Fallen From Grace (#Wattys2017)

Chapter XXX

Apollyon awoke with a gasp.

His forehead beaded with sweat as his black tresses stuck to his skin. His eyes wide with panic and fear, glistening with tears. His hands shaking as they had bunched the covers beneath in a vice like grip. Releasing a shaky breath, he sat up straight, pressing the heels of his palm to his eyes, trying to calm himself and get rid of the image burned on the inside of his eyes.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw Eleanora curled up on the spot beside where he had laid, sleeping soundly with the covers tangled around her, her white hair spread out behind her as the shoulder of her shirt was falling off. Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, he reached out to brush a strand of her hair away from her face, but instantly retreated it back to his side. Untangling the sheets from around her, he tucked it under her chin as she continued to sleep soundly.

Kicking the covers off his legs, he placed his feet onto the cold surface of the wood, wincing at the sudden change. Grabbing a hood, he pulled it on as he stepped out onto the  balcony, looking at the 3 a.m dark sky, twinkling with stars. Looking down at the street below, he saw it to be deserted as no car was in sight, neither any pedestrian. The streetlights were on, lighting the path to any late night wanderers.

Taking out his packet of cigarettes, he placed one between his lips before flicking on the lighter, shielding the small flame from the slight breeze that blew. The flame warmed his hand temporarily as he clicked it off once the end of the stick was lit. Taking in a deep inhale, he felt the smoke swirl in his lungs, filling him with a satisfying warmth before he blew out the gases, his eyes fluttering close as he felt a fulfilling relief wash over him.

Eleanora noticed that he was smoking a lot now. It had become a habit, a release, one which he couldn't get rid of. He craved the stoic swirl of the smoke, he craved the bitter charred and smoky taste that danced in his mouth whenever he took a drag of the cancer in his hands, he craved it to the point where he felt as if though he couldn't last a day without it. His fingers itched to take out a cigarette and smoke his worries away, smoke his life away.

He hated what it had done to him. But he loved it at the same time.

He loved it too much.

Eleanora wasn't happy with the development, it was obvious. But she didn't say anything, because he had started this because of her. All the worries and frustrations that piled, all the pressure and expectation, everything. It all became too much to deal with. He needed a release, an escape. Something that relieved him of his demons while he was still there to watch over his angel.

Apollyon knew that this will kill him.

That was the aim.

He knew that there was no way that Eleanora would survive this, he could feel her slowly deteriorating, and it killed him inside. Knowing that he was absolutely helpless to do anything about it. He spent countless hours sitting at the edge of the bed, watching her sleep. Watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, indicating that she was breathing and that she was alive.

But for how long?

Technically speaking, she'd be dead by March 2016. And it was February of 2015. Which meant that she had roughly 13 months to live.

13 months.

395 days.

The smaller the unit you converted it to, the larger the number became, giving you the guilty ignorance of believing that you had time. That you had time to do whatever, that you had all the time in the world. But the larger you converted the unit into, reality slaps you across the face, laughing maliciously at your idiosyncrasy for believing.