\* memories in the smoke ,,

[mason vogelsong]

It was morning. Soft rays of sunlight tore through the tattered curtains, splaying themselves across the bed, revealing two forms separated by a few feet despite the diminutive size of the box frame. Mason's eyelids felt heavy as lead as he struggled to open them against the breaking day. A throb resonated through his abdomen as he swung his legs around the side, propping himself up against the headboard of the bed. A soft chirping filtered in through the open window, ushered in by the cool breeze. His fingers slid across his bare stomach, pressing softly against the rust colored bruise forming along the lines of his ribcage. The flesh was tender but not unbearable. A glance down at his knuckles revealed crusted blood, dark and dried against the lines of his fist. A soft sigh escaped from his lips as he ran his fingers through his hair, The silence that seemed contained in the room was such a contrast to the night before.

He turned to look at the sleeping body beside him. She was so tiny, pressed against the wall, her rise and fall of her ribs only barely visible set against the thin down comforter. Eyes shut, she seemed thoroughly asleep, her energy drained from the chorus of screaming just hours ago. Mason reached over to pull the strands of hair from her eyes but hesitated in midair, his fingers hanging in the stillness of the air, a mere two inches from her face.

He'd been holding his breath, he realised. Pushing himself off the bed and away from her, he stepped carefully towards the ajar bathroom door, avoiding the glass that glittered on the barren carpet. A soft creak escaped from the door as he slid into the bathroom, the cold of the tile floor sinking into his feet. A turn of the faucet handle and icy cold water gushed forth, filling the chipped porcelain sink. He held his sore knuckles beneath, letting the water run over his bloodied hands. Standing in silence, he let the flow of water wash away the bloodstains and angry that so fueled last night's tempest. Grabbing a soiled towel from on top of the toilet, he thrust it beneath the water, letting the fabric soak before wrapping his hand and turning the faucet off.

What had happened? How had it gotten to this point? Even as he struggled to answer, he knew the truth to be something he'd rather not mull over. The way she had looked at him. The guilt that soaked his insides as they stood screaming at one another. The anger had flashed through him quicker than he'd ever known before. It coursed like venom through his bloodstream threatening to take over, cause hurt where he felt it. Towards her. Mason pressed the wet towel harder into his palm, his memory of last night swirling against his aching head. The moment his fist came to a halt against the drywall. The moment she sat against the wall facing away from him, her sobs causing her shoulders to throb against the pale cream paint of the walls.

He couldn't bare the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach anymore. The uncontrollable need. For her. To be near her. It crawled upwards, seizing him as violently as he had felt towards her just hours ago. He pushed the door open, dropping the bloodied towel on the ground. A few steps brought him right up against her. His fingers slid across the bare flesh of her arms. He leaned in, pressing his lips against the delicate curvature of her neck. Trailing upwards, his shaking fingers cupped her chin. A force of uncertainty quivered in his throat, coarse and desperate.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his voice full of gravel. "I love you. I'm a fuck up, but I love you."