Silver Lined Hearts

hoodie

AN: present~ past

~

As I sift through the box, my fingers brush against a familiar, soft material. My fingers seem to move before my mind registers what I'm doing, and in no time I am wrapped in Memphis' old hoodie. The hoodie that had a few little holes and had loose threads at the sleeves. The hoodie that was so worn and soft that it felt like a cloud. The hoodie that engulfs me in his scent, and its sleeves fall past my knees. And then flashes of memories bomb behind my eyelids, as I slowly get lost in them.

-

"What do you think you're doing?" Dylan asked, angrily. I had been walking to the bathroom, and he grabbed my wrist and yanked me back to him. His tall frame towered over my small one and he was shaking with rage.

I cowered into myself, my shoulders curling in. I couldn't exactly go anywhere, considering we were at a party, and bodies were dancing everywhere, the material of their clothing brushing against us. He wouldn't hit me in public, right? He'd wait 'till later, at home. I hoped because when we were at home I had a first aid kit, where as here we only have a ton of ditsy drunks.

"Come with me," he spat through gritted teeth. His fingers gripped my small wrist tightly as he dragged me to a room upstairs. It was empty. He had let go, and I was rubbing my wrist, and watching a new bruise form quickly. And blue and purple hand print now resided on my arm.

I whimpered as he pulled my hair and smacked my head against the wall. My eyes squinted shut as my skull rattled. I couldn't see anything. I couldn't hear except for the constant ringing in my ears. My head was in so much pain. It was like there was a wrecking ball inside of it, smashing it's big, metal ball against my brain.

I stood up, my whole body shaking with fear. I couldn't look him in the eyes as he smacked me across the face. My head whipped to the side and I collapsed on the floor into a sobbing heap. The floor smelled terrible, of dog urine and alcohol. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, and I could taste their salty remnants on my lips. Then he kicked me hard- in the stomach- and I bit on my tongue, hard enough to taste the metallic tang of blood on my tongue.

He grabbed me by my hair once again and all that was running through my head was; why can't he love me right? No, not; why do I stay with him?, but instead that. Because I truly do love him. He placed me on my feet and raised his hand once again to slap me, when a voice interrupted, "What are you doing?"

Dylan's hand and jaw dropped. My sobs became louder and I went into absolute hysterics. He's going to take Dylan away from me. He can't do that. No!

The strange person told Dylan calmly to leave without me, and then, once Dylan was gone, the person draped a big sweatshirt around me.

"Hey," he cooed, while rubbing circles in my back, "you're fine. I'll help you."

"I don't want your h-help," I sobbed. I just wanted Dylan back.

"Too bad. You are not staying with that dick. Now let's clean you up and tuck you into bed."

"F-fine, but what's your name?" I said, my tears having stopped.

"I'm Memphis. You?" He said as he rummaged through the dresser.

"I'm Nova."

"Cool name." He pulled out a pair of boxers and tossed them to me. "Come on, we're going to my room."

I nodded, and silently padded after him. My mind had practically shut down, I couldn't think and every once in a while I would catch myself not breathing and would have to think how to do it.

He lead me into an average sized room, painted gray. A bed was placed in the corner, and against every wall was a rack of CDs. Scattered across the floor was a ton of miscellaneous sheet music.

"Sorry," he blushed, "I didn't clean."

"It's fine," I all but whispered.

"So change and then go lay down."

"Okay."

I walked to a corner and took off my skinny jeans and stilettos. I pulled on the boxers, over my underwear and dashed to the bed. I didn't want to have any skin showing longer than necessary. Maybe if he didn't see the scars and bruises he wouldn't turn Dylan in. Maybe he would just think Dylan was intoxicated. Maybe he would let me go home.

I curled under the navy comforter and pulled it up to under my nose. As I breathed, a strange, yet appealing smell came through my nose. It was Memphis' smell. Everyone should smell this good, I thought as I whiffed in the smell. It was like fresh morning air and cinnamon buns. And damn, did I like cinnamon buns.

I found myself drifting off. My eyelids were fluttering and my thoughts blurred. The sharp throb of where he hurt me had died down and right as all consciousness flowed out of my body with a yawn, I felt someone snuggle me from behind, holding me gently.

And in this strangers arms, a sense of safety and warmth lulled me to sleep. His breathing my lullaby, and his arms my cradle.

I knew what love was, and love was not this. Love was pain and blood. Love was bipolar. Love was expressed through pain. So this, it couldn't be love.