An Arrow To The Chest

Chapter 31

He makes me wait till 10 pm.

By the time my phone pings my stomach is growling from hunger, my eyes have gone blurring from starring blankly at the ceiling, and my over-thinking mind has emptied all thoughts. So much for today being a good day.

'I've just put a documentary on'

In the message, there's no mention of inviting me over, or thanking me for the picture, or any forgiveness at all. And yet, a part of me thinks that he's saying all 3 in his own, aloof manner. Or maybe I'm just deluded.

I cross the gap between my room and his, knock on the door, and wait till he lets me in. He pulls it open almost immediately after I've knocked, yet doesn't greet me at the door, and instead just walks back to his bed expecting me to follow him. Which I do.

My eyes immediately seek out the photograph, and I  glance down at the bin to check whether a crumpled piece of paper has been added to the trash collection.

"I haven't binned it, Eloise, it's on my desk," he says once he works out why I'm staring at his pile of rubbish. I notice some empty pot noodle packets and what looks like a used condom, which sends a shudder down my spine, and breaks the trance.

I've only been in here once before, but I already know the drill, so I slip into the spot next to his, remaining on top of the covers. I wish I had the intuition to change into something more comfortable because my jeans feel tight and restrictive, and I become overly cautious on whether the loose top button is revealing too much flesh at the angle I'm laying at.

Once settled I finally take a peek at his face, in particular trying to spot the damage done to his lip. I've seen Jackson fuck up faces before, the after damage looking like their face has had a mishap with a meat grinder, or a nose so crooked that the bones realign.

The damage to Arrow is minimal, with some blue and purple discolouration, and the lightest swelling. It doesn't make him any less attractive, and instead I seem to find myself wanting to stare at his lips more.

He catches me staring and intentionally licks them, so I shift my gaze to look up and meet his eyes.

"Your boyfriend packs quite the punch."

"Do you blame me for what he did?"

"No." His answer is clipped short, and I wonder if there's more he wants to say but is just holding back. Surely he has more to say than 'no'. He's the one that started the conversation.

"Well, are you mad at me?"

"No."

"Are you going to say anything other than no?" My question causes the corners of his mouth to involuntarily lift in a brief smile, and he repeats the same answer with a small smirk on his face. I'm glad someone finds himself so funny.

"No."

 "Okay, hilarious, you've made your point. Can we talk for two seconds? Then I'll be quiet and watch the documentary, I promise."

"I'd quite like to just watch the documentary now, if that's okay with you," his tone made it clear that he wasn't asking, nor did he care what whether it was okay with me or not. I wanted to huff, to demand just 5 minutes of his time, to ask him to act like a normal person and talk. The amount unsaid between us is stacking up and up, with the pile growing higher, and yet he seems to want to ignore all of it.

But there was no point in arguing with Arrow Cartier. And so I kept my mouth shut, lent back, and fixed my eyes to the screen as the documentary played. I couldn't even tell you what it was about, barely listening or acknowledging what was going on- all I knew that someone was on trial and the viewer was meant to feel sorry for them. The only person I felt sorry for at the moment was myself.