“You’re acting like one now! Stop being stupid. This isn’t good for you,” she tried, hoping he knew the consequences. That he was going to hurt himself. She didn’t want someone taking advantage of him, abusing him, or destroying him. He was much more fragile than he let himself be. ‘Isn’t good for us,’ she thought.
Her hand hit his arm, knowing she was much too weak to deliver a sting or a blow. “Don’t talk to me like that.” “What? Tell me. I want to hear you say it,” she pressed on, her voice rasing. It lost its soft, babyish quality and was now coarse and cold. Each word sounded like it was be spat out, like venom.
"Why? Because you fucking love me? Is that it?” Marianne covered her mouth at that, knowing she shouldn’t of said it. She backed away slightly. She didn’t want to hear his answer now. She just shot all their emotions, downplaying what they were.
Fuck.
"You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.” His voice is a dreadful hiss, destructive and unrelenting. He won’t stop until he’s proved his point –– he won’t budge for anyone. Not even her.
His glare tightens when her hand comes in soft contact with his arm. He can tell it’s meant to hurt, but it doesn’t. His chest is heavier than the impact of her flesh against his. He ignores her comment, incessant.
He throws his arms out carelessly. “Maybe! Who cares? I’m nineteen, I work at a bar, I have you –– what does it matter?”
