8 | in which she's alone again

Constantly,

Consistently,

Continuously,

You.

.\.|./.

Crystal Monroe

|in which she's alone again|

Too many things run through my mind, racing to see which one will win.

One, he's sitting up in bed and despite the scrubs and the bandages, he still looks like a freaking god. Now upright, the shoulders that look like they belong on a stallion, the face that belongs on a Greek statue, and the eyes that belong to Medusa no less, are evidently not human.

Humans do not look this hot.

Humans do not smile at girls who run them over with their cars and break all the bones on one side of their bodies.

Humans do not make my heart stop.

"I made soup," I blurt out, like making soup for strangers who hate me is something I do on a regular basis.

I'm sure the blue in the sister's eyes turns colder still, and I can almost hear her thinking of filing a restraining order against me. Even if she doesn't sue me for homicide, she's going to be suing me for stalking.

The other thing the blue swirls remind me of is the blue swirls that belong to Jeremy.

Somehow the microscopic gap between me being confident and wondering why the hell I'm here is covered, and every fiber in my being calls me out for being so stupid.

What was I even thinking?

"Morning and thank you. That's very kind of you."

The voice shatters through the bubble of self-doubt that has begun to form around me.

I blink a couple of times, wondering if I have started to hallucinate or if angels are popping out of the walls and singing choruses my way. Because the voice I just heard wasn't human. Turns out nothing about this man is.

His eyes that give me the feeling of being X-rayed.

Do I like the feeling?

Hell no.

It makes me feel transparent, like he can see right through me. It makes me feel like he can see through the walls I've built and right at the little girl hiding behind her hands and peeking through the fingers to see if the coast is clear enough to let her out. Both his smile and his eyes make me feel like my façade isn't good enough, the masks not opaque enough, the cold stare not distant enough.

And his smile ... God, that smile.

It makes me weak in the knees, not only because of how beautiful it is but also because this smile could sure as hell kill me. Not in the romantic way, but in the semi-neurotic way. If Jeremy saw that smile right now, he would round on me and ask me why the hell a stranger would smile at me like that.

Like what?

Like he's known me for years.

"Ry, you shouldn't have anything solid, you heard the doctors," the sister perks up, shooting me a sideways glare.

Either the girl is still mad at me for being the careless driver who put her brother in the pained condition he's trapped in, or she just hates my guts.

I think it has something to do with both.

Ry's smile widens, redirecting towards his fuming sister.

"I thought I was the one who hit my head," he asks softly, a slight amusement evident under the lightness. "Then how come you're the one forgetting that soups aren't really solid at all?"

His tone has a sweet but playful tinge to it, and I still can't believe how a voice as throaty and husky as his can sound so light. When I heard him yesterday, his voice was low and cracking at each syllable, probably because of the huge amount of morphine that was being pumped into his bloodstream. Right now, he seems like he's not sitting in a hospital bed, but rather on a park bench somewhere.

"I still don't think you should have it," Ry's sister says, dropping her voice an octave, but still keeping it loud enough so I can hear it. "Who knows what she might have put in it?"

A throaty chuckle escapes Ry's lips, and despite how low it is, echoes off the walls like the ringing of wind chimes. Everything about the man screams beauty and perfection. Perfection that people like me can't even imagine.

"Why would she?" He cocks an eyebrow his sister's way, completely disregarding the fact that I'm standing feet from him and capable of hearing every single word the two of them are saying.

It's never a nice feeling knowing people are talking about you. It's even worse when those people are strangers making inferences about your actions and the intentions behind them.

"I don't know, maybe she just wants to kill you so you won't press charges." The sister shrugs, pushing her orange hair out of her eyes and back towards the ponytail that looks more like a horsetail by now.

Her god-like brother rolls his eyes like one of them isn't swollen the size of a balloon and blue around the edges. Liveliness radiates off of his skin, the pale, glow-less papery skin that looks like it hasn't seen sunlight in years. His smile is a mile-wide, glitter dancing in his grey eyes as he tips his bandaged head towards his sister and stares her in the face.

"I'm not pressing charges either way," he breathes towards her.

The breath tears through my heart, and I don't like it. This man is keeping me at the edge of my sanity, and I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.

I don't like the amusement in his voice when he talks about me. I don't like the sparkle in his eyes when he looks my way. I don't like the looks his sister shoots me because he won't agree with her about me being an axe-murderer who wants to kill him for some unknown reason.

He looks like he's mocking me. Like I'm transparent and he can see through me. Like he knows all I want is someone to talk to me and to listen to me and not judge. He looks like he can tell I haven't had someone like that in years.

But this is not why I'm here. I'm not here because I want my victim and his rightfully mad sister to be my besties. I'm not here because I want them to hear my agonizing story and tell me it'll be okay. I'm not here because I want them to ask me how the hell I ended up destroying my perfect life with my own hands and what I plan to do about it.

I'm here because I wanted to make up for my slip up from yesterday. I'm here because I don't want the burden, of knowing I hurt someone, on my shoulders. I'm here because I don't want this stain on my conscience where I find myself slipping close to the line that I have crossed so many times before. I don't want to hurt someone again. Not by intent. Not by accident.

I did yesterday, and I wanted to fix it.

And if this is too much and too wrong, then be it. If I shouldn't be here, I won't be.

Without waiting to hear the conversation that is still ongoing but my mind has already blocked out of my awareness, I spin on my heels and am already running out the door I hadn't taken two steps through.

"Hey, wait!" the throaty voice calls after me.

I don't stop. I don't want to hear him tell me what a fool I was to come here and think crème soup could make things better. I don't want to see that look in his eyes that makes me feel like the stupidest, most naïve girl in the world. I don't want to hear the humor in his voice.

I can almost hear him laughing after I leave, telling his sister why he actually wanted me to stay.

'I just wanted to know why she was here,' I hear him laughing, chuckling in that throaty way. 'Pitiful little girl.'

I hear his sister join in.

I hear Jeremy join in.

'You're a fool, Cris,' his voice in my ears tells me. 'A stupid girl who can't do anything right.'

The voice is so loud it tunes everything else out. I don't hear the buzz of conversation as I race through the hospital corridors; I don't hear the morning hustle and bustle on the road once I'm outside; I don't even hear the honking of cars as I nearly run towards my spot in the parking.

The bag I'm carrying, with the soup and bowls and disposable spoons, goes straight into the closest trashcan, before I throw myself towards my car. I unlock the door with trembling fingers, fumbling and dropping the keys twice before I can force them into the lock.

I drop into the driver's seat and slam the door shut, causing the voices to cease immediately. My heart beats wildly in my ears, the only sound in the car the sound of my own ragged breathing.

And as usual, I'm alone.

.\.|./.

Just a short message here -- words hurt. Sometimes they leave wounds that might not be visible, but they're always there, and sometimes they don't heal. Next time we say something, let's first think of the impact it can leave. This story will touch upon kindness, kind of like 'Knowing Xavier'. Hope I can make a difference, in my own subtle way. <3