Wanderlust Beastkin, Beauty and the Beastkin-Chapter 46: Slime

"Sam! Sam! Get your brother out of here this instant before I lose my mind and start launching objects at him!" My head is pounding like a drum, and if I have to endure another second of Oliver’s antics, I swear I might just unleash my newfound ability to beat him and then hurl him out of this room!

Sam burst through the door like a whirlwind, scanning the room with a sharp, critical eye. The exasperated sigh that escaped his lips was practically a declaration of war against the chaos before him. Meanwhile, Oliver remained frozen in place, his eyes wide and innocent, resembling a little kid who had just been discovered with his sticky fingers deep in the cookie jar. Is it too much to ask for just one peaceful, ordinary morning without all this chaos? Seriously, can’t I catch a break?

Sam was careful to not step on anything while he walked over to Oliver and picked him up by the scruff of his neck, instantly forcing him to shift into his chipmunk form. "I’ll just get him out of your hair."

"She needs me! She’s injured!"

"It looks like she needs you in the room about as much as she needs a good stab in the eye! It’s obvious to me that you had a hand in her injuries too. Whip up some medicine, and I’ll take it to her once you’re finished. Seriously, how did you let things spiral so far out of control?" Sam grumbled as he dragged Oliver out, who was stuck in his chipmunk form.

The moment they finally left the room and Sam roughly shoved that slab of wood over the opening, I let out a massive sigh of relief. But then, of course, I tried to settle back down, only to realize the furs were drenched in tea—oh, fantastic! I felt this overwhelming urge to cry as I surveyed the wreckage of my belongings, all my precious items scattered about like they were nothing. Everything was shredded, broken, ruined, and caked in mud. It was infuriating! I started to sob in frustration, and then the tears just kept coming because these were things I had taken for granted, and now they felt like treasures I could never replace. I was yanked from my world without so much as a "by your leave," and who knows when I’d get the chance to replace any of this junk? All I wanted was a decent cup of coffee and my headache medicine, which had been tossed who-knows-where.

As I wept over my trashed belongings, my head pounding like a jackhammer, I accidentally sliced my finger open while trying to move broken cup shards aside. But hey, at least I found the bottle of headache meds! I popped two migraine pills and two pain relievers, then slapped a band-aid on my finger like that would fix everything. My arms looked like a disaster zone—deep red and covered in blisters. Seriously, what was he thinking, bringing me tea that was practically molten lava?

I yanked off the two top furs and flung them aside, desperate to find a dry spot where I could finally rest while the medicine kicked in and my vision stopped being a swirling mess of black spots. Honestly, I was so fed up with Oliver for not listening to me and making everything ten times worse. I could practically feel the urge to smack him upside the head! But then, of course, that guilty little voice in my head reminded me of that pitiful look on his face when I shut my eyes. Ugh, it was infuriating! I let out a groan and rubbed my temples, trying to ease the tension. Maybe I should establish a strict morning rule: no one is allowed to enter my room unless I specifically invite them in, or else I’ll just use my telekinetic powers to hurl them out! The thought of lifting grown men and tossing them out like rag dolls made me chuckle, but then I regretted it immediately because, surprise surprise, laughing only made my headache worse.

I was slumped back, tears streaming down the sides of my face like a never-ending waterfall and dripping into my ears, my entire body screaming in pain. My head felt like it was caught in a vice, throbbing relentlessly, and to top it all off, I was a patchwork of blisters. And let’s not even get started on the emotional rollercoaster I was on—furious with Oliver while simultaneously wrestling with this gnawing guilt towards him. It was infuriating! So many of my belongings were wrecked, and I had to sift through the mess to see what could be saved. But, of course, bending over was out of the question with my head pounding like a jackhammer. I could only picture the worst-case scenarios, and honestly, it was driving me up the wall! I ended up just lying here, tears streaming down my face, completely overwhelmed and feeling utterly pathetic. It was like a tidal wave of emotions hit me, and I couldn’t shake off this ridiculous hormonal mess I was in. Seriously, it was frustrating to feel so powerless, vulnerable, guilty, and angry all at once while my whole body hurt.

I just laid there with my messed up emotions, not daring to move anymore because moving made my pain worse, but crying certainly wasn’t helping to alleviate my migraine.

Eventually, I heard the door creak open, and there was Oliver, staring at me with that pitiful expression plastered on his face. Honestly, I couldn’t bear to meet his gaze; it was like a weight pressing down on me. So, I turned my eyes to the ceiling, silently wishing he would just leave me alone. I had zero patience to comfort him when I was drowning in my own misery, and let’s be real—I hadn’t even begun to pick up the shattered pieces of my things scattered around the room.

As I listened intently, I could hear the soft sound of his footsteps as he entered the room, a subtle yet significant moment that seemed to hang in the air. Just then, Sam stepped in, placing a hand on his chest, a gesture that spoke volumes of their bond. With a calm yet determined demeanor, he took the medicine that Oliver had made for me. "I’ll look after Perla," he said, his voice steady and filled with a sense of responsibility. "You focus on getting everything packed up. Make sure you haven’t left anything behind." The weight of the situation settled around us, a mix of urgency and concern.

"Alright," Oliver’s voice was barely above a whisper, laced with a palpable sense of hurt and uncertainty. It was clear to me that he was yearning for my reassurance, hoping I would respond with a cheerful affirmation that all was well between us, that I held no grievances against him, and that everything was perfectly alright. But the truth was far from that comforting illusion. I felt a wave of frustration wash over me, and I simply couldn’t muster the energy to feign a sense of calm when, deep down, I was grappling with my own feelings of discontent. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on my heart, and the thought of pretending everything was okay felt like an insurmountable burden.

In that moment, when I was engulfed in a whirlwind of pain and frustration, I simply couldn’t bring myself to respond or even acknowledge him. It was as if my body and mind were in a state of rebellion, desperately wanting him to just fade away. I felt utterly drained, lacking the strength to navigate through my own tumultuous emotions, let alone his. The thought of having to comfort him, to wrap him in the kind of warmth and understanding he so clearly craved, was just too much for me to bear. I longed for solitude, for a reprieve from the emotional labor that seemed to weigh heavily on my shoulders. All I wanted was for him to leave, to allow me the space to breathe and heal without the added burden of his needs. I didn’t have the energy to coddle him.

He turned and walked away, his sad gaze lingering on me, and I felt that familiar surge of guilt wash over me, only to be met with a growing frustration. Did he really not notice how much he annoyed me? Could he not see the blisters covering my skin and the mess of my belongings? Am I supposed to comfort him now, too?

Sam quietly walked into the room, being careful to watch where he stepped. "I brought some burn cream that Oliver made for you," he said, settling beside me. He opened a rough stone jar and revealed a light green concoction that looked more like sludge than anything else. The smell coiled around me—spicy, bitter, and oddly reminiscent of damp earth and decaying leaves, with just a hint of mildew. It was far from inviting.

He dipped his fingers into the jar and yanked out a handful of the gooey slime, which stretched out just like those tubs of slime that kids adore.

"What exactly do you intend to do with that?" I asked, my eyes locked onto the disturbingly stretchy green slime he was gripping tightly in his hand. A surge of revulsion coursed through me as I struggled to wrap my mind around the utterly strange scene that was playing out right in front of me, all the while feeling a nagging sense of suspicion creeping in. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

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