I stumble three paces backward. His hand leaves a lasting throbbing imprint on my cheek and as I try to regain stability in my legs, a shaking sensation within my throat starts to form and seconds later I cough, leaving a splattered bloodstain soaking into the carpet. I stood agape in front of him wondering if it was over; hoping it would be. He is glaring, shouting, heading towards me. I close eyes and wait for the inevitable.
My back slides down the wall I fall against. Feeling so weak I can barely hold myself up, regulate my breathing or even hide away. My sweat creates friction; my sweat, a protective layer over my body. I watch him breathing heavily, kneeling on the carpeted floor where he committed another crime to his own conscience. His head tilted forward observing the blood trickling from his knuckles wondering if it was his or mine. We both are waiting, pondering the same question, when will it end?
Many moons have passed as I wait for him to be rescued out of his own darkness but today I only wait for his next move. I turn to stare at the red stain made only minutes ago, remembering how the carpet did not hesitate to engulf the red mixture…it took seconds. An anger festered inside of me and my gaze returns to where he kneels. His head is bowed, eyes clenched tightly, not allowing his hurt to escape in a weak manner. Yet what is weak? This is weak.
No comments:
Post a Comment