Incarcerate

Entry Seven

Entry Seven

21-07-2012

He burst into the room last night as I was writing in my thought book. His face was flushed, hair was messed and his eyes had a wild look that I’ve never seen before. I could tell he tried to compose himself before he let himself in, but he didn’t do a very good job at it.

He just stood there at the door and stared at the bruises across my face. I think I saw sparks of anger in his ash eyes but I can’t be sure; he made me feel safer and…better. I can’t explain it, the way he makes me feel; after all he is the one who put me into this mess. That’s why I smirked at him, the one that tries to portray a hate I did not feel.

“You missed the show, Shay.”

He came towards me in a few long strides and pulled me to my feet. He held me by the shoulders and looked me dead in the eye; I looked back with the same hardness I have mastered. He averted his gaze from my glare and started gently running his hands over my bruises, as if willing them to heal with magic. My resolve broke as he ran his thumb on every single bruise and I think he saw that because when he looked back at my eyes, I had tears. He pulled me towards him and hugged my tight while my silent tears slid down my face.

                                                                 “Did he…” Shay trailed off, “rape you.”         

“No, but he hit me,” I cried to him, I felt pathetic but the confession came tumbling out without any intention. It felt nice, to cry to Shay, felt like home.

“Shh, I’m here, Aalia, he won’t hurt you now.”

“But he already did, Shay, and it’s your entire fault,” I whispered back, I couldn’t help blaming him because it was his fault in so many ways. He became rigid but he didn’t let go of me. I sounded so broken, even to myself, and I think this is what sped up his heart beat.

“I know,” he whispered back, still holding on to me.

After what seemed like ages, he finally pulled us back to the couch I was sitting on before he came. My tears had run dry long ago but I quickly wiped the tear stains with my quivering hands. I know it’s stupid because he already knew I was crying but I didn’t want him to see me with tears stains. He sat so that I was resting against the arm rest and facing him completely. I didn’t have it in me to look him in the eye so I retorted to looking at my feverishly fidgeting fingers that were interlace tightly on my lap, but all along I felt his gaze piercing through me; he was watching me, and I  hated that he was seeing this broken and weak part of me. He gently took my fingers into his hands and slowly started rubbing his thumbs over my knuckles, in what I figured was a soothing gesture.

“He’s going to sell me,” I bluntly stated, still looking at my lap as if it was the most interesting thing in sight. I was thankful that my voice came out so much stronger and firmer then I felt, and most probably, looked. He paused with my knuckles and sat silently. The silence was deafening, and sure as hell nowhere close to comfortable.

Then it hit me; the realization struck me with a load so heavy that I felt like I was suffocating. I started to crumble inside, but again I put on my signature poker-face. I looked up and stared at him hard until he was gazing back at me.

“But you already knew that,” I gave a humorless laugh, “That’s why you brought me here. This is why you get paid.”

The humorless smirk died down on my lips and a surge of anger so great, that it felt like I could kill something, washed over me. I shakily got up from the couch.