Part 1 (1/2)
Warning: Un-beta'd. Long. The beginning involves abuse, and is quite descriptive.
He slams her against the wall, fingers curled into her long locks, gripping and pulling them from the soft supple of her skin. Her lips are bruised but he doesn’t care; he bites down hard on the pearl of her chin, lips and teeth harsh and unforgiving on her own.
A tear escapes her eye but she does not push him away.
The strength in her knees leave her and she falls to the ground, a scream threatening to spill from the back of her throat. He watches her fall and lowers himself to face her at eye level, lifting her face by the chin, cheeks streaked with marks of water and red.
“Don’t cry.” He coaxes.
There is no concern in the tone of his voice and there is no soul behind his hazy, unfocused gaze. There is no voice to her fallen body; there is only confusion reflected in her porcelain, watery eyes. He reeks of alcohol and, worst yet, anger.
“Don’t cry, my love.”
His breath is hot against the apple of her cheek and his hair and clothes are messy, but when she wakes up with his limbs tangled around hers, his expression peaceful and so at ease, she momentarily forgets the heat of the sun shining down so hard on her—forcing her to retreat inside the darkness of her room, emptiness blaring on her snow-white skin.
She temporarily forgets about the bustling city lights and the beating pulse of the night life.
Ultimately, she forgets that she is alive—alive and hurting.
He’s just about to leave her house, clad in a dress shirt and black jeans that hug a little too tight against his thighs. She watches him from behind, a single thought lingering in her mind.
Do I tell him?
In the end, she decides not to. She also doesn’t tell him that she’s going to go to a club tonight, that she’s going to find satisfaction under flashing globes of light, lost in a sea of hot and sweaty bodies that will cling against her flesh amidst roaring music.
She doesn’t tell him that she’s leaving what’s left of her reason behind in this room—that when she steps outside this door, she will no longer be his Song Qian but her own Victoria—a girl that lives without restraints, beautiful and confident and not pining for a boy that only knows how to hurt her, buried in the body of a man that has no affection.
She will live without him tonight and she wonders if he would care.
He smirks wistfully at her before he leaves and just as he turns around the smile completely disappears from his face; she wonders if he knows—if he knows that she is trying to leave him behind, after all that they’ve been through.
It’s a silly thought so she shakes it off, waving at the shadow of his back with a faint, barely existent smile.
When she leaves the house, she is dressed in a tight black gown, hugging every curve of her body. Her legs are bare and her smooth collar and arms are apparent through the lace of her transparent scarf and quarter sleeve.
The makeup she wears is wild; black and red, seductive—just the way he hated it—and almost arrogant.
She once hated arrogance, too. The moment she was out the door, it no longer mattered.
She’s tolerant, too tolerant, and so she drinks cup after cup, glass after glass, and shot after shot but she’s not getting drunk—she’s as sober as day—and she observes her friends, the people of the bar, and the only thought looming heavy in her mind is him.
With a sigh, Victoria allows her friends to drag her to the dance floor.
The pressure in her chest weighs the corners of her lips down, barely able to manage a smile, but she sways her hips from side to side, breathing out a long breath of air when a man settles against her from behind.
Dragging her fingers down his cheek, she manages to move with him in rhythm, her back flush against his chest. The feeling is foreign—this is not a body that she is familiar with, it is not him—but it doesn’t matter to her anymore.
Eventually, she loses herself into the groans and the sighs, the music and flow of rhythm that takes control over her, and she closes her eyes, forgetting that she is not alone.
The man turns her around, arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her close.
Victoria can feel the hesitance in his hold—he’s afraid of breaking her, of scaring her away.
“Are you alone?” He asks her, voice gentle near the lobe of her ear.
She is relieved when he pulls away before he kisses the skin of her cheek, bruises hidden behind thick inches of makeup. For a moment, perhaps because she is nearly intoxicated by him and his gentleness, she wants to tell him the truth.
Instead, she reasons herself not to tell him anything at all.
When she finally looks up, straining her neck to see his face, she is taken off-guard.
The man is handsome; tall and lean, his hair is short and black and silky against his cheeks, clinging there because of the sweat. His eyes are large, deep black and round with innocence. He couldn’t have been any older than she was.
But what did that matter?
“If you can out-drink me, I’ll tell you.” Victoria teases. She runs her hands up his arms, connecting them behind his neck as she buries her cheek into his chest. His heart pounds against his ribs, too loud and too strong, but she likes it—she likes the constant thumping, protective and alive, warming and comforting.
His heartbeat is nothing like his slow and mild one when they’re huddled together in their bed, stiff and cold, but it soothes her none the less.
It’s a heartbeat that makes her feel free again.
When she wakes up the next morning, she’s overwhelmed by the strong fragrance of vanilla and coffee that invades her senses.
Victoria groggily pushes herself up into sitting position on the bed and rubs her eyes, an action she regrets when it sends a chilling throb to the center of her skull. Her brain feels empty, but the sunlight is warm on her skin.
The room isn’t fancy—it’s composed of simple linen lining the windows, a mixture of beige and white and a hint of gray every here and there. It’s different from her room, of course, but it’s much more like a home should be.
Unfortunately, it is not her home and she figures that she had best leave before things get awkward.
It’s not until she steps onto the cold wooden floor and out of the thick layer of blankets that she realizes exactly how naked she is. With a small groan, she searches around the room for her clothes but fails to find anything but electronics, chairs and a neatly organized desk.
Defeated, she falls back into the bed with a thump.
“Are you up?”
The door, already slightly creaked open, parts and in enters a tall young man, his voice deeper and fuller than what she would have imagined for his face. They both come to the realization, in that instant that their eyes meet and he takes in the full image of her sitting on the corner of his bed, that she is fully in the nude.
Victoria’s eyes bulge open and she tugs the blankets from the bed to mask herself, draping it in front of her torso and holding it close to her chest.
“S-sorry!” He stutters and turns around.
She doesn’t know what to say. “Where are my clothes?”
“You stained them. I was too lazy to wash them for you last night so they’re still in the dryer.” He says. She sees him reach up to awkwardly scratch the back of his neck, his golden hair resting gracefully over his large hands.