Blunt

Like A Bonfire

A peculiar spark frictioned against my bare skin, and under the soft duvet, I gasped half awake. Another nightmare has awoken me - and like my other nightmares, it wasn't dark, it wasn't fictitious. It was plain, under clear daylight, a retrospect atmosphere, with madness thriving in the thrill of a chase. A glinting blade on one's hand and a dying heart in one's chest. Sweat and fear dominated the dream, and it was in the least pleasant, just like how a clean, white room does to your mind. It bothers the brain and shakes the mental, and had it not been for the spark against my back, I could've died in my sleep.

I was underneath my duvet, its familiar smell comforting me. Without needing to see, the slow hum of the air conditioner reminded me that I was indeed, still lying on my bed, in my room.

But the idea of something against my back was startling.

I was accustomed to sleeping alone for so long, in this cold room, curling into a ball of human flesh and hair, that the knowledge of recognizing someone else was next to me was strange. The person moved, a slight movement in his sleep, and again his skin touched mine for a few seconds - not too long, not too short, and heat bursts forth.

The warmth travelled down to my spine, like a sense of comfort given by hot chocolate during Christmas - and it reminded me of sparklers, which children would hold during new year, and laugh heartily at its beautiful fire. In reflex I bit my lip, and quivered at the thought of how a small interaction between the human skin could bring so much feelings back.

I was brushing my teeth, ready to sleep early, in hope of getting up early the next morning, when a knock came from the front door. It sounded hesitant, and after a few tries, it faded out. I rinsed and wiped, putting on a robe before I open the door and the cold night wind greets me. When I opened the door, he was the least person I expected.

He stood there, looking a bit lost, his eyes bloodshot and shirt wrinkled. His features have sharpened, even more so due to the weight he lost; but his stature was still tall and buff, and in his hand was a duffel bag.

He clearly had been crying, and there was a cut on his left cheek. His eyes widened when he saw that I opened the door. A word croaked out of his mouth, though not as fast as the flood of memories crashing against my head. The wind was horribly strong, and soared about in the chilly night, but I paid no mind to their barks, for he was there.

I took over his duffel bag, and slightly brushed against his fingers. Calloused and slender, they were as stout as I last touched them, and I remind myself that they belong to someone else.

Someone

Else.

We were both silent, afraid of the past, terrified of the future, and overwhelmed by the present. I put his duffel bag on the small tea table I had gotten to replace the usual large table, and went to the kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea for him. He stripped off of his shirt and pants, and changed into a pair of shorts and black t-shirt. By the time I got back to serve him the tea, he wasn't as shaken, wasn't as anxious, but there was this air around him that screamed for his need of comfort.

Eight years.

Eight years long since I last saw him, and now I was tending to him.

Not tending myself.

Unconsciously fixing my glasses, I asked in low voice. "Do you want to sleep on the bed or...?"

His fingers trembled. "It's your bed," he replied. His voice was hoarse and sparse, as if he had been shouting, crying out his bleeding heart.

"So is the sofa."

He smiled weakly and sipped the tea. I watched him awkwardly before shuffling away to the sofa. "I'll be here if you need---"

"Sleep with me."

And so I woke to the touch of his skin, from the nightmare which haunts, asking myself if it had been wise of me to sleep next to him. We didn't sleep together in the sexual way. We just lied there, on my bed, side to side, sharing the same blanket.

I was facing the wall, half of my face buried in the mass of strands on my head. What part of him had touched my back? Was it his hand? Or was it his elbow?

The questions fleeted around in my head, a siege of pointless wonder with him as the object. I pondered around the decision to turn around or not, and time seemed to tick away slowly, stabbing me slowly with suspense.

Suddenly a strong arm draped over me, and pulled me closer - an odd sensation shooting right up my veins, and thundering through my ears were the heartbeats. Warmth enveloped me, and soon grew into the heat of a wild flame, engulfing me in a paradoxical euphoria. It felt like coming home in the middle of summer, under the scorching sun and the clear blue sky. It felt like dipping my feet into the luke warm water of the river behind our school. It felt like a bonfire had been afired, contrasting against the pale sand and ice cold seawater.

It felt like riding in a racecar, leaving blazing trails behind where its tires plows through. It felt like diving into a warm bowl of cream soup after a bad day. It felt like gazing at the star with a thick blanket and a mug of tea.

It was reassuring, full of longing, decorated with regrets, and empty of anger. Whatever rage left in me dissolved the moment we came in full contact. My mind goes blank, and my heart savored the gesture, however unintentional it was.

I still belong to him,

Like he still belongs to

S o m e o n e e l s e.