it isn't very obvious but trigger warning: abuse
They meet in a bar. Her lips cherry and her eyes glassy—unwanted, cruel. She gulps down yet another shot, seemingly unfazed. Her hands shake and her heart shatters and she ignores her brain, no matter what it says. The liquid goes down her throat, and it's burning and god, doesn't it hurt? Doesn't it hurt?
He's unprecedented, unaware of what he's doing before he feels his legs walk over to her. The chair spins and he's out from under and she laughs, a light giggle lacing the breath of her lips. She's loopy, she's loopy, he knows. He doesn't know what to say to her, the small girl with the mischievous smile on her lips. She's unlike what he's used to.
So they don't talk, they sit in silence, listening to the seedy music bellow throughout the seedy bar and she takes another shot. She listens to her heartbeat, loud and unwanted. He listens to her ragged and scarce breaths, loud and unwanted. They're scared. She's scared, he's scared.
And god, he doesn't know why.
/
They meet at a theater. Her lips blue with frost and her eyes hurt—upset and troubled. Her hands are soft and tender, picking from the insides of her coat as they search desperately for any source of warmth due to the the freezing New York winters. Her face hurts, she knows it does. It hurts but the movie theater is there, and she's there.
He goes to see the movie for the umpteenth time, a classic. One of his favorites, he says. One of his favorites. She sits, he sits. He recognizes her—she's the girl from the bar; the girl with the cherry lips and the girl with the glassy eyes. He knows her, he does, she doesn't remember.
And she came for a movie.
So did he.
So they don't talk, they sit in quiet, listening to the silence of the useless movie, the dramatic music blaring through the speakers. She listens to nothing, her hands shaking with frostbite and her toes clenching with terror. He listens to her. He listens to nothing, she doesn't want to talk. Neither does he, or at least it's his thought.
He doesn't seem to understand himself.
/
They meet at an art show. Her lips pink with no lipstick stain and her eyes lost—spaceless and dreamless, nothing or anything was there. Her hands are clenched and she's tired, she's so tired but she doesn't know why (she does know why, she really does). Her mind is awkward and aloof, something certainly saved for her brunette best friend, so no. She doesn't understand.
He goes to the art show for a friend, or a friend of a friend. And he never really liked art in that way that made his insides churn and his eyes light up with excitement. And he recognizes her, off to the side, her hands closing and opening and there's something there—he doesn't quite know what yet, but there is something certainly there. But he knows her, he does. She doesn't seem to remember. She's the girl from the bar with the cherry lips and the girl from theater with the frostbite and the silence.
And she came for an art show—or at least he has to think so.
So he did too.
So they don't talk, he watches her in silence as she listens to her breaking breaths. She's pale and blonde and lost and gone, something he's certainly not used to but could see himself taking a liking to. Nothing really makes sense, he has to think. And he never really thinks, never not really. So he listens to nothing but the corny music blaring over the old speakers that are scratching and thudding against his skull.
Nothing seems to make sense.
/
They meet at a park. Her lips purple and her eyes confused—unknown, unaware. She's got nothing going, and her fingers are tapping impatiently as she waits for something, may it be anything to present in her life. It's boring and confusing and it hurts, god doesn't it hurt like hell? Because it does, it most definitely does.
He's there, just there. And he doesn't know why. It's just how it happens to be and he never really liked parks, he never really did. And he recognizes her, sitting down with her stained cheeks and purple lips, the unmistakable sight of his favorite yet unknown stranger. He doesn't understand her in all the time he has seen her, an enigma, a mystery—may it be. He doesn't understand her at all, no he doesn't. But she doesn't seem to remember, she's the girl from the bar with the cherry lips and the girl from the theater with the frostbite and the girl from the art show with the clenched fists.
He sits down next to her, his hands deep in his coat pockets while she stares aimlessly at nothing, yet everything. She doesn't speak a word to him, her eyes focused on the speck of dust floating across her heart shaped face and her attention is gone with yet another thing.
And he is ought to think that she come there for peace.
And he did too.
So they don't talk, he watches her in silence as she yawns and babbles to herself uselessly, completely and utterly unaware of his company. But he doesn't mind, not really. So instead, he listens to the screaming kids and the ragged breaths of his own. He watches the puffs of his cold breaths float across his face.
It's confusing, he has to think.
/
They meet on the subway. Her lips a crude shade of black and her eyes menacing—mischievous and daring. A smile laces her lips that are laced with layers upon layers of alcohol. She's got a cigarette placed between her teeth and a puff of smoke escapes her lungs despite the no smoking sign. Her hands run through her hair, and they run and run and run through her hair, never stopping, never ending. She's nervous, and something hurts, she just can't place what. What is it, my darling? What is it?
And he's there for the most obvious reasons, public transport, that is, and getting to and from places in the dreary and dark state of New York was quite a task. School is just across town, he thinks. At least he has to think so, he doesn't remember much except her long blonde locks and her legs that could go on for miles. She stands in tall black pumps, her leg tapping impatiently as she waits. She's waiting, that's all she's doing.
Much of her seems to catch up to him.
He remembers, yes he does. She can't escape his mind, she's trapped and she's running. She's the girl from the bar with the cherry lips, she's the girl from the theater with the frostbite, she's the girl from the art show with the clenched hands and she's the girl from the park with the dazed look.
She's tired of waiting so she sits next to him, grabbing her shoes and setting them on her lap. And she sighs, all she does is sigh. The familiar taste of nicotine on her lips and the strong pang of guilt apparent on her cheek.
And he knows something is up, something has got to be. Because she tired and tired and tired, something he seems to be all day, along with her.
But she came on the subway for a ride.
And he did too.
So they don't talk. And she thinks she remembers him, sometime ago. Where was he, oh where was he? Nothing clicks and she sighs, nothing clicks anymore. So they sit, all they do is sit. Waiting for the stop and waiting for a time when things would be right and waiting for a time when things weren't like that, like this. So they wait, they sit.
He has just got to sit, and he has just got to wait.
/
They meet at a restaurant. Her lips dark red and her eyes pained—scared and tired and so scared and tired. Her lips are tugged with pain and terror, her eyes are fake and her smile is not true. Her hands are sweating and she's nervous, very much nervous. And nothing is right, nothing is ever right. She can still feel it, she can still feel it. It hurts, yes it does. It hurts.
He's there because of some blind date he couldn't care less for. His eyes are focused on the blonde girl sweating through her black dress. Her eyes were focused on a much older man, his smile angry and certainly dangerous. She's got nothing to worry, he thinks. But he knows better. She's running from something, and he knows. And she's running from something, the something must be the man. Her strained smile is visible and she's scared, more scared than ever before.
He remembers her, oh he most certainly does. She's the girl with the cherry lips, the girl with the frostbite, yes she's the girl with the clenched hands and she's certainly the girl with the dazed look. She's the girl with the tall black pumps and the impatience.
And she's scared, she's oh so scared. What is it? What may it be?
Her attentions grabs his as she looks over, squinting as if she does recognize him, because she most certainly does. She's not sure where, not sure when. But she knows who he is, she knows who he is better than he does. And he knows that she's scared.
But she came to a restaurant to eat.
And so did she, at least he has got to think so. Didn't she?
So they don't talk, and he averts his gaze back to his date. His date that he has no interest in, so instead, he listens. He listens to her talk and she knows, she knows he's listening. She doesn't stop. He listens, and she talks. No one knows but them, but they know.
And he's not so confused anymore.
/
They meet in a bar. Her lips cherry and her eyes filled with an unknown type of mirth, something he hasn't seen before laced upon her beautiful porcelain features. And she's anything but drunk, her hand closed tightly around the plastic water bottle filled with a heavy vodka in her hand. She sighs, and he sighs. Doesn't it hurt? she has to ask herself. It has to hurt, but it doesn't. Not anymore.
He's completely aware, he knows what he's doing when he walks up to her, sitting down in the chair that spins. The chair that sent his body plummeting to the ground a lifetime ago and he talks. They don't sit in silence anymore.
He recognizes her, he does. She's the girl from the bar, the girl from the theater, the girl from the art show, the girl from the park, the girl from the subway, she's the girl from the restaurant. And yes, she recognizes him. She knows who he is, yes she does.
His voice is soft and nice and pleasing to the ears, she thinks. Something she hadn't gotten accustomed to recently. "What have you been doing?" he asks her.
"Running," she drawls, taking a long swig from her once catholic lips.
"From what?"
He knows what. He knows what. From the man in the restaurant earlier, the man who hurt her. And she knows too, she knows he knows. She caresses her cheek softly—the cheek that used to be covered in purple's and blacks and bruises and cuts—and she doesn't feel scared. Not anymore.
"From myself."
this is literally the worst thing i have ever written. it doesn't make sense. it is very redundant but that's how i write i guess. just in case you couldn't tell this is a story about maya getting abused and lucas repeatedly meeting with her. it makes no sense. slay me
i wrote this at 4 in the morning sorry.
ANYWAY review and fave!