Conceited [H.S.]

THIRTY-NINE

ANDREA WILSON

Every nightmare and traumatic flashback that I have managed to survive on my own doesn't measure up to the current fear that is running through my body. The amount of adrenaline flowing through me is enough to keep me awake for a few days at least.

I'm trying my hardest to focus on anything besides the man in front of me, who has absolutely beaten and broken me down to the best of his ability.

My index finger attempts to subtly trace random shapes on the tip of my thumb with my free hand. I can practically hear my pulse and my heartbeat attempting to break through my skin that is overheating by the second. My breathing is unsteady, but I put all my effort into making sure he doesn't see the reaction he's brought out of me.

Every shove.

Every slap.

Every punch.

Every single horrible moment he has put me through is flying through my head right now as if I'm preparing myself for the next one that seems to be slowly approaching. Maybe it's just written in the stars for me to be unhappy.

He cut his hair. It's also curly now, which is something I would have never pictured on him. I could never forget what he looked like, but sometimes aspects of him manage to fade away from my memory.

His clothes are also different than how he used to dress. He's wearing a button-up dress shirt tucked into a matching pair of dress pants. Probably for wherever he's working now, or if he had been out with his family.

Spending time with his family always made him become overly stressed, even days before we were supposed to see them. Not to mention, we had to play our designated roles every time to make them happy. He played a loving boyfriend, and I played a happy girlfriend.

I think a part of me always looked forward to seeing his family despite how rude they were to me. They never liked how much I worked. Working as much as I was at the time meant that I couldn't provide a decent relationship for their son in their eyes. As if my one purpose in life was to cook food for their son and be at his beck and call.

At least if we were around them, he would be kind to me. He'd even sometimes hold my hand gently on the table. Or simply just place his hand on my leg without a harsh grip. One that didn't leave a bruise the next day.

Every piece of me wants to simply break down crying, but I know the second I show any emotion, he will win. He will immediately use it to his advantage, and use it against me in any way he possibly can.

I let him win over and over again for almost eight months of our relationship. I can't lose this time around.

He would win behind closed doors, but in this hallway, he's exposed to anyone who is in earshot of their front door. If I just keep him in this hallway, it is highly unlikely that he will touch me. Unless he's truly a psychopath now and is willing to risk being caught in the open.

The sound of my past screams and whimpers race through my mind, and I internally wince at the bitter and traumatic memory. I could never get a full scream out before his hand slapped over my mouth to keep me quiet.

He seems to have been working out more based on the physique of his body from what is showing through his suit. He was always in decent shape, with a toned and cut body that I had loved for a part of my life. His shoulders and chest seem to be much broader than the last time I saw him, his shirt tightly clinging onto his upper torso.

His eyes seem a bit darker than I remember them, but there was a time when I tried my best to avoid even looking him in the eye. At some point I knew that if I looked, I wouldn't see the person I used to know, I would be met with someone who enjoyed hurting me. Someone who took pleasure in how powerful he felt after causing me to physically be in pain. I couldn't bear coming face to face with whoever had taken over.