Birthday present for my love.
UnderTouch
For hizachan
o1. Friday nights from the Inside
I had once read somewhere that blue was a bad color.
Where? I'm not exactly sure. Considering that a great majority of my personal items are blue, including my toothbrush and numerous cloth items, it's not like I would take such a sentence so seriously, but I'm positive that stated was that fact that blue was the worst color to paint a room if one wanted to complete work.
Even my strongest attempt to glare at the foreboding hue of robin's egg blue on the walls of room could not compare to the listless haze brought upon me by that evil color. The paint made me feel warm and calm, so much so that I was slewn over an array of papers, my arms dangling like obtuse branches past the edge of the desk. Such a cursed color, I told myself, as I identified the moisture around my mouth to be a messy pool of saliva and not the completion of my work through osmosis.
"Hmmmmm..."
While the position I was in was awkward, I felt an weighty, unexplainable feeling of content laying on the flat surface. Lethargy was addicting; this senseless sate of mind was lovely, wholesome, and...So enamoring that the process of completing thoughts is unnecessecary.
Nonetheless, I was warm, and I was gloriously torpid.
But that lack of awareness didn't mean that I could not feel the gentle caress of a hand on my cheek.
The touch was velvety, smooth and shaped like a stream of water, to the arch of my cheekbone.
Immersed in my languid state, my reaction was delayed and slow; my eyes saw no being of origin, but the caress remained until my own hand replaced the invisible one.
I was bewildered. Confused. What time was it?
2:58 am.
It was late. So late, that it would be to my benefit if I retired to my bed. Obviously, the only critique I was giving was my loathing of the wall color in my dorm room. And as long as hallucinations had come about, it was an issue of my mental health. As I lifted my heavy head from the puddle of drool and paper, I thanked every possible higher being for creating the weekends.
Rising from my seat, I offhandedly glanced into the mirror on the face of my closet door. My reflection was as it should be: a mousy-haired, blue-eyed college student in plaid sweatpants with dish-shaped bags under his eyes.
'Good,' I thought to myself. A check for normalcy; I wasn't loosing my mind. I flipped the light switch and Languidly prostrated myself over my matress, feeling the serene veil return to succor me towards slumber.
But the unfamiliar weight of an arm around my waist kept me from the promise of sleep. The touch had returned.
I spun my body around, feeling the sheets twist beneath me and the weight dissapate for a brief moment, before the heaviness of what seemed to be a head nuged against my shoulder. The security of sleep was lost to me as I continued swiping at the invisable being; fear engulfed me as I once again felt the brush of a hand against my neck.
What was this? Of any ideas that I had, none made sense. I spun myself around on my bed, trying to escape the ghostly touch and found myself trapped again, feeling the full weight of a naked male chest pressed against my back.
As the ghosts arms came out of nowhere to encircle my shoulders, my body froze. Whoever this thing was, he had the structure of a male, and was confident in his actions, of which by now were relevant to me.
"Who are you..." I asked slowly, the tremor of my voice all to evident.
I felt the rumble of a purr against my back, and then the breath of the creature beside my ear.
"Shhh..."
Finding my limbs, I propelled myself forward away from the apparition, whipping my head around to only see the spot on my bed barren, lit by the glow of streetlamps.
He was gone.