Junk Love.

twenty-four.

The nightmares are the worst.

Carter spoons around Mel, his heat radiating despite a cold sweat. Soft snores lull lowly from him, peaceful, except for twitches shaking his spindly limbs. She presses her face against the crook of his arm, nested in a bed of fire ants.

Inevitably Carter starts yelling in his sleep. He pushes Mel from his arms, a tornado touching ground, as he springs upright throwing his fists against the wall. She's used to the outbursts. Used to tucking her head under the blanket until he settles down again, kissing salty tears off her cheeks.

He won't remember in the morning. Mel doesn't remind him either. Whenever Carter screams it sounds like shrapnel, sharp and cold. He's punched the wall only twice now. Usually he'll laugh soft like a delighted child, cry out, then sleep through the rest of the night.

Their first evening was spent wrapped up in each other. Mel divulged her private fears after the trauma she endured during his sentence. A mutual decision was made, they couldn't live that way any longer, and Carter started working as a busboy at the pizzeria. Under one condition. They would make a conscience effort to get clean.

The adjustment is difficult for her. She finds solace in little comforts. Like the exchange of having a roof over their head instead of money or that, whenever one of them fall flat on their face, all they have for shelter is each other and the dingy back room with the leopard print pool table.

Sometimes, in her weakest moments, Mel will feel like a paper cutout again. A familiar stranger. Someone that everyone knew from a picture, with a recognizable face, but a stranger all the same.

Leaving Carter sleeping softly on the table she goes the bathroom, a stuffy box too small for anything other than a quick piss and exit. Getting dressed causes bumped and bruised elbows. Mel squints into the mirror, distorted by a crack spearing through the center, and reflecting back two warbled versions of her face.

This morning the shakes are bad. After reapplying lipstick twice her clumsy fingers go slack. The shiny tube clatters into the bottom of the sink staining the porcelain cherry. Shit.

Mel doesn't hear the door open over the running faucet. An odd panic reduces mobility to sharp edges as she piles handfuls of napkins into the bowl. Distracted by her almost manic scrubbing, Mel jumps when a hand clasps around her shoulder.

Feral, she whips around with her teeth gnashed. "Damn it, Carter! I told you not to sneak up on me like that!" Then, pressing her palm to her forehead, she sucks in a deep calming breath. "I'm still jumpy is all."

Soft as a feather Carter traces his lips up her neck, pausing to nibble her collar bone. She shivers. "You're safe here, babe."

Safe. When Mel tries to say it the word feels foreign on her tongue. So much that she'd rather swallow a hot iron poker. As soon as she lets herself feel safe she becomes vulnerable. Soft.

Mel's gaze is as fractured as the bathroom mirror, refusing to look him in the eye. If she'd seen the adoration pooling in Carter's gaze she wouldn't have torn herself from his embrace. He stays at the doorway and she walks into the main room, propping her hip against the pool table. Tangles of their blankets overtake the playing space.

"I'm sorry I startled you." Carter says, talking softly like he would address a beast primed for an attack. "I made some coffee and warmed pasta from the buffet."

A mat is spread under the coffee table invitingly placing steaming mugs and plates. But her veins are itching. A craving intense enough to peel bone until she's left raw.

"I need some air."

Maybe a brisk walk will make this routine feel more like home than a cage. It isn't Carter's fault, she wants him to know that, and Mel kisses him on her way out.