IDIOT AND THE BEAST

CHAPTER 6 — HUNGER PAINS

[DANESH]

"I'm hungry," the knucklehead keeps on lamenting as I keep on ignoring him.

I close my eyes, practicing on my slow breathing, and trying my damnedest hard to not lose control. But as seconds tick by, it is becoming more and more of an impossible mission. I don't think I have ever practiced this much patience with anyone else before.

"Do you hear that? That is my stomach, grumbling, in hunger," he complains.

It has been barely ten minutes since I agreed for him to hang out. In fact, it has only been six minutes and two seconds — I should know since I've been counting every single second to distract myself from entertaining the thought of breaking his jaw.

Patience, Danesh. Patience.

"Remember the coffee we drank this morning; that is the last thing to have entered my poor stomach," he sighs, "Ok yeah, maybe I drank a few glasses of water, but that's it. And water doesn't really count as food. If you think about it, neither does coffee," he drones on and on.

As he recalls his diet intake for the day, or lack thereof, I remember that I haven't had anything after that coffee as well. And as if right on cue, my stomach grumbles as well.

"Hear that again? That's–" he stops complaining for a moment as realisation sets in.

Oh shit.

"Not my stomach. That is yours," he exclaims, clasping his hands together and all. "You're hungry too,"

Fuck me.

"Dani, oh Dani," he moves closer, "Can we please go get something to eat?" he pleads.

I put an arm over my eyes, pretending to be asleep, keep my lips tightly sealed. If I bothered to correct his nickname, he would only use it more. Better to let him wear it out on his own.

"Please, I'll even pay for– Shit, Dan. What the hell happened to your hand?"

Fuck.

I flinch when he takes my hand in his, and immediately sit up.

Shitballs.

"It's swollen. Wha–" his fingers hover over the faint bruises starting to form around my swollen knuckles, and I pull back my hand from his grasp.

"You said you're hungry, right? Let's go," I stand up abruptly, and walk out, not even bothering to wait for him, knowing that he'd be soon right behind me.

I am right.

"I didn't bring my bike with me, so we have to walk," I tell him, and thankfully he just nods without adding any remark.

The silence doesn't last long though.

"You should really get your hand looked at," he says a few beats later. "It looks nasty. You might have broken your fingers or something,"

As usual I don't say anything. I am already having a hard time keeping my emotions in check as it is.

That doesn't mean he stops talking as well. "I remember punching a guy in high school, freshmen year — can't actually remember what for. But I remember punching him, I think I hurt myself more than I hurt him, broke two of my fingers in the process, had my hand wrap-"

"Shut up," I groan out loud, at last unable to talk any more of his incessant rambling.

It just goes up straight to my head, and I– I really don't want to hit him. At this point, I don't know. I am feeling pretty shitty and I wouldn't put it past myself to inflict my anger on him.

"Shut up. I don't want to hear anything anymore. I don't fucking care alright. Just shut up,"

"O-kay," and then he starts whistling some stupid tune that goes even longer than him speaking.

It makes me want to rip my hair out and run for the hills.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I stop walking and turn to him. "Is it so fucking hard for you to be quiet for just one second? You're so goddamn annoying, I honestly don't know how anyone can ever put up with you. You literally make want to blow my brains out. Do you get that? So can you just fucking stop for a while?"

I am heaving by the time I am done yelling. As great as it feels to voice out all my irritation, it doesn't help me feel any better. I sigh, scratching the back of my neck.

Fuck, not again.

His gaze hardens, and ducking his head a little, he walks past me without saying anything. I want to stop him, apologise, but I don't. I can't.

So instead, I quietly walk beside him. For some reason, the silence now seems way much louder than when he was talking incessantly.

If it had taken any longer, I would have probably broken down and apologised but The Bean Place comes to our view in a few minutes. It is the same shop we'd bought our coffees earlier. They sells some food as well and there are no any restaurants nearby, so this place has to do.

Rita thankfully is nowhere to be found so we just place our orders with no extra chatters and go to the same table we sat at this morning; the furthest one in the corner. We both get egg sandwich, and he also gets soda, while I get coffee again. I need the caffeine boost to put aside my pride and just apologise. It isn't fair, me yelling at him.

I should've told him beforehand that I don't appreciate him chattering continuously, instead of putting up with him for a day or so and then snapping suddenly. It doesn't matter if he'd listened or not, at least he'd have gotten some sort of warning.

However before I can even think of what I should say, he apologised.

"I'm sorry," he says. He isn't looking at me though, he is looking out the window, not that there is much to look at, just trees. And then he brings his gaze to his fingers in his lap, "I know I can talk a lot, but I just– I didn't know that it annoyed you that much," he shrugs. "I'm sorry for bothering you. You shouldn't have to put up with me,"

No, I think. No, I'm the one who's sorry, and yet no words come out of my mouth.

I just stare at him completely dumb. Why can't I say anything?

It seems like I am not the only who is waiting for me to speak, he is as well. When I don't say anything even as minutes by, he just lets out a low breath through his mouth and start eating his sandwich. I don't. I can't even move. I just keep on looking at him.

This feeling that is accumulating in me, it is unlike any other I have ever felt before. It is all-consuming, strengthening and weakening at the same time. Like I said, I am not dumb — I know what I am feeling. But damn it, if I would ever admit it.

As long as I don't admit, it doesn't exist; it isn't true.

Even with all my denial, I still can't bring myself to look away. I look at him as he finishes his sandwich, and then his soda. I look at him as he fidgets in his seat, pondering what he should do next. I look at him as he looks around the shop except at me.

I wish he would look at me.

I don't know what good that would do, except send a thunder across my heart, but still I wish he'd look at me.

"I'm just–" he hoists his thumb over his shoulder, "I'm gonna go," he says after a while, shuffling out of the seat and standing up.

I still can't say anything, not that I'd know what to say. This boy is seriously messing with my basic cognitive functions and he doesn't even need to try.

"And, um... is it alright if I brought back Val's bike, I don't have any other way to go," he rubs the back of his neck, still not looking at me. He has his gaze fixed over my head, on the windows that showcases the trees in the woods.

By some miracle I manage to move my head up and down, signalling a nod. That's the most I can manage — what an utter embarrassment I am making out of myself.

"Ok, thanks," he says, and walks off.

And nod is all I can do.

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