Nate Part 2
Seeing her naked, dancing on her piano because she was drinking to escape the things I caused her, the way I hurt her, destroyed me. I feel like a bastard, and I’ve been feeling this way since I found her in the hallway yesterday, before we had sex.
I realized that no, I don’t like seeing her cry.
No, I don’t feel better hurting her.
I feel good when I have her smiling, when she calls me “handsome,” “cutie,” hugs me, or moans beneath me.
In that damned bathroom, I was ready to ask, “Will you be mine like before?” But she decided to poke me, inflame my jealousy, bring out the anger that ignites when I imagine her with someone else. And then it all went to hell; I ended up letting my impulsive side come out, offering a truce and saying I wanted her to be invisible.
It was tough seeing her break, and I had the words on the tip of my tongue, about to say I wasn’t playing with her. That I wanted her for real, that I want her more than anything. With Isabela feeling so bad, crying nonstop, all my courage left me. I was scared to say anything and make it worse. I just tried to take care of her, bathe her, dress her, clean the traces of my possession from her skin. And I didn’t want her to leave, but I couldn’t hold her back without having to say everything I had swallowed with my pride.
Then came the bombshell: she’s not on the pill, but I dumped a good dose of cum inside her. And I, a fool, dying to fuck her bare to feel everything in her pussy, didn’t even think. Also... I’ve never fucked without a condom! It was impossible to want to cover my cock to go into what is mine, what has always been only mine.
I was so obsessed with her that there’s a fucking graffiti of her face taking up an entire wall in my room at my parents' house. I did it when we returned to Rio, months after our tumultuous breakup. How bizarre am I for having drawn the girl who hurt me?
No one ever understood how something that started in school, so innocent and unpretentious, stayed in my heart for so long. Isabela stuck to me like a virus, that entered my system and turned off all defenses, digging deep and stealing everything it wanted for itself.
I take a hit from the joint that Ian hands me, pinching my nose and feeling the smoke infiltrating before passing the weed back to him. I don’t know how many hours pass like this, with me drinking at this shitty party, getting high and thinking about her. But it’s a lot, so much that I can swear it’s starting to dawn outside. Now there are way fewer people around me, and my thoughts are still on her.
What if we had never broken up? Would I be married at twenty-three? Would I have taken her to the Louvre Museum in Paris, like I swore I would when we were older? Would we be living together? Would we have kids? Would she have helped me build the Revolt? Would she be part of its success instead of being responsible for its ruin?
I hate this endless array of future possibilities I’ve traced over the years. I loved her so much that I never let anyone get close to my rotten heart again. I was a bastard with all the girls I slept with, using them just to relieve my body, but completely ineffective at giving anything more. I also never promised anything beyond sex. I always made it clear what I was looking for from them.
And it was so incredible to have had Isa completely. It was... surreal. The best sex of my life. I feel like I’m on cloud nine when I touch her and see she’s still closed off, waiting for me, mine.
Then I destroy her, like I do with everything.
We had insane sex; I kissed her to the point of forgetting how to breathe, accepting that the universe around us didn’t exist. There, between those walls, we were each other’s world, just the two of us. I handed over my confession that I love her on a silver platter, and I was over the moon when she revealed her reciprocal feelings. Then I insisted on my bitterness, brushed over everything in a scummy offer of truce, being an insensitive bastard who was incapable of realizing how my words affected Isabela.
A fool, that’s what I am!
Every time my sick mind goes back to the image of that video of her dancing practically naked, I feel like fucking her right on that damned piano. I burn with anger when I think of people coveting my girl. How dare she do that shit? Damn, seeing Ian looking with lust at the phone screen because Bianca was showing the video to my friend made me want to rip his eyeballs out.
I’m really anxious about everything that’s happening. There’s another worry hovering in my mind like a predatory bird: what if this damn medication fails? Why didn’t she say it could go wrong fucking without a condom? That fills me with rage, man. Now I have another worry on my mind. I can’t be a dad. Imagine a kid of mine out there, inheriting the disorder that makes my life a torment in their genes? And to make it worse, with Isabela’s DNA—who’s another crazy—tagging along? My God, our kid would be a little devil.
Because if I become a father, if my Little Sun gets pregnant, I hope it’s a boy. Not that I wouldn’t love to have a little girl with her mother’s blonde hair around. But the world is much more dangerous for a girl. It was terrible for me, being a man; imagine the possibilities of evil surrounding a girl...
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
