Invisible
Thursday - August, 5th - TCH -11PM
This had apparently become part of his nightly ritual.
He'd help with tuck in and then regretfully go for a bath before bed. He'd strip and stand in front of the mirror, staring at the tattoo that the ink revealed, tracing its contours with his fingertips. Then he'd prepare his bath, with sandalwood and rose oils, the scents he'd associated with love and comfort and passion, and slowly sink under the water, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch as the ink washed off and the design disappeared.
Tonight he made sure to watch as it disappeared though. He'd used the last of the ink and he didn't know when he'd have more, so he made to stare until all of it faded and he was left staring at his pale skin.
His baths had started to get longer and longer too as the days passed, his warped way of surrounding himself in them and avoiding the empty room. He looked at the vials of oils, feeling guilty for using so much of them. It seemed that each night he ended up using more and he'd run out soon if he weren't careful. He would go crazy if he had to go through these next days without even that small comfort. He still had their words through journals, their letters and their gifts. But it never seemed to be enough to fill the void they'd left. His whole being - mind, body and soul - missed them, their kisses, their touches, their love.
He looked down, staring sightlessly at the rippling surface of the water, heedless of the tears silently running down his cheeks, fingers unconsciously stroking the skin on his right hip.
Maybe he shouldn't have made the tattoo invisible.
What if they didn't even want to touch him anymore? They were spending a whole week learning each other and, even though they said they missed him, and he believed them, a small part of him wondered what would happen if they realized they didn't actually need him. Or even want him. What if their feelings had changed and they were just too kind to tell him so through the journals? He knew it was wrong to let that small voice talk so loudly, wrong and irrational, they'd given him no indication at all of that. But sometimes his insecurities got the best of him.
The skin of his hip felt the same to the touch, nothing indicating that that piece of him held a part of each of the two most important people in his life.
One more hidden proof. Another invisible evidence of their presence. No one who looked at him would be able to see any of their marks, their claims.
The sobs tearing out of his throat hurt. So did the nails digging into his hipbone, leaving behind only little red half-moons on his pale skin, in an attempt to feel something there.
He shouldn't have made it invisible. What if he never saw it again?
This had apparently become part of his nightly ritual.
He'd help with tuck in and then regretfully go for a bath before bed. He'd strip and stand in front of the mirror, staring at the tattoo that the ink revealed, tracing its contours with his fingertips. Then he'd prepare his bath, with sandalwood and rose oils, the scents he'd associated with love and comfort and passion, and slowly sink under the water, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch as the ink washed off and the design disappeared.
Tonight he made sure to watch as it disappeared though. He'd used the last of the ink and he didn't know when he'd have more, so he made to stare until all of it faded and he was left staring at his pale skin.
His baths had started to get longer and longer too as the days passed, his warped way of surrounding himself in them and avoiding the empty room. He looked at the vials of oils, feeling guilty for using so much of them. It seemed that each night he ended up using more and he'd run out soon if he weren't careful. He would go crazy if he had to go through these next days without even that small comfort. He still had their words through journals, their letters and their gifts. But it never seemed to be enough to fill the void they'd left. His whole being - mind, body and soul - missed them, their kisses, their touches, their love.
He looked down, staring sightlessly at the rippling surface of the water, heedless of the tears silently running down his cheeks, fingers unconsciously stroking the skin on his right hip.
Maybe he shouldn't have made the tattoo invisible.
What if they didn't even want to touch him anymore? They were spending a whole week learning each other and, even though they said they missed him, and he believed them, a small part of him wondered what would happen if they realized they didn't actually need him. Or even want him. What if their feelings had changed and they were just too kind to tell him so through the journals? He knew it was wrong to let that small voice talk so loudly, wrong and irrational, they'd given him no indication at all of that. But sometimes his insecurities got the best of him.
The skin of his hip felt the same to the touch, nothing indicating that that piece of him held a part of each of the two most important people in his life.
One more hidden proof. Another invisible evidence of their presence. No one who looked at him would be able to see any of their marks, their claims.
The sobs tearing out of his throat hurt. So did the nails digging into his hipbone, leaving behind only little red half-moons on his pale skin, in an attempt to feel something there.
He shouldn't have made it invisible. What if he never saw it again?