The difference between you and I.

His skin brushes against my t-shirt for every inhale in his lungs, and I feel the confirmation of his existence for every slight movement he makes. The anonymous boy has now unlocked his name, the name that I had ringing through my insides along the cold winter nights. He was still pure when I met him. Soft-spoken words and gentle gestures gave him away, his whole persona genuine and amiable enough to sense from distance.

Astonished, I gaze over the wonder laying beside me on this roadkill of a bed, letting my eyes fall upon every characteristics in his face, finding the curve of his amor bow pronounced in a somehow submissive way. Drawn to every dip in his face, every rugosity that reflects back at me. He's not perfect, but his subtle nature shines through and his eyes express greater smiles than his mouth would ever be able to.

Though his eyes had never seen horrors, he wasn't blind.

Post-sex fragrances and the mist of the 4'o’clock atmosphere mingles together in this small, dim room where we lay. Judging from the slow, deep breaths and the stillness of his twitches, he's fast asleep. Though all surroundings are silent, I hear slight whispers evolving into pleas and questions inside of me, and from that turning into exclamation marks and screams. It's not as simple as it sounds. The breeze can carry an inquiring voice. Creaks can be painful sobs. But the stillness of them all are what chokes me easiest. When silence occurs it gets easier for me to hear my demons calling. My eyes are heavy and pleads for rest while my stomach begs to be filled. And this is the part where I battle between logic reasons and reasonable logics.

So I plant my lips a few subtle times along his nape, my fingertips brushing along his spine and rise myself slowly from the mattress. I'm careful enough to not cause any creaks when my foot finds the wooden floor, light enough to not cause any movements when I lift myself up from the bed. I wander off to find my pants pooling on the couch, hook the belt into the sixth homemade hole in the leather, and slip into my shoes carefully. Grab the keys, pull an extra shirt over my bedhead, take the left-over of his now-cold pizza slice and close the door.

The wind outside is bone-chilling and harsh. My spine shakes. It's this time of the morning where people either sleep or have just received their mandatory, mediocre orgasms with strangers they promise to call back, a promise bound to be broken. Only until next time, when they feel the need of warmth against their bodies because they have gotten too cold inside and they can't cope with it their frostbites any longer. That's where they call the faceless creature. I know exactly how this is, because I am one of them.

My legs stagger for a bit as I walk into the dark, looking for a neon sign to pop up somewhere. I can't breathe as my shoes continuously hits the ground faster by every step I take as I end up running, my mind desperate for this poison I need in order to live. Light green letters illuminates the half-lid sky, and this is where I fail to remember what happened afterwards.

Slowly I wake up from my hibernation as an unknown clump of sogginess slides down my throat. The neon letters are nowhere near me, but the sky has lightened up naturally. Packets of poison wrapped in plastic lay beside me. I lasted four days this time. Just four weak days.

My hands find their way up to my face, fingers sliding into the wet, saliva-filled gap to push me over the edge as I cough hard enough to provoke my insides to turn over. My abs presses together, my body trembles and pain forms in my eye-ducts as I rid myself of all the bad things I carry inside. I rid myself of the desires to be hurt, the need to get away, the need to get off, the silence in his room and the demons in my head. I rid myself of hatred, the beatings, the abstinences, the imperfection.

I rid myself of the heartbeats, the fascination, the kisses and the first-time-told words with kindness.

I rid myself of his love I'm not supposed to be offered.

A pool of liquid mentality stares back at me from the dirt under me as I drag my guiltless, clean hand over my vomit-stained chin, panting for air to fill up my lungs and pleading for the rapid pounding in my chest to leave me alone. I'm left of immorality, and I'm lightheaded. I'm okay, I'm good to go. For now.

I penetrate the lock with the key and carefully close the door behind me. I slip out of my shoes, unhook the belt at the sixth homemade hole in the leather, let my pants pool over the couch, and climb silently into bed. His beautiful, closed eyes are facing me, his body at peace. Subconsciously I brush my lips against the outer corner of his mouth. His pure, sweet lips.

I never asked for any of this. I never asked to be loved, never wanted to love anyone else than her, I thought I never needed this. My heart cries after him while my brain desperately tries to fight it. But while my heart and my brain argues, my body can't help but react.

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this is just a small sketch of a "chapter" I'm planning for my character, William. He's mainly the only person I write about when I write fiction. Oh well. More to come someday.