Thread: Bringing Him Back {Gypsy and Alan23}

Subconsciously, when he spoke of vampires, Delilah touched the side of her neck. Even though she had already felt it within the her chest, but the stroke informed her of her fluttering pulse akin to a flitting hummingbird's wings. Other patients had never incited a similar reaction save for Noel, though if it was due to the lingering anxiety from her unaccompanied session or the transitory looks he sent her way, specifically her legs, she did not know. Needless to say, it was difficult to disregard it when the knowledge made itself known, moreover when it didn't pacify her current state of disconcertment. Perhaps her succeeding actions, which might have breached her code of ethics, could be accounted to her perturbation or that crestfallen look that crossed over his face once he was done, for Delilah vacated her seat and crouched before the writer. His larger hands were ensconced in her daintier ones, squeezing them with a reassuring force to transcend the resolve she possessed to unearth him from this delusional rut he inhumed himself in. This isn't living a normal life. Delilah countered with a shake of her head . Keeping everyone who's trying to help you at an arm's length for fear that they might lose it at the cost of your own welfare is not normal living at all. Think of your secret as something of an infectious parasite that can only be transmitted if it's brought to awareness. It's attached inside you, deteriorating your sanity each passing day. Now, you think that as long as it doesn't affect your day to day function you'll be fine. You can ignore it. There's no need for medical attention, no need to tell anyone about it or ruin someone's life by dragging them down when you let them now. That's not true though. The more that you keep it inside without seeking any help, the more that it'll fester until, one day, it has decomposed you from within. Have you ever thought that maybe this 'life-changing' knowledge only affects you? That perhaps others are immune to it? That we have taken precautionary measures against it? Only when she addressed another personal fact he insouciantly incorporated in his dialogue did she severe eye contact, focusing her attention to the world-weary hand she cradled as she spoke. I I don't have a boyfriend, but if he was cheating on me, I would want to know. I'm that person who doesn't like being kept in the dark, good or bad, even if it changes everything. Straightening up, she filched a photo from the heap, an image wherein Noel was surrounded by his peers, his trademark smile captured perfectly, and displayed it to him. Don't you want to return to this person again? I want to help you, in any way I can, Noel, she muttered, entreating him to let her, that's what I'm here for. But I can't do that if you don't help me help you, if you don't trust me to help you. The numbness that had set in on her legs impelled her to stand abaft him before her muscles cramped, leaning in to uncap the pen prior to resetting it on the spotless sheet. She blocked the sun and casted a shadow unto the picnic table, serving as bulwark against the zephyrs that tousled her hair from its coiffure. Propping herself up with a hand on the surface adjacent to him, such a position provided her the protection from his expressive grey irises which seemed to implore her with contradicting messages of both pleading for help and repelling any form of aid concurrently. His eyes were haunting, compelling, sculpted with starlight, yet ghastly frightened with the burden he bore. To have it directed at her made her feel vulnerable, resulting to a cowardice which relegated her out of his line of sight. It's alright to be afraid, Noel, to cry out of fear. A supportive squeeze on his shoulder. There's nothing noble about being fearless. How much do you want to be the last man standing in a battle if he is usually the biggest fool of all? That blank page doesn't necessarily mean that it's the first day of the rest of your life because, let's be honest, past events mold who we are now, right? But it does mean control. An array of photographs which leads you to a walk down memory lane, a white canvas and a black pen are completely at your disposal. What will you do with it? Will you give me a story?