8 years later
(Darcy's POV)
His green eyes... His kissable lips... His silky blond hair... His smooth voice... His raspy laugh... Him...
~O~
I bolt up right, gasping for air, flailing my limbs violently in attempt to untangle myself from my cocoon of bedsheets. The thin cotton blankets are damp and cold with my sweat, yet feel like they weigh a ton and are hot as hell on me.
"Who are you?" I whisper to myself.
At that very moment, a warmth licks the right side of my face, which ironically rattles a shiver down my spine. This always seems to happen after I dream of him... My cheek grows warm, then I shiver. Ever since I was young, the masculine phantom comes to me in my dreams. I've dreamt of him so often, that going a night without seeing him or feeling him there with me in my sleep induced imagination is not only unthinkable, but whenever the rare time does come, it feels foreign and lonely.
I rest my elbows on my knees as I rake my fingers through my supple hair. I feel butterflies in my stomach when I think about him. “God, I wish you were real…” I mumble into the dark.
Once again, the tepid feeling rises up my cheek.
It’s like whenever I feel him slipping away from me in my dreams, I snap myself awake. It kills me to wake up, to have to leave him, because I only find myself truly happy when we’re together. When I sleep, I get to escape to my own personal utopia where my only happiness awaits me. I wish I can say that my folks bring me joy too, but they’re always gone. I don’t particularly mind though, because it’s not like, if they were around, things would be better for me, for us. All they ever do is fight when they’re home. I don’t really know which one I would prefer, having them around, but they’re bickering constantly, or have them away and have some tranquility… People probably think, Hey, Darcy! What about your friends? They must help you out through all this? Please… Don’t make me laugh… Especially at such an early hour, for I’m not in the mood. I don’t particularly have friends. I don’t know why, but, for some odd reason, no one seems to want to befriend the artistic, gothic, bookworm girl. The only one who seems to notice me is him. The boy in my dreams… The way he stares at me with his green eyes makes me feel like I’m all there is in the world tohim. And the way he talks and listens to me, like, if he could, he would just ramble on and on about the most randomest things with me until forever ended... Unfortunately, he’s just a figment of my imagination. And one can’t sleep forever. I don’t even remember the first time I dreamt of him. By the time I collected my first memories, hispresence already seemed so familiar and comforting to me.
I flop down on my back onto my bed with a loud frustrated huff. I don’t even bother replacing my sheets atop my body, since I know I’ll get hot and bothered by them and kick them off. They puddle around my legs loosely as I try to make out random shapes on the ceiling of my pitch black room. My tank top is lifted halfway up my stomach in a lazy fashion, exposing my cream colored flesh. A pleasant tingly feeling dances on my pale skin, almost as if a feather is being dragged along. The sensation rises up passed my knee, then caresses my thigh. As the invisible feather starts to brush my exposed belly, a soft breath leaves my slightly parted lips. I close my eyes and let the feeling irradiate the naked curves of my midsection. Right when my body fills with satisfaction, my euphoria dies. I’m a confused heap on my bed once again. Flustered, I get up off my bed with reluctance, then make it to the bathroom no faster than a turtle would get around the world. I turn on the faucet, setting it to the coldest temperature possible. While waiting, I look at myself in the mirror. I don’t want to, but I do.
I don’t know how my parents, who are nothing less than the representation of Adonis and Venus themselves, managed to have such a bland child. I have many of their traits, the very traits many have complimented, but they don’t seem to fit nor piece together properly on me.
“Your eyes resembles open waters. I fear that I might get lost at sea if I stare into them for too long,” he would say.
“Your fiery hair is the perfect representation of your soul, calm in form, but exquisite and full of life in color.”
“I always mistake your lips for lotus petals…”
“Stars come not close to being as radiant as your smile, Darcy.”
How can he see beauty in mediocrity? I wish I could see what he sees.
After enough waiting, with my elbows resting on the edge of the sink, I let the icy water run over my hands for a short moment. When the cold becomes close to unbearable, I cup my hands together, then splash the brisk liquid onto my face. The cold bites my skin, but I tough it out and relax, allowing the bone-chilling vibe sooth all my plights away. My eyes stay clamped shut against the cold as I continuously throw shivery water onto myself. I envision all the wrong in my life behind my eyelids, then imagine them wash and drip away with every droplet of water off my face. And like always, he comes to mind. Unlike all my problems, he’s isn’t real.
“I just wish you were real,” I whisper as I let the water roll down, filling the small bathroom with a looping drip noise.
I finally lift my heavy head and open my eyes. Staring into the mirror, I see myself, my blue eyes, my limp, half wet auburn hair stuck to my sallow forehead, and a pair of eyes watching me from behind.
“What the f--” I mutter as I whirl around frantically, but my curse is caught in my throat when our eyes meet.
“You needn’t wish, Darcy…” he murmurs in that familiar soothing voice.
