On the Shores of Miami

12. Confusion of the Thoughts

Staggering into the suite, I collapsed straight onto the floor with a loud thump. My eyelids were closing slowly, and it became a struggle to stay awake long enough just to stand up. My fingers raked the edge of the carpet in an effort to get up and stumble over to my room. I pulled the carpet, which in turn shook the table.

Panicking, I looked up quickly - or as quick as I could after feeling this woozy - to see Zac stir only the slightest before he fell back asleep with a soft snore. I breathed a sigh of relief, wondering how embarrassing it would be for them to see me - tough, independent Alexander Lawrence who had never needed anybody to get by, passing out in a drunk hungover daze.

The time I spent there was seconds too long. My neck felt like the spine went limp and just lost its strength to keep my head up. There I was, seemingly resting on one cheek against the carpet that would definitely be patterned when I woke, my legs stretched to their full length and my arms at funny positions.

A groan met my ears, but in my intoxicated state I dismissed it alcoholic hallucinations. My vision was becoming blurry, white spots dancing in front of my eyes and then abruptly disappearing like opaque bubbles. All I could make out were the metal poles of the chair and table legs directly in front of me, and the black patch of the couch further ahead.

I saw the leather contract and then relax, like somebody just got out of it. My eyes were bare slits, but when I saw a pair of lean legs making its way towards me, I managed a reluctant groan. "Go away, Summers," I slurred, my hand flopping over to cover my eyes.

He chuckled quietly, bending down to pry my fingers away from my eyes. Even the usual spark of electricity that flitted between our fingers when we touched wasn't enough to wake me. "Sleep, Alex," he whispered, his fingers curling lightly over mine. They were warm to the touch after having just woken up, and provided more comfort than they should've.

My protective barriers lowered once more for the second time in less than twelve hours, first from fatigue and now alcohol. It seems like everything has its price, I thought, my brain falling asleep. "Don't," I mumbled, the word barely audible in my ears. "Don't..."

The last thing I saw before completely losing consciousness was his face, with his dishevelled blonde hair and tired grey eyes, and the feel of his arms underneath my body. With no strength to fight back what was obviously wrong, I could only curl up against his bare chest, soaking up his delicious warmth. There was that pull in my head, a combination of alcohol and lack of balance, and I blacked out.

I dreamt, of pain and hits, blood and scars, of beaches and waves, of a single, familiar, blonde surfer riding them effortlessly along. The angle changed suddenly, and then he was in front of me, with that infuriating smirk that was a norm for me now. He took one step closer, the smirk fading into something more gentle and uncharacteristically uncertain, close enough that our bodies touched. Bolts of lightning and sparks of fire travelling down the length of my spine.

Then his face warped. From cool grey eyes they became cold and dark. His high cheekbones disappeared to be replaced with lax skin, his hair darkening from blonde to a filthy brown, tangling together from being fine to matted. His lips, from looking inviting and soft, curled into a dirty sneer.

The face was the face that haunted my darkest nightmares, the cause of my desolate childhood and the reason for my distrusting, pathetic heart. Pain seared across my eyes, temporarily blinding me as his hand came into contact with my face and I tumbled against the floor. I could feel the open cut his long, germ-infested fingernails made in my cheek, oozing blood.

"You disgusting little bitch," he scowled, his foot creating bruises in my middle over and over again. "Can't do anything right. Worthless. Useless. Weak."