#soyeltoro

Your skin burns with boiling ice as you finally hop on a cloud, phone with you to ask for help -- if needed. You doubt you would, honestly. His heart could stop beating, once you’ll shift in front of him. He will piss his pants and then you’ll beat him the fuck out.

It’s more than enough to know by gut feeling that he’s still living at your house. You just feel it, it burns your skin underneath tissues and tendons, and it makes you jump onto your loyal storm of clouds to get up in the sky.

High, where humns couldn’t breathe, but where you are sprawled in the soft material and flying slowly, leaded by the wind, towards your old house.

It doesn’t take you so long, and you hop off to the ground delicately, the tips of your toes barely touching the ground, arms opened gracefully, as if you were flying, still.

Then you spin and crash his (your?) door down with a well placed kick, your leg turned into striped skin and sharp blades along your ankles. The wood pops out of the door’s sockets like butter, and you shift your leg back to your normal, slendy ones as you step inside, eyes darting around, as a trail of ice follows your burning gaze.