They say with every step a person walks is another one gained when you are walking to that which you crave, and every step to despair is a slow torturous death, because you might live on the outside but something inside dies.
I’m not certain which category I fall into as I walk to the rivers bend. The silhouette of the figure sitting on the rocks by the silent stream causes my heart to dance, my palms to heat and tingle. But something in me also feels like it’s dying. I made a choice and this is it, I chose Reagan. Sabastian and I had a past and a past is what it needs to be. Maybe Reagan and I won’t last, or we could, but taking the leap, going for this ride with Reagan Orniel through the good times and bad is the choice I’m choosing to make. And I prove that as I draw closer toward his hunched form. I prove it more when my heart declares war with my head, threatening it to turn back. But I know it’s too late for that, I’ve known it since the blue eyed boy, Reagan Orniel showed up in my bedroom asking me to be his girl. I knew it when he laid me down on his bed a week ago and showed me gentle, and I know it now as the cold nip in the air teases me with its brand of torture, but at the same time reminding me of how safe I feel in his arms, reminding me of my comfort.
“Get the fuck out of here Dainy.” His voice booms with a warning I have only heard once before appointed to me as I make my way closer with determined strides.
“Reagan.” I say his name loud enough, but I don’t recognize pleading torment of my tone. My legs carry me faster to the hunched, defeated frame of my boyfriend. The boy I love.
“I said leave dammit.” I jerk at the harsh undertone but my legs don’t stop walking.
“I’m not going.” I stop right next to him as I say those words.
“If I knew you were so stubborn…”
“You would get your ass up and take me home.” I finish for him as I put both my hands around his left arm. My fingers grip and I pull on his muscular flesh, trying helplessly to get him up. I don’t like the way he is sitting. Reagan Orniel is not a guy to sit hunched and certainly not a guy to willow.
“Reagan Orniel get your ass up,” I say through gritted teeth, “or I swear I’m going to Linda Bridge and telling her you stole her panties and put it in Mr Brandt’s brief cage.” I carry on pulling on his arm knowing it has got to be painful and annoying. And I don’t stop until his other hand snatches on my wrist. He pulls me forward and over his lap. It’s so dark that I can’t make out his features even if I wasn’t currently sitting on his lap with my ass in the air. But I can smell the strong distinct scent of cognac breezing from the air.
“My mother was murdered.” He says in a small voice as his fingers dig into the flesh of my thigh that he is currently holding. His other hand holds my neck as if I was a doll to do with as he wishes.
“I know.” He rubs his fingers into my thigh after that for a few minutes and though the position is not ideal with my face so close to the Rock and any funny crawling creature I don’t complain. Reagan has never been a guy with words. I knew this since I was a kid and he took my Pepsi out of my school bag and replaced it with his Fanta, and I know it now as he massages my legs in a distracting way that guarantees only one outcome.
Song of today’s page:- Clean Bandit – Symphony ft Zara Larsson