I watch his eyes sometimes. Half the time I have no clue I'm even doing it, I execute an action and when I have nothing else to do, I watch. It's hard to describe them without sounding like I'm falling in love with him, because I'm not. Maybe, just maybe, I find his cornea's fun to stare at for no screwy reason. They're brown, quite an intense brown in fact. Not the kind of eyes you get lost in, in one fleeting glance but not the kind of eyes you can avoid the perplexity of. To a casual watcher, they're very plain and boring. Exactly what I thought the first time I'd seen them looking back into mine. But a while back, I can't remember the specific date because I don't own a calendar but if I did, I would have wrote it down because that's the day that he started screwing with my head.
I don't think he knew it at the time. A heated fight where things were said that couldn't be taken back, or forgotten. An irate gaze from across the room that surprisingly, was where his eyes unexpectedly narrowed and caught the light. Yellow. Just a speck of it, I swore I saw it. I investigated, fought with him more for a closer proximity and I'd seen it again. I was hooked. Brown was my favourite color, how could you not love brown? It was a reminder of something as close to normal as I could get; gravy. A friend of mine that didn't coil my brain when I got too close.
Like I said, I don't think he knew he was messing with me by just staring back then. But he sure as hell knows it now. Averting his eyes whenever we're within the same four walls so that those walls feel as if they're closing in on me. Just one look. It was like a drug. But why was it like a drug? I'd rather take drugs than be addicted to those stupid brown orbs. I think.
I look at his lips too as he talks to me. He knows I do and he enjoys a turn of tables, him torturing me. I don't. Enjoy it, that is. It's such a warped reaction, feeling like you're on top of the world and feeling as if the world is on top of you all in one moment. Like a gory horror movie; you're scared to the point of shitting yourself, but you just can't stop watching. And watching, and watching. I hate pink, a lot. If you knew me, you'd know that. He knows that, which is why at first he seemed so damn confused, his entrancing eyes changing with a look of innocence. But he wasn't innocent, he knew what he was doing and it was reckless. I think he may have a death wish. I hope not. His lips wouldn't look nice blue. Or maybe they would.
When you're talking to a person, and you're staring at their lips and they notice, what's the first thought that would come to your mind, the first thought that would come to his mind. She wants to kiss me, that's what. He laughs, heck I would laugh. I'd be in hysteria, rolling around on the floor and pointing. I wish for the day when he looks. Just by accident, he looks at my lips when I'm talking. He knows that will be day when he makes the biggest mistake of his life. Sometimes mistakes are good. Some are bad. Very bad. But which one? I made a mistake. I've made the mistake of fucking torturing myself day in, day out. And I think that was a pretty good mistake. I think. I'm so indecisive, it hurts. Physically and emotionally.
How did I get so caught up in watching the way he moves? He used to walk robotically, like he himself was some sort of geek computer. But now, now he had some dignity. His arms were always by his sides, or a hand in a fist, meeting another fist in the hallway. Since when did he become popular? Damn, I am losing my mind. No, in reality it's already gone. It's lost. Along with the majority of my other internal organs, or so it feels. His arms are quite toned. I can get a better view now he's stopped wearing those sweatshirts under his polo shirt. These days, it's a white or black polo, or a white or black t-shirt. Quite plain. But that's what you think first, whatever it is you see. Then you get so damn caught up and it messes with you, with your sanity. Damn his father for being Spanish and giving him the tanned quality, the dark hair. The perfect white teeth behind that perfect pale pink pair of lips. Thanks to his mum, for – wait, he doesn't look like his mum. Not one bit. Where is it? He doesn't have crazy eyes or a wicked smile.
When he walks past me in the hallway, he sometimes sends a wink my way as he moves past the sea of students. I feel as if I'm melting, but not in a fuzzy, fluffy, girly way. I feel like my flesh is literally falling from my bones, my eyelashes dropping from my eyes and I feel hot then cold, feverishly so. I'm sure the janitor would love cleaning a big puddle of melted Sam off of the vinyl floor. There'd be no trace left of how it was him who was at fault for my death, it's his fault for winking instead of blinking.
I love how he tortures me. I love it, but I hate it too because he likes watching me suffer but doesn't let me have what it is I want. What do I want? Him, I think. It's vacillating; I just can't seem to decide. I think he's decided. I can see it in those interesting eyes. It's torture that his decision didn't escape through those tantalizing lips. When we're alone, when the third party leaves the room for just five minutes, telling us not to kill each other he torments me. The third party has no idea how true her words could be. When she comes back, I could be a pile of melted goo on her new wooden floor. She leaves, and I'm just standing their, practising not caving. I stare at a crack in the wall in front of me, but I see him and he knows I see him as he stands from where he's sitting and walks over. I continue to stare at a wall as his hands find their place on my hips. I tense, but I don't cave. I'm holding my breath, and I can't let it go. I feel my lips getting dry and I run my tongue over them as he hugs himself to me, leaning down so his chin is on my shoulder. I close my eyes and the wall evaporates. I cave. I turn. He's gone and she's back.
Torture. I was putting him in a headlock was a habitual excuse. His Randy Jackson cologne stays with me. It's definitely tight, dawg.
Backlash. The tables have a chance to turn back when he gets a job, a secret job. He says he's working in the local café as a waiter, but I've been there every single day and haven't seen him once. The desire to torture him was indescribably desperate. A chance. Barbeque sauce on my new bra, so I take a trip to Build-A-Bra on my own. He's helping a middle aged woman thread a wire under a flowery bra cup. He looks so odd with a red cap on. It's backwards though, with a tufts of chocolate hair escaping through the front and he has a worker ID thread through a white shoe lace hanging around his neck. He sees me and his chin is on the floor. My lips are parted too, and before I know it I'm being pushed into a changing room, covered in fluff and pink stickers. I look in the mirror at his hand that's still around my wrist. He drops my arm and leans his back against the wall, horror in his eyes. He says nothing but searches my eyes. That's a point to me. 1 to me, an uncountable amount to him. He opens his mouth to say something, I know because I'm watching his lips again but he snaps them shut.
He wants me to keep quiet. So I tell him that I will because his eyes said that I should, and I lose the chance to turn back the tables. He thanks me with a hug, and I take in the scent of girly perfume on his neck. It smells delicious and I'm glad he's started working here because his mum will think he's been with girls, and any chance to make Mrs B angry was a chance at making my day that much more bearable with her son around so often. I buy a white bra with red strawberries on it. It's not something I'd usually buy, but maybe he thinks it's cool.
What's up? Well, angst is kind of new to me. I tried to make it a little less 'I want to choke on my own bile if it makes him happy' kind of angst/romance but hey, I hope you like it. This will be a three-shot. I've written this, the whole second chapter and some of the third. Once I'm happy with the amount of reviews I get, I'll update. But until then, my friends, lates bates. Oh yeah, and I hope you're not confused by the fact the story is made up of small scenes. And yes, it is in Sam's point of view.