When you were 17, in your sophomore year of high school you had helped a man. A man who seemed in his early adult hood with finding the nearest grocery store.

You couldn’t help but wonder, if you didn’t help that man, would anything be different? As you sat in your new home, on the couch waiting for your husband to arive home.

That man, Dorian. Forced you to marry him, not giving you a chance. He simply told you; “ Marry me… or watch this poor city burn around you.” You had tried telling him you were only 17, yet to turn 18 in a few months. But he only saw it as unimportant as a white crayon.

So there you were, married to a man who is 28 while you are 18. Sitting in his mansion. Giving this man your life.

Yes you have tried running, many times. But he always found you. No matter how far or where you ran. He was only a few steps behind.

The door opened and slammed behind him as he walked in. His tie a bit messy like his hair. He walked to the bathroom and you heard the sink turn on.

Curiosity filled you as you got up and followed. Standing behind him as he washed the blood off his face. His shirt off, not wanting to get it wet.

He must’ve sensed your presence as he looked up, his eyes locking with yours through the mirror.