Life as a Royal

Life as a Royal

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WpMetadataReadMatureOngoing1h 10m
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Tue, Aug 27, 2019
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Fiction
Romance
I sat hunched over with my thumb up, staring blankly into the night. Car after car drove by, too busy to notice a 16-year-old girl possibly having the worst night of her life. But how were they supposed to know that? My life is as useless to them as much as theirs is to me. I know this, yet I sit here and somehow still hope, hope for any type of kindness. I wonder when I finally stop hopingand praying for things, all it ever does is hurt me. Still sitting there, I wrap my arms around my knees and take my hat in the firstrebellious tear is skate and caressed my Face as ever as follows. Memories from tonight suddenly burst into my mind like a breaking damn. I began to sob and weep. I've been beaten, raped,and much more but for some reason tonight was different. But I didn't want to think about it, so I grabbed my forest green bad and abruptly rose to my feet. Looking both ways before I crossed the street, I headed towards the only place I knew to go. The only place I felt safe and loved, Brendon's house.
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A scent. A scar. A slow-burning fucking romance dressed as nostalgia. It started with a fruit. Not love, not sex - a goddamn strawberry. The kind that looks like it's been kissed by every shade of red your childhood never had. He didn't share it. Didn't speak of it. Just tasted it once, and carried the ache ever since. Years later, she walked in - smelling exactly like that forgotten sweetness. Not perfume. Not fantasy. Just... truth. Sharp, quiet, terrifying truth. The kind that crawls under your skin and whispers remember me when you least want to. He lied to her face. About himself. About the million ways he'd already started unraveling. But she knew. Women like her always know. She stared at him like sin dressed in judgment - and touched his wrist like she already owned his pulse. And he? He was fucked. Because she wasn't just beautiful. She was red. That memory. That craving. And no matter how much he pretended to be in control - she was already in his bloodstream. This isn't a love story. It's a slow possession. By scent. By memory. By her. And it ends exactly how it starts - with him on his knees, and her smelling like fucking strawberries.

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