Hate | Love

But, I Hate You...or Do I?

Chapter 9 Part 1 of the Novel

***

He woke up from a deep sleep.

It has been a few days after the last ebb of his illness had finally passed and for some reason, Type's deep-seated annoyance towards his roommate was beginning to dissipate. He could not find it in himself to keep up with the war that has continued to rage within the four corners of their dorm room. In fact, he made it a habit to come back to their room later than usual the past several days and succumbed to sleep like a corpse in order not to face Tharn.

But he also began to wonder why he had been having peaceful sleep since his sickness. The dark and disturbing images from his past failed to come – as if something was keeping the nightmares at bay.

Type could vaguely remember fleeting thoughts about a soothing voice lulling him to sleep, a touch of a firm, warm hand that caressed his face before complete slumber enveloped him every night. It had a soft dreamy feel that he began to convince himself that everything was a dream.

Its had been three days of restful sleep; three nights that felt that someone was there to keep him company and chase the scary things away. He felt as if there was an angel that watched over him every midnight – the time when the dreams usually came.

Type was terrified of dreams; in them came the bearded man and the memories of the past. But these new dreams gave him a warm feeling. At the back of his head, a voice whispered that he should hate those dreams but another voice – one much louder was telling him that he was safe.

A sound broke through Type's thoughts.

He turned his head and looked towards the direction of his roommate and saw that Tharn was dressing for school. His back turned, Tharn's half naked torso was an almost perfect sculpture of musculature; while the drummer was lean, Type could not deny that his roommate was attractive.

"He is too strong," Type muttered to himself, turning his head back to stare at the ceiling, "No, it's impossible that it's his hands. He couldn't be that soft. No! I refuse to believe that, it's all a dream."

"It's either the fever is coming back or it got through that thick skull of yours and you have lost your mind," Tharn suddenly said, buttoning the last of his shirt button.

Type frowned and glanced at his roommate with annoyance. It irked him to see that Tharn was smirking at him that seemed to tell him that the drummer was keeping something from him.

"Even if I am going bonkers," Type snapped, "It is none of your business!"

Tharn snickered.

"What is wrong with you?" the young man on the bed pushed himself off the mattress and scowled at his laughing roommate, "And what gives you the idea that I am losing my mind?"

"Seems to me that you're talking to yourself," Tharn grinned, his eyes sparkled as he teased Type, "How is the conversation going?"

"I fucking hate you," Type spat, slowly stood up and glared at Tharn, flexing in a vain attempt to intimidate.

"That's too bad," Tharn clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock grief, "Because, I really do not hate you so you might want to talk to me rather than carry a conversation with your shadow."

"Why would I want to talk to you, you fucking know that I hate you," Type gritted his teeth as he growled at the smiling, handsome drummer that seemed to know something that he did not.

"Again, that's your problem," Tharn replied, "because I do not hate you."

"What did you just say?" Type asked, seething, although his heart suddenly woke up and danced the rhumba.