This tiny (or not so much) story is dedicated to the amazing person that changed my life for the better since the moment I met her (am I poetic or what?)! Gaya - you beautiful, kind and loving human being, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I wish you all the best and hope that you'll never change because you are perfect just the way you are! Also I hope you like your birthday present *fingers crossed*!
Special thanks to the wonderful girls that helped me bring this story to life by their never-ending support and assistance. I never could have done this without you two sweethearts! Big virtual hugs and kisses to Megan - the brilliant editor of this story who patiently went through all of my countless drafts filled with insane ideas and brought a few of her own to the table! And Angie - the killer artist who created my Adrian out of thin air and helped me pick just the right design for the cover while kindly listening to my confusing requests and insane visions!
Now, I'll state here that this story IS RATED M FOR A REASON! It will touch on or deeply explore sensitive topics and explicit themes (sex, excessive drinking, drug use, mental illnesses, suicidal thoughts, verbal abuse etc.) so please stay away from it if you are easily offended or if you think you can be triggered by it!
P.S. FF names of these lovely ladies are: ohorpheuss - Gaya, megamorr - Megan and katnipsc - Angie!
P.P.S. Read the AN on the bottom for an additional few words! ;)
Dear diary,
For the love of holy Vodka this is so stupid. Why I am doing this is seriously beyond me, especially since I find it utterly useless. My shrink, yeah MY SHRINK thought that writing a diary would help me get better, help me keep my thoughts straighter and more collected or whatever. I'm not a freaking child in a need of a diary as an outlet for immature angst-filled whining. I mean, who the hell was dumb enough to give this dude a diploma, The Stupefying University of Redundancy? And who does he think he is bossing me around like—.
Wow! I was one hell of a frustrated little twerp, wasn't I? It's no surprise though, looking at it from a perspective of a grown or perhaps an overgrown man. Okay, okay, fine! No perhaps about it! Yeah, I'm old now, sue me! And I guess it's because I'm old that I have a tendency to reminisce about my life so far. There were some bad moments, there were some good ones. I'd been up and down, miserable and happy beyond words. I've done some things I shouldn't have and some I most definitely should have. In moments like this, I sometimes like to go back through the materialization of those memories: browsing through pictures, mementos and my latest favourite — my diary. Yep, I had one. Not by choice as you can see from the entry I'd showed you. Regardless, since you're already here, let me share these sappy evocations with you. Ready? Okay!
Growing up in a home that was as close to broken as it could be inevitably produced a lot of rage in a kid who had yet to find his way. It could've been much worse, that was for sure. At least my father wasn't a drunk or a drug addict. He didn't beat my mom and he'd rarely hit me. When he did it, it was mostly a slap on the back of my head in order to remind me I should behave and it happened only a few times when I was really young.
This 'journal of angst' was started when I was fifteen years old and let me just tell you... I wasn't doing so well at the time. I guess my emotions kept getting bottled up ever since I was taught they meant weakness and weakness was what allowed people to walk all over you whenever they pleased. Naturally, an unhealthy attitude like that was bound to get me to the point where I'd explode.
The thing that also wasn't working in my favour at the time was that I had yet to see that not only was I not going to be among the first to discover my element, but I wasn't going to be among the last either. I was actually going to fall so much behind my pears that all hell was going to break loose. And what did my parents do when I finally lost it and—. Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself here.
First things first, let me paint the family portrait for you: Workaholic father who had very little feelings towards things that couldn't benefit him in any way, sedated mother who played her part well in this charade of a family for the better part of her life, a great aunt who for some reason decided to pay attention to this lost boy that was related to her despite having better things to do, like... I don't know, rule over our entire fucking society and a bunch of crazy cousins that are not even worth the mention if I'm being honest.
My father, oh that man was hell. You know, sometimes I would find myself wishing he'd beat the living crap out of me instead of doing what he always did. Verbal abuse, I think that's the right term for it. Or, another personal favourite, blatant disregard. You might wonder what kind of a lunatic would wish to get beaten and I wouldn't blame you if you did. The thing is, words can sometimes hurt you more than a punch, they can cut deeper than a knife and they can break you beyond repair. And the silence, heaven help me, it could drive you insane. The meaning behind it, the judging, the pressure, it makes you want to scream at the top of your lungs and beg for it to stop. So yeah, sometimes I wanted a hit, a strong one, because then at least he'd acknowledge my existence or stop making me feel so insignificant.
My father was the kind of man that seemed like he was programed and born with a scolding expression. He covered it well with fake smiles and pleasantries when need be, but he had no reason to give me either, ever. No, I knew exactly who he was behind the persona he presented to the rest of the world. I used think it must have been something I'd said or done, but in time I learned that the hatred and fury he aimed at me were nothing more than the uncalled-for reactions of a deeply unsatisfied man. And what was he unsatisfied with? It beats me, but it must have been pretty much everything. I knew very little about his parents, I only saw them a handful of times when I was a child, and I didn't know if he too, just like I did, strived to achieve things just to prove himself to them and earn their praises. If he did, he must have received the same thing I got from him — jack shit. Zilch, zero, zip, nada! Still, that was no excuse for him to treat his kid the way he did. Or his wife. Or anyone else who he considered to be below him or unworthy of his time, and let me tell you, that was a hell of a lot people.
I could go on for days and tell you about all of the things he'd said to me throughout my childhood, tell you about the wounds he inflicted by his words which went so deep it took me years to heal them. Some scars are still there, but I'd learned to ignore them. Or I could just sum it up because, honestly, I've already given him way more attention than he deserves, way more than he had ever offered to me. Plus, I have more important things to tell you and this is just the beginning. And there is no better way to show you the lengths of his cruelty than to take you back to... here:
He looked me dead in the eyes and told me I'm a failure, that I'll never be anything more than that. And I believed him. I know I'm always going to be less than everyone else, that I'll probably never amount to something. Aunt Tatiana said I was special, but maybe it was just her way of saying I'm lacking in a nicer way. Why did I have to be a freak? I just want... I don't even know what I want anymore. All I know is that there is one thing he's wrong about. I'm not imagining things, I'm not pretending to have problems. They are as real as I am. Unless I'm not real. But I have to be, because I feel. And what I feel is—.
Shish, I get chills just reading this. This shouldn't be a part of... wait, how old was I? Right, at this point sixteen! I had to skip ahead a little. As I was saying, these are not the words a sixteen year old should be writing down in his diary. No, he should be writing about hot naked chicks or getting to the second or third base, maybe even the fourth if he is a lucky bastard and an early bloomer. Some entries later on... well I ripped them out of this old leather-bound goldmine of my thoughts for a reason. They are not the only pages I ripped out, but I'll get to that later.
So this is it. This is the shorter (yeah, I know, not so much) version of who Nathan Ivashkov was. Don't get me wrong though. Despite all of his flaws, this man was still my father. Like it or not, I had some 'positive' feeling towards him after all. Some. I brought my kids over to his house a few times. He behaved, even went as far as to give them money to buy candy, much to Sydney's disapproval who was quick to switch candy to apples and oranges. I went to his funeral, though I drank my way through most of it once again MUCH to Sydney's disapproval. I'd remember him from time to time. I wouldn't go as far as to say I missed him, but the memory of him didn't fade away and it wasn't all dismal.
My mom — that was a woman I sometimes hated and sometimes loved, sometimes condemned and sometimes admired, sometimes questioned and sometimes trusted, but either way always kept her close to my heart. To some she seemed like a very shallow and simple woman, but she was as mysterious as the questions of the universe and then some. I'd put a lot of effort into figuring her out myself and occasionally I wonder if I ever truly did.
When I was very little she used to tell me I was her angel. She repeated it enough times to make sure I knew it, make sure I'd remember it always. I didn't know what her life with my father was like before I came to this earth, but since the second she held me in her arms for the first time there was only room for the love she had for me in her heart and nothing else. She had a funny way of showing it sometimes, mostly when I was older and she had become more emotionally spent, but I'm certain to this very day she never loved me any less at any point.
I think I was around six or seven when she shut down, when all the energy within her withered and she became a zombie, aimlessly walking around and plastering this 'everything is fine' smile on her face that I think lingered even when she was asleep. I walked through dreams, but at least I knew where reality started, mostly, so it took me a while to understand this odd state of hers. Looking at it now, I don't think my mother was purposefully oblivious to the life she was living back then. I think she was simply caught in this haze of daydreaming about how things could've been if... well, if we really were a regular, happy family.
Her wakeup call... oh damn, I was going to jump the gun again. Let's just say her battery recharge happened when I was in trouble and then later on, every time she got close to giving up, I brought more shit upon myself or others did and she'd spark back up to life again. I wasn't doing it on purpose, not always at least, but this remained her main source of I need to keep going fuel.
When Daniella finally said 'screw it' and decided to pack her bags for good (yeah, she tried doing that a few times which she admitted to me long after it actually happened), to my outmost surprise my father was shocked. He was many things, but stupid wasn't one of them. That was why I was tempted to fall into hysterical laughter upon his expression despite the dire situation I was in at the time. I mean, WAS HE SERIOUS? Though I have to admit, if I was him, I too probably would've been shocked that the final drop in the already more than full glass happened when my son married a human, an alchemist and my wife still chose him over me. Not that I would mind if such a thing happened when it came to my son. Quite the opposite, I'd applaud Declan if he made the same choice. Then again, I'd applaud him for every damn thing.
Speaking of Declan, boy did she adore him. She was obsessed with her grandchildren and they loved her back equally. At some point she even became close to Sydney and thank God for that since it would've been unbearable to live with two women who hated each other and were the most important women in my life. Well at least until my daughter came to the world 'cause, lets be real, nobody could compete with that.
Mom always stayed close by and we'd see her all the time. That was the reason why her loss affected all of us greatly. She couldn't have lived forever, but I used to wish every day that I'd get just one more to spend with her right up until there wasn't a tomorrow left. Like I said, I always kept my mother close to my heart, even more after she stood by me in the moment when I needed her the most.
Last, but not the least, Aunt Tatiana. That woman was fierce. I guess she had to be since she was the queen and all. Though I had a feeling she'd be just the same even if her position didn't require it. She was worthy of admiring, especially if you knew the real her. There were plenty of people who considered her a bitch, but then again plenty of them envied her too, so there is that. Luckily for all of you though (or perhaps unluckily if you were enjoying my overly detailed analysis of my family so far) I'm not going to talk about her any further at the moment. I have a few reasons for that, but mostly because she would be more important to mention when I tell you about another topic in the future. For now, I'd just like to state that she was one of my biggest supporters up until the day she was killed and for that I'll be eternally grateful to her. She never owed me anything, but she gave me probably even more than I deserved.
And now that I've given you all this info which you perhaps already knew or didn't even want to know, I'm going to move on to the main story here. The reason behind the diary I'm holding in my hands, the thing that got my mother to snap out of it and my father to decide he was never going to be able to make something out of me or mold me into what he thought I should be.
See, one of the worst things that can happen to a teenager whose parents pay little attention to what he's doing with his time, is to give him money. Lots of money. Way more than he needs. Because that said teenager, especially if exposed to the influence of other teenagers who are just like him, can get into a lot of trouble because of it.
A fifteen year-old Adrian Ivashkov was suffering from, for the lack of better knowledge, ADHD. Yeah, you guessed it. It was actually the Spirit acting out for the first time, but naturally that never crossed anyone's mind back then, mine included. He also kind of had problems with insomnia. Maybe not the right way to call it since again it was Spirit related, but though falling asleep wasn't too terrible, staying asleep proved to be hard as fuck. Mostly because I had vivid dreams and when I say vivid, I mean VIVID! Anyhow, I promise, we'll explore the whole Spirit shenanigans more later on.
So, keeping the previously mentioned thing in mind, the same spoiled little fucker spat out enough of his parents money to bribe a nurse (a mighty hot nurse I might add) to get him a prescription from the doctor for sleeping pills. And so he'd take those whenever he couldn't get his mind to stay normal long enough to be inactive for more than three hours. It became a habit, a really, really bad habit.
It was early summer, the end of the school-year and the beginning of 'you are so lazy and dumb you can't even keep your grades up' talks from my father which inevitably resulted in his fights with my mother. Three straight days of screaming around the house while playing all nice and perfect for the rest of the world and I had had enough of it. I snuck out with my friends that lived in Court hoping they'd help me take my mind off things. Somebody brought some expensive whiskey they'd stolen from their parent's liquor cabinet, I charmed my way to a bottle of wine from the local store and a shit-ton of beer appeared seemingly out of thin air.
Naturally, since we were irresponsible and inexperienced kids, we got so wasted we could barely walk, so when I got home I was surprised I didn't wake up the goldfish in the aquarium too. I didn't know if my parents didn't care that I was out or simply didn't dwell on it too much, but I still managed to get to my room without anyone bothering me. All I wanted to do was to sleep, but it didn't happen. So what did my drunken idiotic ass do? Came up with the best solution ever — take a sleeping pill like always. You know what, take two. Oh and while you're at it forget to throw away or hide the empty bottle that was left after months of using it, because you're too hazy from the mix of whiskey and wine coupled with beer (since the first two weren't enough) to think straight.
And this is what happened in the morning. I got hit so hard by the mix of alcohol and pills that I wasn't only sleeping, I became deaf too. Seriously, World War 3 could've been happening outside and I wouldn't have heard it. So when my mother called me for like a bazillion times, knocked on my door for five minutes and then finally decided to enter my room, what did she see? Oh, nothing, just her precious son completely out of it with the empty bottle of meds carelessly standing on the nightstand. And what was the first thing that crossed her mind? He drank the whole thing in one go and—. Hit the panic button here!
An ambulance ride and a few doctors later, I was still trying and failing to explain to everyone that I had no intentions whatsoever of killing myself. Absolutely not, no, none! I was just a dumb, dumb kid, an idiot really. However, it was really difficult to talk my way out of it with the alcohol still in my system and that damn, incriminating bottle. The two aforementioned things were also the reason behind a few very unpleasant and, frankly, disgusting things I went through in the ER. Gory details aside, when everything was said and done I was placed under 24/7 monitoring by my mother who'd lost her shit over the whole event. To make things worse, my father instead of being a normal, worried parent, turned into a walking and talking nightmare. He wouldn't let me breathe from his hour-long lectures and ranting. And this was when the big disaster happened.
Remember how in the beginning I told you about how I was taught to hide my emotions, how I stored them inside my heart and soul, never quite letting go of the negativity that tended to stick around the longest? Well that marvellous habit led to a complete mental breakdown. After a full week of keeping my mouth shut and watching my mother's worried eyes while listening to my father's irritating rambling, I broke. It happened in the middle of dinner on a fine Saturday evening. The best way to describe the situation before the big boom is to say: "This is fine" meme! Go look it up! I kid you not, I was that damn dog from the web-comic, ignoring the fire around me and in me while lazily chewing on spaghetti without a pause in order to stop myself from talking back. It's all good was my main moto, until it wasn't.
I can't remember what it was that my father had said exactly, I don't think it's even relevant. All I know is that he added another distasteful sentence to the pile just as I swallowed my food and the next thing I knew I started screaming my lungs out. I jumped from the table, accidentally (maybe not) pulling the tablecloth to the ground along with all of the dishes on it. I knocked over my chair... no, sorry, that's incorrect. I threw my chair across the room. I growled and cried out a string of incoherent and appalling words before I fell into complete hysteria, stepping over the shards and the remnants of our food while slamming my fists on the table frantically. I cursed at him on every language I could think of. And when I was already blue in the face I suddenly felt all of the air leaving my lungs.
Up until that point I had never truly learned what a panic attack was or how it felt to go through it. Completed with the mental breakdown... well, let's just say it wasn't fun. I fell straight on my ass since my legs decided to take a vacation and gasped while my mother jumped from the frozen position she was in while I was having a tantrum. I didn't know what my father was doing, not that I cared, because my vision started to get blurry while I fought to breathe. I couldn't move my arms, they felt too ridged and I could only imagine what my paralyzed facial expression looked like.
The epilogue of this event... it was decided that I was not well. The reason behind it was ignored or mostly dismissed as slightly more dramatic misbehaving of a teenage boy. Naturally, they sent me to a shrink, because that's easier than sitting your child down and talking to him, isn't it? In all fairness though, my state probably did require some actual professional help, but it also begged for love and care of my parents. My mother offered both, but my father had a way of erasing all of her progress with me in one swift line.
With this I close the circle, coming back to my diary. Yeah, I know, this was one long introductory. But it was needed, believe me. In the following period, right until my high school graduation I was trapped in two hours sessions, three times a week with some old fart that was my parent's friend. They wanted to keep the whole thing hushed cause, gasp... 'What would people think?' and so this man became the person I secretly saw more often than my own reflection in a mirror. And throughout that time a lot of things changed.
It would be very practical to use the Kübler-Ross model to explain the teenage years of Adrian Ivashkov. You know the five stages of grief or in my case the five stages of fucked up. Only slightly modified because the second stage - anger, well it was sort of repetitive for me, without a particular pattern. The anger came out in different ways, luckily never in the horrific one that happened on that Saturday. Also it was the state I started with as depicted in the first entry at the beginning of this long ass narration. Then in came denial.
Dear Someone,
And by 'someone' I mean an imaginary entity I'm supposed to be "talking" to. Dr. Shrink thinks I'll feel more at ease doing this if it feels like I'm actually communicating with someone. I tried and failed to explain to him how ridiculous the very idea is. How it makes me think that I'll for sure become a head case by attempting such a pointless task. Oh, did I mention that it also brings up the question about the sanity of this man who's supposed to make me better? I'm fabulous though, so I don't really see the need for any action whatsoever. I'm 100% normal and fine. That breakdown was just a slip-up that will never repeat again. That sort of a thing happens to everyone right? So I'm good.
See, complete and utter denial. I was fabulous. I was fine. I was good. I didn't need help. What a load of crap. If Earth represented being fine and I was a satellite, I'd be circling around Neptune. Okay, maybe a closer planet, but you get the point.
Bargaining didn't last for long and it mostly happened through interactions with Dr. Shrink (yeah, I still call him by that nickname) when I tried almost every tactic to get him to fuck off. I think it's more than evident that it didn't work out.
Depression - that was the worst. To this day it's something I tend to suffer from. I had learned to deal with it in healthier ways though and since I still medicate to avoid the Spirit that sort of alleviates the lows. I was going to read some entries to you again, but I decided against it. Just thinking about that first time when this torment caught a hold of me brings a lump to my throat. So pardon me, but I think I'm going to skip this one.
The last stage, acceptance, didn't exactly happen in a typical way. Aunt Tatiana was right, I was special. The moment I accepted that, I also accepted the probability that I'd always have some problems others might not have to deal with on regular basis. It happened when I was seventeen and, as promised, now comes the part about the Spirit shenanigans.
I had an enormous crush on this girl, Megan, in my senior year. She was smoking, brutally smoking and untouchable, which only made me want her more. I was used to getting almost every girl I'd set my eyes on even back then (and I'm not ashamed to admit it), so the fact that this girl always kept turning me down made me wild with desire. Anyhow, one night I was sprawled over my bed, begging my brain to give up and go to sleep. I pinched my eyes shut and attempted to think of anything that could make me cheerful and relaxed. In hindsight, thinking about the girl who had been giving you wet dreams for weeks when you were trying to relax was probably not such a good idea. Recalling all the particularly hot curves of her body and concentrating on that image of her stuck in your memory can do funny things to you (and you know damn well what I mean by that so don't make me say it).
At some point this odd feeling spread through me, a feeling I'd at first mistaken for being extremely hot and bothered. This tingling sensation, an energy that came out of nowhere, the high alert of every cell I was made of and joy, pure and utter joy. Bright colors began dancing behind my eyelids, but when I tried to open them nothing happened. I felt like I was moving, but in the same time I was aware of the fact that I'd never left my bed. And then I was on a beach. I remembered that same beach from my previous summer vacation. Actually, I remembered that exact sight: the moonlight reflecting over the surface of the high sea, the gentle waves crashing against the shore lazily, the softest breeze that smelled of salt and seaweeds brushing against my skin. Yeah, I could smell it, just like I could feel the wet sand sticking to my bare feet and the heat that still hadn't lifted completely off the ground even though the sun was gone. It felt too real, more vivid than any dream I'd ever had so far. For a moment, I even thought I wasn't dreaming at all.
I heard a voice calling my name. It was so quiet at first I'd brushed it off as the hum of the waves and my elevated imagination. Whether this was a dream or some twisted, impossible reality I knew I was alone that night, so there was nobody there to call my name. Until the sweet voice came again and more intensely. I twirled around and saw a small silhouette moving over the beach towards me. It called my name again and I thought it must be an angel or a charming little demon. Probably the later 'cause the thoughts that crossed my mind as she approached and I took in her features were nothing short of sinful. It wasn't until she was a few feet away from me that I'd recognized her. The magnificent curves, the wavy, shoulder length caramel hair, the nut brown eyes, the pinkish lips that always seemed a bit swollen.
"Megan?", I'd asked, not believing my own eyes as they scanned over her and I became aware that this was the most underdressed state I had ever seen her in. My imagination wasn't just elevated, it was breaking all of the earthly boundaries. I couldn't have pictured that many details, everything that was revealed by the thin, sleeveless cotton shirt coupled with boyshorts that shouldn't have been allowed to look that hot on a chick.
She approached me and I could tell she was just as confused as I was. I could guess her thoughts, since they probably resembled mine. What is going on? What am I doing here? What is he doing here? Is this real? The last question she actually spoke out loud and I shrugged since I was as clueless as her. I reached out and touched her cheek with my fingers. Real enough. She caught a hold of my hand and stepped closer, her dark eyes catching the spark of the reflection of the moon in the water next to us. I suddenly felt hungry, I wanted to kiss her, hold her, not let her out of my arms until this moment, whether it was an illusion or not, ended. I think I even said that to her, but I'm a bit hazy on the details since this memory never made it into my diary. I guess I was too scared to write it down, especially after I reassured myself it had actually happened.
Now... if there are any kids listening to this story, please go to bed or school or somewhere else. I mean it! Oh and don't come back until I'm done telling everyone about my college experience the next time I sit down to talk, because man, that story is not only not suitable for those below the legal age, but some adults should stay clear of it too.
Where was I? Right, Megan heard my words and for the first time didn't cast away my advances. No, for some reason, probably because she thought "it's a dream so why the hell not", she kept holding my hand until she placed it on her waist and moved in close enough to be a mere breath away from me. Our lips met briefly, but it was enough to send me flying towards heaven because that's what she tasted like. An intoxicating, unearthly sweetness of the softest pair of lips I'd touched was enough to send shiver upon a shiver down my spine. She shivered too as I stepped back and looked over her body just to check if she was still there.
Her chest heaved and I didn't know if it was her own desire or that shiver that made her nipples become hard enough to have the material of her soft shirt moulding against them. I pulled her and spun her around so that her back was against my chest. She leaned into me and gasped as the lower parts of our bodies pressed together, showing her she wasn't the only one with a visible reaction to the tension building between us. My fingers wandered over her cleavage and brushed over the two peeks on her shirt as I gently kissed my way from her shoulder to her earlobe. She melted into me even more when my palm ghosted over her stomach just below the navel while I trailed the line of the waistband of her panties. When I found my way under the waistband she grabbed my hand and tugged it away. I felt a pang of disappointment, but she didn't give me a lot of time to give into it since she turned and crashed her lips against mine. Unlike our first kiss this one was heated, a battle of lips, tongues and teeth. She almost ripped my shirt when she pulled it up and over my head and I actually did rip hers when I attempted the same. I distinctly recall we were laying on the sand at some point, both butt naked, wrapped around each other like vines. Fond memories aside, let me tell you right now in case you never had the pleasure of this experience, having sex on the beach sucks. It's uncomfortable, sticky and the sand gets in all the wrong places. But to a young lad such as myself, that was completely irrelevant.
It was when I was buried deep inside Megan that I came to the conclusion this couldn't possibly be a dream. Nope, this was real, because man it felt divine. Even if my imagination was worthy of an Oscar I couldn't have come up with this. Not the scene, I pictured it plenty, but the feeling. The heat, tightness and wetness that I thrust into, the sting of her nails slicing my back as she dragged them across it, the tickle of her breath as she moaned into my ear. And once I found myself chasing my release I felt like the ground underneath us began shaking. It took me awhile to realize that it actually was.
The world broke into a million pieces, like shattered glass. The colors faded and got replaced by darkness. The joy, the excitement, the thrill it all disappeared and I felt like I was falling through emptiness. And then I set up straight in my bed and felt a wave of cold sweat washing over me. My heart was beating out of my chest and my hands shook. I thought I might faint, but after what felt like hours my breathing slowed and I managed to get up and reach the bathroom. I splashed water on my face and leaned against the sink waiting for my skin to dry off on its own. I must have still been in a half lucid state since I could swear I saw sparks of gold dancing across the green of my eyes when I looked up into the mirror and that odd mix of colors I sometimes saw right above people's heads now twirling above mine, a golden streak also spreading through it. I blinked and blinked until it was gone.
I would've covered this event up like I tended to do. I'd tell myself it never happened until I believed my own lie. I'd ignore it, just like I'd ignored what I didn't know to be auras back then, or other vivid dreams I had. However, by some weird twist of fate somebody thought of a brilliant idea to take our entire class to the pool. Yeah, I know, what were the chances? And it was when we were at the pool that I first saw Megan after my dream of her and when I first saw her in a bikini. Oh, did I mention I almost drowned when I noticed the tiny oval shaped birthmark edging her groin, right on the rim of her baiting suit, the same mark that I'd kissed a few times while I was getting hot and heavy with her in... so, it wasn't a dream after all. BUT WHAT THE HELL WAS IT THEN?
Eventually, all of this ladies and gentleman was what got me to come to grips with the fact that I had capabilities others didn't. Naturally, it took me a long time to realize what exactly those capabilities were and to name them. I had so much to learn and a few people to learn from. And... my God, look at the time. I should be in bed. I have to work tomorrow. Oh well, you probably got tired too anyway, I've been talking for a long time. I guess this is a goodbye for now then. I wish you sweet dreams or a good day depending on which time zone you're in. Hopefully, you'll be back to hear the rest of my story. Ta-ta!
Anyone who's been following my stories so far might have noticed that I'm in love with music almost as much as writing. This is the reason why I decided to list 10 songs at the end of each chapter in order to form my Ultimate Adrian Ivashkov playlist! The songs won't necessarily be connected to the topics of the chapters (some will), but will all be connected to Adrian through their lyrics! Hope you look them up and enjoy them!
This chapters songs: 1. Twisted - Missio 2. Gasoline - Halsey 3. Imperfection - Skillet 4. Dressed To Digress - Boy Crisis 5. Flat On The Floor - Nickelback 6. Imaginary ("Origin" Version) - Evanescence 7. Just Like You - Three Days Grace 8. Lurk - The Neighbourhood 9. Iodine - Icon For Hire 10. Unsteady - X Ambassadors
Thanks for reading! I hope you all enjoyed! Leave a review and let me know what you think! Feedback is greatly appreciated! Until the next time,
Kisses T!