Blurry

Every time I was around him, my world seemed to suspend in limbo between going too fast and halting completely. Everything seemed to fade away and become blurry when his face came into view. Whether he was walking aimlessly through the halls of Ridgeway High School, or trudging lazily down the sidewalk towards my house, my heart would pound in my chest like a rock until I felt his warm hands against my cool skin, wrapping me into a short hug as if I hadn't seen him in ages, when it might have been just a class period or an iCarly segment that had held us apart originally. The passion was all too easy to spot as I curled my fingertips around his broad shoulders, watching that crooked smile he displayed proudly etch across his face with delight.

I liked his smile.

He would laugh as I pulled him into my house, letting him choose between my worn-out couch, and the floral-patterned armchair as his throne for the moment. He seemed to favor the armchair on most days. I would plop down in his lap in the chair, allowing him to wrap his arms around my waist and hold me as close as he could. The feeling of his chest rising and falling, along with his beating heart, made me feel safe and secure.

I liked feeling safe and secure.

I would allow him to tell me about anything and everything, if just for a moment, I could watch his lips move and listen to his laugh again. It was a contagious chuckle that always spawned hearty giggles from me, seeping down into the very core of my being.

I liked his laugh.

Eventually, he would smile at me again and push me off his lap, saying he needed something to drink. I always got it for him, because I truly and deeply cared about him that much. On some days when I'd hand him a bottle, or a can, he would smile happily and thank me with a kiss on my cheek. Other days, he looked up at me in disgust, jerking the drink from my grasp angrily, mumbling about how useless I was.

I liked how his kisses felt.

Today was a good day. He took it without question, caressing my face lightly with his fingertips before brushing his lips against my cheekbone. I grinned at him in return, watching as he opened the bottle I'd given him and taking a long gulp from it. After his first sip, he always wiped his mouth off and looked up at me again, still standing in front of him. Smoothly, he'd tell me to hop in his lap, and that we would watch some TV before my mother got home. I always agreed, allowing him to watch wrestling while I nestled into his warm embrace as if I was a small child, being held by her father. He would flip through the channels without bothering to ask me what I wanted to watch. I didn't mind. All I wanted was for him to hold me, even if it was in complete silence. He wasn't much for conversation.

I liked the silence.

Eventually, my cell phone would buzz and it would be my mother, calling to say she would be home soon. He always groaned, saying that he was too tired to walk back to his apartment building right now. A few times, I groaned back at him, saying he was being lazy again. But most of the time, I agreed and allowed him access to my bedroom and my bed. He would give me his crooked smile again, but floated up the stairs shortly after without as much as a thank you. I smiled back before turning the TV off, and grabbing my backpack and his brown leather jacket from the floor. I would scale the stairs quickly, my eyes meeting my now opened door, along with the sight that always made me giggle.

I liked his humor.

He would be stretched out on my bed, his head falling off the edge, and his legs propped up on the wall my bed was pressed against. For some reason, it always made me laugh, seeing him like that. He always grinned back, saying I was being silly. I usually retorted that he was being silly as well, causing more laughter from his perfect mouth. When I entered the bedroom, he would immediately beckon for me to shut the door, before waving his arm in a gesture for me to lay down beside him.

I liked relaxing with him.

My head usually ended up on his chest, with his arms curled around my waist, and my arms around his neck. He always said we looked like a scene out of a movie, and I usually agreed after looking up at his never-changing appearance. There was always a small sheen of sweat upon his forehead, his shaggy brown hair sticking to his skin and shielding his striking green eyes.

I liked his eyes.

Sometimes, I curled a hand around his bicep, feeling the deep muscles that resided there. He smiled and said he was still working out, that he would get buffer. I grinned, saying that he was pretty buff already. He usually disagreed, saying a guy can never have enough muscle. I always agreed with that, knowing a disagreement there would lead to more conversation.

I didn't like our conversations.

Tonight, for one reason or another, I did disagree. I said that his statement was untrue, that I'd seen guys on TV whose arms exploded because they had tried so hard to get the biggest biceps in the world. That's when he'd stiffen his arms around my small frame, causing chills to run down my spine.

I didn't like how he could scare me so easily.

A frown would deepen across his face, stretching from ear to ear. He would mutter something about me being a stupid girl, that the TV lies, and that I needed to keep my mouth shut about things I didn't understand. Usually, I let it drop after that, knowing continuation of our discussion would lead to bad things. But tonight I felt particularly feisty for some reason, and immediately stated I wasn't stupid, and that I could say whatever I wanted to say. His grip around me would tighten suddenly, his arms feeling more like barriers than the comforting walls they once were.

I didn't like feeling trapped by him.

When he began to move and shift his body beneath me, I knew that I had done it. I knew I'd unintentionally lit a wildfire that couldn't be stopped, not until it burned itself out. His hands would wrap around my shoulders, pushing me into a sitting position, and off his broad chest. He'd turn me around to look at him, glaring at me with his fiery eyes. I knew what that look meant, and I immediately diverted my gaze from his, biting my lip in order to prepare my ears for the tirade that was about to begin.

I didn't like being forced to prepare.

It always started with him calling me stupid, because that's what I was first and foremost. I never disagreed with his statements about me when he got that look on his face, it would only make things worse. He would proceed to tell me to look at him straight in the eyes like a big girl, and when I disobeyed, his voice rose in tone and I could feel the sound of his voice in my chest, like a bass drum being pounded on right beside me. It wracked my body, making my breathing hitch, but also forcing my eyes to meet his demanding ones once more. That's when he knew he won.

I didn't like feeling defeated.

He would continue his long list of insults, some were new, but most were old news. He'd bring up how I never had time for him, and how I hung out with 'that Freddie boy' more than I spent time with him. I would grit my teeth, suck up the tears that threatened to fall, and stare at him with wide emotionless eyes.

I didn't like shutting my emotions down.

His hands would be around my shoulders again in seconds, shaking me as he screamed that I wasn't listening, and that I needed to understand his words if I wanted someone to love me. I would try to put emotion in my expressionless face, but that only made it harder to keep my tears at bay. He would roll his eyes at me, shaking me harder as he screamed that I was worthless and unlovable.

I didn't like being unlovable.

Again, he'd say I was stupid, and that no one could ever love an idiot like me; no one, except him of course. He'd sad I was lucky to have him, and that he could have left me over a hundred times over, the way my dad ditched my mother and I years ago. Those words always made the pain in my chest begin to fester and grow, causing me to allow a couple of tears to leak out, and my wall to break. He'd laugh deviously through his rage, saying that only weaklings cried.

I didn't like being weak.

My gaze began to falter as I tried to concentrate on his beet-red face, afraid that if I didn't look at him, he'd get even more furious with me. He always got angrier. It was as much a part of our routine as me getting him a drink, or his watching of mindless wrestling matches on my TV. When he'd get angrier, the shaking would stop, and he'd jump up from my bed. The pacing around my bedroom always spoke volumes. It meant that I would escape unscathed this time, and that he'd ditch my house in a fit of rage, leaving me alone on my bed so I could cry at the sting of his words.

I didn't like it when he stood still.

He's standing in front of my shaking body now, while I'm still sitting on the bed motionless, even though I know I should probably run. I should have escaped by now. The look I dreaded fell upon his sullen visage, a look of pure fury and rage causing his face to contort in a way that was completely unnatural. I never had time to think after I noticed the change in his stature. Everything following that always occurred in a hazy, senseless blur. It always ended in a blur as well, before my world completely faded from view and everything went black.

I didn't like it when things became blurry.

I have no idea where this came from. Seriously. Considering the fact that this basically came from nowhere, and was written in the span of about thirty minutes at 4 in the morning, I actually kind of like it. This is also considering that I'm not a one-shot person. At all. I've written a grand total of two, including this one.

This actually began as a pure fluff piece, for Seddie no less, but my angsty-depressive writing skills stopped that from happening pretty quick.

Review? Maybe? Pleez? :D

Not beggin', just askin'!