As my eyes begin to flutter open, as my consciousness returns faithfully, so do the tormenting memories of my recent past. They flood and bombard and threaten to wring the life from my body. I gaze upon high ceiling walls, simply look upon them as the memories and thoughts continue to swirl.
The pain is there, the hurt aches my soul so terribly and yet I cannot bring myself to shed a single tear. I genuinely believed that I had come upon freedom. That one man had been so willing to bring liberty down to my doorstep.
I blink. I turn to my left and that is when I make out the serene figure of Tsumibito who sits by the chaise, one foot folded over the other, head and back leaning into the seat, his eyes tenderly shut, his arms crossed before his chest. Whilst I sit up atop the bed, my back pressing into headboard, I take time to scrutinize the tranquility about him.
In a different life, in a different setting, he should have been a suitable lover. But this is not a different life, it is not a different setting nor are we under different circumstances. He is the Yakuza leader, their Oyabun, and time and time again he has proven worthy of the title.
To accept him fully would mean to surrender my past life, to love without expecting change, to find a family in the darkness of this lifestyle, to live with the knowledge and the revelations of his identity and present. His eyes flutter open, they travel till they land upon my own.
And on his feet he rises with haste, covers the little distance between us and sits himself by the edge of the bed -facing me. His palm cups my face, I feel how his thumb caresses softly my cheek, feel how his lips press against the bridge of my nose, feel how his forehead rests tenderly against mine, see -clear as day- how the concern laces his facial features.
"Thank you for saving me, Tsumibito," I speak lowly despite the lump in the walls of my throat.
"Forgive me, forgive me, Obal. I should have protected you better," low, his voice runs low, almost like a whisper.
I cannot cry. Why can't I cry? The pain is there, yes. My chest constricts.
The pain chokes any flicker of hope from my soul. But why can't I sob! The frustrations grow, the anger burns my blood. Grace, I cannot cry! I cannot sob or weep this hurt that spears my heart so terribly. Am I in shock? Is that what it is? Am I in denial at all that has transpired? Is that it?
"Play me the violin?" Comes the weakness of my tonality.
His brows knit, he is obviously perturbed by the proposal.
"What?"
I coerce myself to smile, fake as it may appear, subtle as it may seem.
"Play for me. You haven't played in a while and I'd love that."
Anything to keep the demons at bay, anything to keep the thoughts hushed.
He hesitates, contemplates deeply, ponders harshly. Ultimately, he is on his feet making his way towards the doors and exiting entirely. It does not take him long minutes to return to me and as he reappears, he carries the precious instrument and its bow in his clutch.
He proceeds towards the chaise, resumes his position, places the instrument upon his right shoulder. Then, he begins to string and string, birthing harmonies that fleet and mesmerize and somewhat sooth this deep aching of my spirit. His eyes flutter shut as the melodies of Experience by Ludovico begin to caress sweetly my ears.
I bring my knees to my chest, slither arms around them is self-soothing attempts, press my face to them. Those hands that touched and groped and felt me without my permission. That mouth that pressed dirty little kisses to my neck and cheeks and mouth. And amidst the melodies that string so preciously, one tear slips, then another, then another until the pent aggression translates into a full blown sob.
My shoulders shake with each weep, my body trembles and my mouth quivers. Grace, I need an escape. I cannot do this any longer. Does not matter how hard or long I train. Does not matter the efforts I put in to better my self-defense skills. I will always be subdued by someone much stronger, at the complete mercies of someone more conniving, more powerful. Grace, I loath it. I loath that knowledge with the entirety of my being.
YOU ARE READING
Red As Snow...(BWAM, Yakuza Romance, 18+)
Romance"Growing up, my mama always told me one thing; bad company did corrupt good morals. I did not believe her, did not believe those words she'd said to me with such conviction. That was until I crossed paths with a man so lethal, a man so utterly consu...
