The only sound that could be heard from the kitchen is the sound of cooking as Isabelle made the both of them some fried eggs with buttered toast for breakfast.
Brahms watched as she skillfully moves with familiarity along the kitchen. Seeing her make herself at-home in his house gives him a peculiar feeling of happiness and satisfaction, but he will never admit it. Not to anyone and not to himself.
If only she would care for him the same way she cares for his home. His house. This house is fully his now. Courtesy of his ever-caring, non-stereotypical parents. They really hightailed it away from here the first chance they get. He wishes that he could say that he was surprised, but he really isn't. And he also wishes that he could say that he's still furious and resentful but all he can really feel right now is dejection and disappointment.
Is he really that hard to live with?
Isabelle placed two plates of fried eggs and buttered toasts on the table; one for him and one for her. She went back and brought two cups of warm milk and also placed it there.
"If you want some coffee, the coffee jar is on the lower shelf above the sink." she said as she sat herself in front of Brahms.
He didn't answer. In fact, he didn't react at all and continued to stare at her. She couldn't see his expression behind the mask but she could sense that the man is yet to be done with his tantrum.
"Eat." she encouraged, but he just ignored her. "Is it your mask? You can take it off. Or if you want, I can go eat somewhere else."
Again, he ignored her.
She sighed. "What's wrong, Brahms? Is it your mouth? Is it still hurting?" she asked. When he still didn't answer, she reached over, intending to inspect his bruises herself. But Brahms caught her arm mid-air.
He noted how her arm feels so thin and fragile against his grasp. He could easily overpower her, so how come she gets this much power to hurt him?
"Alright, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched you without permission." she apologized. But Brahms refused to let go of her. Instead, he stood up.
His tall, domineering frame hovered above her, forcing her to shrink back into her chair.
"What has gotten into you, Brahms?" she asked.
"You may wish to rid yourself of Brahms, but it shall not happen." he firmly stated.
"What-"
"Why did you insist to free me from my walls, when in reality, you want to see me locked up? Why did you treat my wounds when in truth, you want to see me hurt? I am tired of fake concern and fake kindness. Why can't you all just be real?" he asked. "It's fine that you don't care about me or that you abhor my existence, I will take it. What is it that keeps you all from being true to me?!"
Isabelle did not know what to say. His eyes burned as his mask remained expressionless. She could hear the hurt and frustration in his voice, and see the tears brimming in his eyes. It tugged painfully at her heart. Slowly, she reached over with her other hand and touched the cheek of his mask.
Brahms watched and felt as she caressed the covers of his face. His expression softened as he relish in the feeling of being touched, a feeling that he would never get used to. He tried so hard to hold on to the resentment he's feeling for her. It was the only thing grounding him to the reality of what he is. But as the last of his frustration melts away, the only thing he could think about was...
This is about to be my most painful mistake.