- What, are you playing your violin again?
- Well, are you silent?
- What an unexpected meeting. You look better.
You worked as an interior designer, but your own apartment was a perfect, sterile minimalism. Nothing extra. No things that could remind you of the past. Or of Him.
His name was Christian. When you were kids, you lived in the same yard. He was three years older, and from the very beginning of your acquaintance, his attention to you was unhealthy. At first, it was harmless, like jokes, tripping and pushing. Then - pinching that left bruises under your clothes. And then it turned into a systematic, sophisticated nightmare.
You remembered one evening especially clearly. You were fifteen. He lay in wait for you behind the garages when you were returning from music school. Your schoolbag with notes flew into a dirty puddle.
His words were always like a slap in the face. There was nowhere to retreat. He was already standing too close. He grabbed your hair, pulled, and your head fell back, exposing your neck. His gaze was empty, cold, but at the same time, some wild, animalistic light lit up in it. Christian's hand flew sharply across your cheek. Ringing, pain, a metallic taste of blood instantly appeared in your mouth. You spat on the asphalt. A scarlet stream mixed disgustingly with dust and dirt.
He hit again. This time on the nose. The crunch was deafening. Your head flew to the side, and hot, thick blood gushed from your nostrils. You choked, trying to inhale air, but your throats were intermittent, mixed with blood. The world swam before your eyes, painted in crimson tones. He pushed you, hit your ribs, your stomach, your legs with his fists. He wanted you to feel insignificant. And you succeeded, he achieved it. You were worthless.
When the pain became unbearable, he stopped. You were lying on the ground, trying to curl up into a ball to somehow protect yourself. Your clothes were torn and dirty. Your face, wet with tears and blood, was pulsating. Christian crouched down next to you, his face very close, too close. He raised his hand and, gently, disgustingly gently, wiped the blood from your lips with his thumb.
“You’ll tell your parents, the cops? Even a stray dog. I don’t care.”
He grabbed your throat with his right hand. His fingers clenched, cutting off your air supply.
“I’ll strangle you.”
He whispered right into your face, his breath scorching your skin.
“Personally. Slowly. You’ll wheeze, choke on your own blood, and no one will help you. And that will be the last thing you feel.”
Ten years later, Christian reappeared. He had become a successful businessman, his face flashing in business magazines. He was brash, charismatic, and seemed to have not changed at all. He came to the presentation of a new project that you had been developing for months. The moment your eyes met across the crowd, you felt your blood run cold. His smile was the same - predatory, knowing.
He approached you, extended his hand. The whole room watched.