Paul turned in the bed. He'd heard John phone George. He wished he hadn't. He hates wallowing in pity. More like self loathe. Paul is absolutely done with being himself. He stood up and ran to the bathroom as a strong wave of nausea swept over his entire body.
He lifted the toilet seats and gagged and retched but nothing came out. That bird shuffled in. "I'm sorry," she softly murmured. "It's awfully rude to barge in but, I heard and I wanted to make sure you were okay." Paul felt like he was in a dream.
He could of course account this to the way she spoke; her soft words barely making it to his ears for they had already found their way to his mind. She didn't need words to communicate.
Her eyes. They pull you closer, with your mouth hanging open, revealing all your deepest thoughts.
Her hair glazed with gentle frizz. Looking much too touchable, as if they were pleading for an intimate kiss right where her hair met her forehead. They way it shifted from her bun with the slightest tilt from her head.
Her hands, how they touch him is not through physical contact, no. He could feel them on his back, on his shoulder, on his face. As though they were forever with him, just by the mere thought of her.
She walked beside him but in a different world.
Paul closed his eyes tight, that of a child when they have seen too much or fear the monster in the closet. He figured his face would be red if he looked in a mirror. He found himself gripping the toilet seat so tightly, his fingers began to slip.
Oh yes. This is a feeling Paul was not foreign to.
Guilt.
Jillian watched him as he ascended elsewhere. How was this man so severely jaded? She felt her heart swell with empathetic tendrils sprouting to the rest of her body.
She walked towards him until she was directly in front of him.
He began to weep.
She bent at her knee while simultaneously bringing her hands from his hairline to his chin, like her mother did for her when she was young. She wiped his tears away with her thumbs and combed his hair back.
A knock at the door.
"Don't fret any longer," She wiped his eyes one last time. "Everything is meant to be."
A look over her shoulder.
The burning sensation finally stopped and rested only in his hands and eyes. John was betrayed. And by a skank off the street?! How he ever believed Jillian was something other than a whore bewilders him.
His crossed arms communicated to Jillian that he was on edge. When she met his eyes she found that he was inexplicably furious: a trend for the boy. Healing is all Jillian had to offer. Healing is not something John believes is necessary.
"John."
They shared this eye contact. John took up the past time of the deliberate attempt to burn holes in her. Jillian smiled.
"Paul you bitch!" Steam blew off his lips.
"Oh shadup you fucking crazy slut." His voice resembled that of a swamp, murky and therefore difficult to understand.
The knocks became thumps.
Followed by a voice.
A voice shouting her name.
