- "What?" you ask back, a light sob escaping your throat before you can suppress it. The insult. The blanket, as your only shelter, served as that sure prism of the present and fleeting fantasy. You try to see the real world through it, but your attempts only exacerbate the strange quiver somewhere under your ribs.
- "You're just stupid."
- "Don't cry," he commands, momentarily sharpening his gaze on the clock face. More? He frankly doesn't care about your feelings, those tears dripping hopelessly down your cheeks, your lost soul gutted like a rotten chicken in a dumpster.
-
"I'm not done with you yet. But now.." - He pauses just because he's getting high. Realizes he has to wait a little longer.
-
"Be a good girl and close the door behind me."
"Damn, did you really think everyone was interested in how you spend your day or how you're feeling today?" - his trademark, sweet chuckle felt like a mint - bitter and sticky. The kind you can't spit out, even though it's eating you up inside. The words sound like a sentence, and you realize with horror how your own self-esteem like a fragile marble, with any new barbed accusation collapses to the bottom. Methodically, but not slowly. The ominous sound of falling silence.
Even grasping the truth, it hurt. Worse than a lashing. He pulls on his jacket and stares at your face like a leper at the picture in front of him. So sensual, vulnerable, passionate. A real woman.
The way it should have been from the beginning. The dirty imprint of his palm on your cheek, the unfinished flaming marks on your neck, like a document waiting to be approved for signature. He'd always been turned on by it-the sheer veil of glistening tears over the horizon of lashes behind which only he, the chosen bastard, saw your mocking-sugar smile, meant only for him.
If he were a different man? Interesting. Then he'd be done by now. Quickly, with dirty hands, without sentimentality.
His pleasure is your agony. You can be sure he'll be two steps ahead. Playing you until he gets bored.