Between the Perennial Blooms || Paul Lahote

Nineteen | Hemlock

"This is not melancholy, it is brutal
Where melancholy is gentle
Sadness pretending it is not a thunderstorm
Skin acting as if rain is supposed to hurt it."
—e.r. | Melancholy, thunderstorms, blood

• • •

She awoke to someone yelling her name.

It was Paul. Blinding, brilliant, beautiful Paul- who leaned over her with an expression of utter heartbreak. The thick brows sitting atop his pretty mahogany eyes were furrowed so harshly Bailey feared for the permanency of the wrinkle left between them, and his sharp jaw -strong already in its making- was clenched so tightly she feared the force might shatter his teeth altogether. But his eyes, those beautiful, warm, molten amber eyes paired with the obvious tightening of the delicate skin around them, were what made her heart thump painfully in her chest. Oh no, was her first thought, her dainty hand raising unconsciously to caress his warm, stubbly cheek. Don't be sad Paul, she continued. I don't like it when you're sad.

"Then don't give me a reason to be," he rasped gruffly, informing her that she had, indeed, whispered her thoughts aloud.

"I-" Bailey coughed harshly, realization dawning on her when trails of salt water spilt from her tongue and ran down the column of her throat. Her eyelids blinked in a rapid, though lazy succession, the cerulean of her orbs clashing with the dark bruising of the purple sky. She flickered her gaze to catch sight of her surroundings and, for the first time since she had opened her eyes, she realized Paul was not the only one sitting on the beach beside her.

"J-Jay?" Bailey stuttered weakly, her voice sounding hoarse and scratchy to even her own ears. "Bella?"

A silent beat passed until Bailey suddenly scrambled to sit upright.

"Oh my- Bella! Bella, are you okay? W-What happened? I don't- don't remember! You aren't hurt, are you? Do you need to go to the hospital? J-Just let me find my phone and I'll call Dad and we can-"

She was cut off by a warm hand suddenly cupping her around the mouth.

"Shut up," Paul growled. His eyes met hers intensely, a fire in them burning with such ferocity that Bailey shied away at the sight. Her entire body began to tremble in equal parts fatigue, cold, and uneasiness, the hands once holding her tightly now feeling constricting, hard, angry even. Because Paul was all of those things and more. He was more than angry, more than furious, more than completely and utterly outraged at not only Isabella Swan, but at her younger sister that knew no differently than to follow her only sibling in blind acceptance. The sheer animosity that bubbled up inside of him at just the thought of her jumping, at just the thought of her plummeting to the ocean below, proved an emotion he never thought himself capable of feeling. Because Paul had been mad before; Paul had been angrier than anyone he had ever met in his lifetime, and Paul thought he knew fury.

Turns out though, he had never known fury like this.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" He bellowed, the harsh, cruel tone of his voice contradicting the gentle way his fingertips danced desperately along her spine -as if needing to touch her, as if needing tactile reassurance that she was really, truly sitting before him. "Do you have a goddamn death wish?"

Bailey recoiled from his yell, unintentionally flinching away from his face and consequently pressing more firmly into the fingers at her back. Her heart raced in her chest as she stared at him both speechless and wide-eyed, and a part of her -a part of her somewhere deep down in her chest- pulsed with pain. It hurt, she realized with tears stinging at the notion. It hurt to have him angry with her -to have him looking upon her with such unbridled fury. Because she could see beneath the fire that burned in his mahogany gaze and beneath that fire lied something far worse -something far more painful than any anger could ever hope to be.