cold as well.

Bad idea #2.

A wrong choice a words. I mentally cursed myself for thinking that that would be a good topic to start off on. By just using context clues I could understand that she had no intention of being seen out on the back deck whatsoever. She wouldn't have slipped out and lied about where she was heading, a blatant lie I had heard clearly as I made my way with the still unconscious Connor still in my arms up the stairs.

Her hands now free, she used them to close the door that I had stopped her from closing moments before. She winced as the last pocket of night air hit her with full force, making her shudder in her thin black t-shirt and dark blue, plaid-patterned sweatpants. Light pink fuzzy socks curled around her retreating feet.

Suddenly she was past me, stopping not to far from where I stood, her back acing mine.

"We should head back." She stated, her voice solemn.

I whirled around, watching with pained eyes as she walked in the direction of the kitchen's exit. Not being able to find my words, I followed her small figure.

Her back to me said it all. She didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want to even address the fact that I had heard her. That weak, withdrawing frame of her's held so much emotion then. Yet, even though I knew this, I was still unable to fathom why she was acting this way.