The Mouse and The Monarch

11

A sense of liberation accompanied the act of drying as if she could shed the burdens that clung to her just as easily as the water droplets.

A tracksuit and a large grey hoodie became her armour, a shield against the outside world.

Hiding her bruises.

She would not let anyone see them.

She was not weak.

Leaving the bathroom a mess of his products and wet towel she swung the bathroom door open and walked to her duffel.

He still wasn't back yet and she hoped he wouldn't be for a while.

Grabbing her knife and phone she shoved them in the large hoodie pocket.

With bare feet making contact with the cold floor, she strode out of the room, leaving behind the remnants of her anger.

She left their whole space messy on purpose. Her clothes were across the floor and her bed was unmade with her grey blanket strewn off the bed.

She hoped it pissed him off.

Her hair dripped down her face as she stormed down the hallway barefoot.

The slapping of her skin on stone rang in her ears as she stormed towards the mess hall.

Her body flinched as she heard a familiar noise.

The rhythmic cadence of his footsteps reverberated through the hallway, each heavy footfall echoing against the walls like the approach of an impending storm.

The sound was unmistakable, a distinctive herald of the tall and muscled man that dominated the corridor.

As he emerged into view, his imposing figure cast a long shadow that seemed to stretch out, reaching for her.

His muscular frame was encased in sleek gear, that rippled as he moved.

The sniper hood, drawn tight over his head, leaving only a glimpse of those eyes.

Eyes that were now locked on her.

Despite the imposing exterior, there was a momentary freeze in his movements as he caught sight of her.

The air crackled with tension, and for an instant, he seemed to hang suspended.

Her bare feet made little sound as she closed the distance, her eyes still ablaze with the remnants of her fury as she refused to look at him.

In that fleeting moment, he appeared to stop in his tracks, as if the sheer force of her presence had momentarily immobilized him.

His eyes widened as they fell on her furious face and baggy clothing.

The wet tendrils of hair framed her face, and she could feel his gaze, roaming over her.

She, however, was not one to be halted.

Especially not by him.

She used her hand to push her wet hair out of her face as she blazed past him with determination.

She wanted to smack her shoulder into his, but he would probably bruise that too, and he was her superior.

That sort of thing was frowned upon.

The echo of her footsteps resounded through the empty halls as she half ran, half walked, her anger propelling her forward.

She wanted to get away from him.

The intensity of her emotions began to wane, giving way to the weariness that clung to her like a persistent shadow.

The journey through the dimly lit corridors led her to the mess hall, a beaming sanctuary.