Deflower

Chapitre Vingt-Deux

On the floor of her bedroom with an old novel in her left hand, Little Lo held a strawberry in the other. The summer day had been warm, and even long past the midst of the night, Lo found herself bothered by the temperature in the small, nevertheless cosy chamber. It was the day upon which the sunlight had made her dark hair glow in an unnatural fashion and illuminated her face with hues of yellow, before the heavens were replaced by red skies and the silver tints of the moon. Lo lay on her floral bedsheet and with her chin resting atop of balled up fists, eyes narrowed and lips parted whilst she reveled in the saccharine taste of the fruit and the beautifully written paragraphs within the hardback novel that rested before her.

She sat up, sleepily—she'd had to put in arduous effort to keep her eyes open—and wiped at her eyes, when peculiar sounds had come from elsewhere within the room—or had she imaged? Perhaps, could she have forced things, restructured what could not be changed? No, she'd been correct, and so she realized when she blinked confusedly at the image of a window, and a long, ringed finger tapping against it. As though caught within that sort of daze—the type one would see within one of those low-budget films about drugs and alcohol and other objects that were natural human desires but nonetheless sins—she arose from where she had previously been swallowed up by the soft surface of her blanket, wearing a tight yellow top, with the thinnest spaghetti straps, which could only barely remain where it should atop her shoulders, and little else but a white pair of shorts.

Curious eyes met with dark ones and that was when she knew. Trying to be as quiet as possible, Lo tugged at the window, felt a soft breeze of wind against her flesh, and there he was. The tall boy tugged at the fluffy blanket that was wrapped around her figure, tilting his head to one side. "Were you sleeping?" Vincent questioned and leaned himself in the window before pulling himself in— slowly, studying the vinyls and the Polaroid photographs that  were taped to and occupied the wall. The Doors, David Bowie, and some Paul Anka to the side; she was a very strange girl with an even stranger taste. Vincent smirked.

"A little," Lourdes uttered softly, her eyes remaining half-closed and with a forehead flushed with a thin sheet of sweat and a delicate crimson blush upon her cheeks. Vincent found himself suppressing a soft smile at the minuscule yawn that pushed past her plump lips and when she began to speak again, he merely couldn't concentrate; he was too focused on her pretty nose and lips and eyes and hair. "Is this a dream?" Lourdes, perhaps still a bit confused and disorientated, furrowed her brows ever so slightly and pouted.

"Nope, not a dream, baby," Vincent let out a small chuckle. The boy, standing at six-something, chewed on a piece of licorice, and the scent of his breath, that fanned her face, made Lo feel unfamiliarly warm in her stomach. She blushed from the apples of her cheeks down to her tummy, she was certain, and the poor girl could hardly not smile—what was this boy doing to her? When he flashed her one of those bedazzling grins, she could feel it inside of her.

But then, a few thoughts and moments later, inevitably, Lo came to her senses once again and, contradicting what her eyes had told him—for joy lit them up and he loved it when a smile occurred elsewhere than upon the lips—she had frowned intently. Little Lo widened her brown eyes, and drew her lips to speak, sounding almost desperate to his ears. "You have to get out of here, Vincent." Lo spoke dreamily even if her true urges defied her worth—of course, she wanted him there, with her, and it was quite clear to him, too, for the dreamy look in her pretty brown eyes told him tales that one could never merely with the use of words. "I will get in big trouble for this, you don't know my mother..." Lourdes turned again, preparing to bury her pretty head in her dainty hands, but Vincent was deft to gently grasp her wrist and pull her a little bit closer to him.

Her breathing was hitched in her throat when their bodies were nearly pressed together—one would suspect, If void of any knowledge of the situation, that something entirely different was taking place—and his eyes beamed soft. One of his slender fingers rested over the skin of her bare shoulder; he refused to touch, even if he wanted to, for she hadn't explicitly given him the permission, and he, unlike many of his male peers, had been raised well. "I think I do, Lo." Vincent spoke gently but his words and gestures stung like a sword being shoved straight through the young girl's ribs.

Vincent knew that her life was a scar—it was slashed across her skin, in the curls of her hair, in the smoothness of her arms and the small burdens that rested atop of her flesh like a mermaid in the salty water of the sea. It echoed when she spoke, soared when she slept, and he wanted to do all within his power to make her feel whole again. He figured that her burdens were heavy to wear, like hurtful words from hollow and unfamiliar figures, from mouths that solely do hold doubt. The unlimited movements his eyes made over her flesh were flashes of fascination, and perhaps, Vincent wanted desperately to touch but not in the manner other young boys urged to. He wanted to put his nose in her hair and skim his fingers over her arms, feel lovers in his fingertips, feel her in his bones and flesh and the blood that pumped through his veins.

Lo felt tears prickling and teasing, threatening to spill—and this, Vincent took notice of per the moon illuminated her face perfectly and orchestrated her big brown eyes to appear almost wet. Lourdes felt as though Vincent, as perfect and ideal as he had been, could in no manner like her any longer, per she looked like she did—according to Lo, Vincent had expected her to be untainted and flawless, when she was in-fact bruised and shattered to the core. Lourdes would not blame him with a fiber of her being if he would decide to run, to leave her behind with her heart in her hands and ready to give it to him.

But instead, Vincent wrapped his arms around her body and embraced her so good and so loving and so soft until he felt the girl shaking. He was holding her, and she was breathing into his chest—little drops of salty pleasantries dropping down his shoulder occasionally, and they stayed like that, for a while. Vincent felt her pretty chin wobbling, and simply couldn't help himself when he pressed his lips gently atop of her head. "Shhhh, baby," Vincent then parted his lips and leaned back from where had previously cherished her so intimately.

"You're an angel, you know that? And you deserve nothing less but the best," The tall boy uttered to her, bringing his large hands to her jaw and Lo gazed up at him with pitiful eyes. She shivered, shook like a nervous kitty under the contact his flesh made with hers. Vincent wiped a tear away with his knuckles, and pursued to speak, "Do you really think that your beautiful scars could change the fact that, hell, you've got me by my heart?" He frowned slightly and she nearly lost consciousness at his words. Her skin glowed. (Her heart, too, but this, he couldn't see.)

And just like that, she saw herself being loved.

DEFLOWER.                          authors note

honestly aksjsjakaisjw is the only word i have for this chapter... hope you enjoyed!!!! thanks for reading!!!! leave a vote or comment if you want :'))))))))))