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I needed to accept it and move on in order to survive in this new-to-me reality. Leaning into that gave me access to my gifts. Doing so allowed me to move effortlessly across the Veil.
Lyric doesn’t just have guidance; she’s being provided cheat codes. My girl deserves everything and I don’t mind giving it to her, but damn, did I have to go through so much shit just to give her what I haven’t been able to give myself? Envy hits first, immediately followed by shame.
My frustration gets the best of me, and I dissipate right in front of Lyr’s eyes. I thought I had finally mastered these situations, but I must be pretty triggered, considering. My spirit gravitates to the last place I felt safe.
With Ellie.
I levitate outside our bedroom window, thinking for sure she would sell the house when I passed, but she didn’t. Even though this is her dream home, I still don’t think it was worth the hassle. Ellie’s always been a girl with desires of a two-story, small-town home with a wrap-around porch and a white picket fence surrounding fortunate children and goofy dogs.
Although the commotion doesn’t exist and wouldn’t regardless of how things had panned out, the house is as beautiful as ever. Ellie’s daily feelings dictate the paint colors for each room. Blues and grays, indigo and eggshell adorning the walls and creating a sense of peace and tranquility. White furnishings fill the rooms, reflecting a focus on cleanliness and organization. Ellie, though a spitfire and hard to navigate in nature, prefers her outside world to be easily visible and accessible. Everything has a place—and if it doesn’t, it becomes Forky from Toy Story 3—immediate trash.
She fought hard to keep our home, picked up extra shifts at work, sold some unnecessary stuff that was just cluttering up the place, and I watched her slowly fall apart in the process. She never gave up, though.
Ellie appears in the bedroom with a basket full of clean laundry. She looks good, the same as I remember, minus a few minor changes. Straight strands of now-blonde hair waterfall over rounded shoulders. She wears dark winged liner and clear lip gloss. Her oversized tee sits nicely on her shapely figure and hides the booty shorts beneath it.
She plops down onto a large trunk ottoman at the end of the bed and begins sorting her clothes. Her right leg bounces a crisp white Sketchers sneaker. When I think that this is it—this is the time I’ll get to visit her—I’m warped back into the motel with Lyr.
She stands there with a look of pure terror on her face.
“I can explain.” I start, “Sometimes—”
Lyr interrupts me, “What the hell, Atticus? The situation is bad enough without the ‘Houdini’ act.”
She’s not wrong, but it’s not like I meant to do that.
I think Lyr gives me way more credit than I deserve for being here. Especially since she assumes that my time here means I’m wiser than her. One year means nothing in the grand scheme of things, and quite frankly, I’m lucky enough to know what I do. Being able to implement it is a plus.
“Calm down. I can explain.”
It pisses me off feeling obligated to do this just to rein her in. My little firecracker is always exploding, and I feel the constant sting from her burn.
“I don’t owe you an explanation, and I don’t fully understand it myself. Behind the Veil is finicky, and even I don’t have total control.”
Her constant agitation is growing on me.
Jesus. This girl is insufferable, and yet I can’t leave her alone. Even if I wanted to, it’s like I’m chained to her. I can’t go far.
Approaching her, I kneel down before her and grab her by the ankles.
“Attie?... What are you doing?” she attempts to pull her leg away; “Let go.”
I yank her toward the end of the bed and climb on top of her, straddling her pelvis. She grunts as she wiggles beneath me and grits her teeth.
“Get. Off.” she groans.
“You first.” I sneer as I reach my hand between her legs and rub my fingers up and down her slit through her bottoms.
She jerks at the contact before she melts into my touch.
“It’s okay, Princess. I’m gonna take care of you.” She whimpers at my words, and the leakage that I feel in my boxer briefs seeps into the front of my jeans.
“It’s almost time,” she says, every stroke of my fingers, with the fabric being the only barrier, makes her words come out in breathless pants.
“We need to be there at ten, and we still don’t know what we’re doing.”
She sounds a little frustrated by this, but not enough to make me stop.
I walk my fingers up her stomach and slide my hand down her skinny jeans. She writhes beneath me when I touch her sensitive bud. The way her body responds to me could make me cum all on its own, but right now is about her release. The anxiety I can see she’s experiencing over tonight is too much right now. If I can get her to submit, tonight will go much smoother.
