Anything. Anything but this. Day after day taking care of fucking responsibilities. Day after day being responsible. Day after day being patient. Day after day hiding the fact that I’d love nothing more than to wreck some real havoc. Day after day restraining my basic needs and urges. Day after day being civil and polite. Day after day gritting teeth and smiling until it feels like my face will split half from the strain.
She knows. Marie knows. She knows me from inside out. She knows what it is to smile and keep going when all you want is to tear in to everything and everybody surrounding you. She knows what it is when you want just let loose and scream because you can’t take it anymore. She knows everything about it. I have seen it in her eyes, just brief flashes when she’s sitting with her friends and they keep chatting about something so stupid that it makes me want to gauge my ears out so that I don’t have to hear a word from it anymore. She knows.
You reap what you sow, they say. Did it put it in her? Yearn for blood and screams? I don’t know. I don’t care. I just want to let it all out. I want to let it all out with her. She’d understood. She’d welcome it. We’d both enjoy it. I can see it in her eyes when she keeps watching me, thinking that I don’t notice.
She’s calling me. Calling my blood, my flesh and skin. Calling me to dance. I’d like to answer to that call, but I have to stay back. Like obedient little puppy, housetrained and leashed. Just keep going and hoping that one day this all will be over. Keep hoping that one day this all will be over and I can break loose from the chains that pin me down.
Does she understand what those glances do to me? How the scent of her arousal and need makes me squirm and why I have scratched my knuckles raw already? Itch. It’s itching, burning inside of me, and no matter how deep I dig my nails it’s never enough, I could scratch my bones clean and itch would still be there, it’s in the bone already, and it doesn’t go away. I’d get rid of it with blood, buckets of it to bathe my body and mind, heavy torrents running over me like in dreams, like those dreams where I bury my knuckles so deep against her chest that it’s impossible to tell where I end and she begins.
She’d welcome it, I know. She’d welcome me with open arms. She’d scratch me raw; she’d try to erase the itch. She’d soothe it, if only momentarily. She’d do that.
Then I could scratch her itch.
“Logan, would you go and pick up the kids from the mall?”
“Yes, Storm.”
“Oh, and Rogue called. She’s running little late, she asked if you could go and pick her up little later.”
“But of course, Storm.”
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Day of Depeche Mode and boring lessons at school.