lustful presence.

week 2.

i stayed in europe. i stayed for her. i needed her. every morning i'd wait at her front door. she'd never come out. id ring her. no answer. i'd text. no reply. i'd go to her work. she had quit. my heart was broken. she had left in emotions she promised me she wouldn't make me feel. she'd left me in a way nobody could ever fix. unless i did something about it. my whole body was numb and in pain. what the fuck did i do? did she know about guzman? did she fucking love guzman? and she was upset? and she knows i murdered him? and now she never wants to talk to me again. i start panicking. i'm not a murderer. i'm not a fucking murderer. i'm just someone who wants love and fucking affection and a DEAD MAN THAT I KILLED WITH MY OWN HANDS STILL GETS MORE THAN ME. A LIVING BREATHING SOUL.

i could feel my heart racing when i got back to the hotel room. my whole world was falling. and she was the only person to make it feel like it was being put back together again. i lay down on my bed, letting the tears fall down my face as i close my eyes. i just wanted her. to myself. maybe murder wasn't right but i needed her. people need their happiness so that's what i did. i worked for my happiness and it still never came. i put in effort for my happiness and it wouldn't stay. i put in dedication and it didn't budge. i put in love. hope. trust. and i got the opposite in return. i grab my phone, swallowing hard as i look for her contact. i start typing. "please answer me. i'm having bad thoughts. i need you right now. i need to know you're safe. come to me. come in my arms." i send it. i had little hope. i wanted her. i needed her. i craved her. i get up, going over to my fridge and getting out some cold ice, putting it in a bowl before placing it on the desk, staring into it. i always read myths and such up on google that could resolve anxiety and staring into cold hard solids help because of the colour and temperature. it didn't work. it didn't work for someone who had murdered their own brother. i grabbed a bottle of vodka. who needs a shot glass? i placed the lid to my lips and began downing it. answer me. fucking answer me. i thought of how my hand wrapped around her throat, gripping it tightly. i thought about how i grabbed her arm the other night, before she slapped my face. i thought about how much  she told me she loved me when we were actually happy and genuinely together. and i cried.

"i was with my mum." parker says quietly, the cup of tea in her hands as her eyes stay on the carpet. i nod slowly, sitting myself on the chair opposite her. "right. that's okay. i know why. but don't be scared." i assure her. she looks at me. "you go too far." she says, close to tears. i shake my head and slowly get up. "no, no, parker, i had to." her head just shakes. i know i've fucked it. "parker, listen. he was stopping me from having you to myself." i say. she looks at me, pain and tears in her eyes. "what are you on about?" i sigh and crouch down, taking her hands. "i had to. guzman was too fucking distracting to you. it was obvious he wanted you. the way you talked about him. i couldn't let it happen." i look at her and i soon realise she didn't know. shit.