The death Of Mrs Ross

History of touches

"Morgan"

I opened my blood shot eyes and was met with sea blue ones. They were ice cold, like the temperature in the room, and shrouded like my mind

"What are you doing, Morgan. I've been calling you for the past ten minutes" He bore his eyes into me as he grabbed my arm, pulling me up from the floor "I need you to iron my shirt, I'm going to be late for work"

He pulled me away from my safe zone, and dragged me to his bedroom. His grip was iron tight, and by now I had stopped fighting back. The pain had numbed too. He pushed me to the bed and took off his gown, revealing his naked body, before disappearing into the bathroom

I stood up, my knees quaking, and found the shirt he wanted me to iron placed on the bed. I heard the shower start to run as I picked it up. I limped to the walk in closet and found the steam iron and its stand in the far corner. Obedient, I did as I was told and ironed his shirt

All through my aching, and my weakened state. I'd rather hurt now then face Paris' wrath again. The door to the bathroom opened and I tried to finish a bit quicker, getting agitated, but my stupid fingers kept trembling. I couldn't hold onto the shirt right and I'd end up burning myself

"Morgan, I need that shirt" He called out impatiently

My heart dropped to the floor when he walked in with a towel wrapped around his hips. His hair was wet, and he was freshly shaven. The mere glance at his glistening wet chest made my body respond the only way it could

"You're still not done? What kind of woman are you?" He stomped over to me "Didn't your mother teach you how to iron? Look at it? It's useless to me" He snapped. I flinched, then winced and accidentally bumped into the ironing board. It dropped to the ground with a rattle "Why are you so useless, Morgan?"

I kept my head down while he complained. I flinched every time he cursed my name. I winced every time I moved. Paris yanked the shirt from my hands, the friction burning my palms. I choked, holding back my tears

"Fuck. I ask you to do one thing. One. But you're nothing but a crack head prostitute. I don't know why I try with you" Paris wasn't shouting, he wasn't mad. Paris had a way of striking fear in the hearts of mundane individuals by just a look. He was always calm, but his disappointment was more than enough

I stood still, hoping he would get tired of me and leave for work. Every morning, it was the same thing and every morning I was grateful he had to go. For that short while I could have some peace of mind, I could sleep without looking over my shoulder in fear

"When I come home today, I want to see the bathroom spotless. I spilled my shampoo." He murmured "And remember not to touch my stuff. I'll know"

I swallowed dryly "Yes"

"Yes, what?"

"Yes...Sir"

"Good" He turned and walked out of the closet, leaving me alone

I thought the worst was over, I thought my break had finally come. I had lowered my defences and turned my back on the door while I lifted the ironing tripod up and placed the steamer's long arm back. I was beginning to enjoy the silence, when Paris called for me again. I should have seen it coming, but I was still foolish

I wasn't even given the chance to duck

The slap rained down on me like thunder. The impact was so hard it blinded me temporarily as blood rushed to my face. My head snapped sideways and I fell to the floor. My teeth chattered. My left wrist twisted and I cried out

Paris loomed over me holding an object in his hand. He shoved it in my face "What is this?" I tried to keep my eyes open, the left side of my face now starting to heat up "Morgan. What the fuck is this?" He narrowed his eyes with suspicion. No, he didn't suspect. He already assumed and concluded