Soft, fluffy, almost palpable light shining through partially opened sea-foam green curtains. Entwined limbs, pale as the first snow fall of winter. Hair as black as the eyes beneath it, tousled playfully around a sleeping face. Steady breaths intermingling in the early morning air. Hearts beating in the same time, the rhythm dancing around the room like a race horse. Dust particles floating like fairies in the air, filling empty space with life. Things subconsciously observed by a boy with simple brown hair, simple brown eyes.
Said boy had been haunted by the recollection that, yes, the black-haired girl with her delicate but weathered hands wrapped around his waist was someone who called him hers. Haunted, though, was perhaps not the word. He had been…made aware, more accurately. For haunted he was by his own screams as his flesh was ripped from his body. Haunted he was by the feeling of the life draining out of a young girls body, due to his own lack of control. Haunted he was by his mothers eyes, of her screams of terror. And haunted he was by the thought of somehow hurting this girl, this beautiful girl, who knew of pain and suffering, though he wished nothing other than for her well being.
Of course, he had to remind himself, she had agreed to love him. She'd made it quite clear that she wasn't leaving him, as long as he wouldn't leave her. He heard the words again, "I love you." I love you, too, he thought, as his fingers absently stroked her ebony hair. He hadn't said it back. She had been disappointed. She'd been hurt, the one thing he'd wished not to do, and he'd done it without thought. His nostalgia for the moment was unbearable, the hope to go back and change what he'd said, or rather, what he hadn't, was like a knife twisting itself in the pit of his stomach. But it was done, and now she lay next to him with her sleeping eyes and drooping lips.
The boy looked to the ceiling once more. He often wondered what he'd done to deserve the things in his life. The good, the bad. Was he deserving of any of it? Certainly, he wasn't worthy of this girl. Nor of his friends, how few in number they might be. Maybe he was deserving of his condition. But of his mothers fear and hatred in him? What had he done to bring that upon himself? What could he possibly have done that one of the most important people in his life had to be ripped away from him, because of something that was always out of his control? Hadn't he been good enough? Hadn't he always tried?
He closed his eyes, shaking his head. It was no use to dwell on the past. There was no changing it. There was no going back. If there was one thing he'd learned in his life, it was that there was never any turning around, never any time to make up for mistakes that were made so carelessly.
With another soft sigh, he sat up, careful not to wake the sleeping girl. "You could run a train through here and I wouldn't wake up, you know," he recalled the girl saying, her voice a sweet comfort. "But you know how I love being next to you. I'd love it if you would stay."
He looked at her. The green T-shirt that hugged her torso was his, a few sizes too big for her small body. Long eyelashes cast shadows on her alabaster cheeks. Her lips pouted a bit, as though she sensed his absence from the bed. He leaned down and kissed her forehead once, hands sliding through her hair.
Better late than never, right? he thought, and leaned in towards her ear. "I love you, too, Isabelle."