7–whiff of chlorine

There was no use in him trying, he couldn't sleep, simple–he sighed into his pillow. It was so much harder for him to shut his eyes, fold his thoughts, and jump right back to sleep. He just laid there in the soft darkness which enveloped their bedroom sultrily, with only a bit of light brushing through their slightly thin curtains, illuminating through the material quite vulnerably.

He couldn't get the boy out of his thoughts, he felt glued there and almost hung behind his eyes. Every time he closed them he only saw the lonely lad just floating in the water, nothing else. In the sultriness of the dark, he was still so aware of their full-length mirror which held a corner, right near their white-painted chest opposite their cozy double bed. With that very tiny glimpse of light that pierced through those very curtains so softly, the mirror still slightly shone. It made it so difficult for him to lie in one position, so he turned and quite bitterly so.

The pillow seemed to be getting even more uncomfortable for him, even as he tried to fold it and stuff it right under his neck, it remained feeling quite stiff to him, even to the rest of his body. It felt so rigid under his neck that the rest of his body also succumbed to the discomfort as he buried his hands under his head, finally choosing to stare up at the ceiling or at least the slight of it amidst the soft darkness which had swallowed their bedroom.

He let out a sigh, doing his best to not picture the boy again or to think so much of who might have caused him harm, leaving him there. He didn't want to think much of the people who might have cared for this boy, the life he must have lived. He didn't want to think of home, of his loved ones–of the time which had passed without him seeing them. Of his father.

He rubbed his eyes which felt a bit too dry and sore as if the sleep, he so was in dire need of, was clawing its way out of him, leaving his heavy body with each passing second. He even felt a yawn was stuck to the back of his throat, making it even harder for him to sleep.

Everything felt so uncomfortable, he kicked the duvet off himself, lifting his knee slightly as he buried his long hand into his hair that felt so damp against his fingers.

He couldn't help it, he had this heavy feeling which had long since sunk into his stomach. He had a feeling that this was more, that something uglier hid behind the sorrow of what he was had found that chilly evening, something the police were trying to hide–something evil.

He was sure this was more than just some random tragic death, he felt it in his gut.

There was something wrong, too wrong, about the way the boy had been floating in that pool, something deep–something devastating and uncomfortable, something unsettling. He felt there was something more than just the sad fact of the boy being murdered, he felt it so strongly that it left him slightly sick, he even tasted it against his tongue. He didn't understand just why, however, it was taking so long for the police to just settle this, to call it what it was and come to some sort of conclusion, investigate, issue a statement already and just put everyone's mind, mostly his own, at ease.

He couldn't lie to himself, there was no use. It was just him and his thoughts, as cruel as they were. He did want the story to just be one of those things, just a random murder and nothing but another depiction of the society which he lived in, a reality of others which some chose to be comfortably blind to, just something sad for people to only concern themselves about just out of guilt, something close to those pieces they used to base their assignments or arguments on in University. He desperately wanted it to be just another story, something to cry over and not what his whole being was rather unsettled by–not that. Maybe he wasn't any better than the police, maybe he was inconsiderable and didn't even deserve to be anywhere near this story, maybe he was afraid. He felt guilty still as he pushed his hair from his face, after all, he, of all people, was supposed to understand, especially when it came to being an outsider. Yet, there he was wishing the boy could just leave him be just so he could get a good night's rest beside his wife, he felt terrible.

This made him turn once again, unable to rest the feeling which had clung to his stomach, unsettling his very soul, just like the thoughts which were filling his head close to a headache as he tried to shut his eyes.

Surely the boy deserved for his killer to be caught, for his truth be told, but something about his face made him wish to run, about this entire thing. Though at turning one last time and meeting his wife's face under the silhouette of the bedroom, the realization hit and he recalled, quite deeply, that he was no better than the boy when it came to his status where he lived. When it came to nationality his wife, who, despite having been raised away in the comforts of her grandmother's house in another continent, had been born there and held a much better status than his, especially since he was far away from home. Far from being a native of the city, he was in at that, just as the boy hadn't been and despite how much he wanted to cling to the idea of this seeing this city as his home, it just wasn't. Even if the years had attempted to convince him of this, just so it could maybe go away, the truth stayed the same.

He had a home, a family. He just couldn't allow himself to think of it, he had left it all behind.

He wasn't that person anymore and maybe this was the reason why he felt for the poor boy, despite being alive he sort of felt certain he had met death once before, a loss of himself and all which couldn't be returned.

Despite the slightly alluring darkness which was soft within the room, he could slightly make her face out because of the light which brushed past their curtains, he bit his lip as he snuggled himself close to allow for his hand to find her body beneath the warm duvet, his fingers meeting her bare thigh beneath the large tee-shirt she was cocooned in, belonging to him.

She slightly stirred as he moved his hand up her thigh, her eyes slightly parting open as he caressed her inner thigh, easing his fingers close.

He bit his lip when she clasped her thighs together, pressing his fingers against her slightly hot and soft skin, right before meeting the front of her underwear, then he halted all movement of his fingers.

“This better be good,” she spoke, her voice slightly dry as it tenderly met his ears, making him slightly lean his face closer to her neck, breathing in her soft smell.

“I can't sleep,” he confessed, his voice subtly rough.

“I'm here, baby,” she said, trailing her fingers up and down his long arm, without moving any lower and disturbing his fingers which were sort of rested between her warm thighs.

He pulled her leg over his waist, leaving her gasping as she held on to his wrist, her nails almost scraping into his skin.

“It isn't something I can talk about,” he said, moving his fingers right where they had been before her thighs had parted. “It's just a story, it's bloody frustrating.”

“Is it in the ocean this time? You get motion sickness at just the mention of a boat, you vomited through our first date,” she said, intertwining her fingers with his before they could reach her bare bottom.

He held on to her thigh softly. “You still married me, didn't you then?”

“I had to take care of you the whole day,” she said, curling up close to him.

“I made up for it.” He held on to her thigh and before she could truly protest he went for her lips and captured them softly, with his, easing his hand beyond the elastic band of her underwear, slightly smiling against her lips.

He bit his lip as he held her close having parted from their kiss, listening in to her rapid breathing. “I don't think I'm up for talking.”

“I won't talk,” she said, finding the waistband of his pajama pants.

He bit his lip. “I'll make sure you don't, yeah?”

He smiled as she let out a soft laugh, pushing him onto his back, letting him get lost in the feeling which was ways over the both of them–of everything they could give.

Forgetting was so much easier, he felt.