Don't Get Into The Car

[ 9 ]

The 'date' ends with Simon escorting you back upstairs. As you rise from your seat, he reaches out, attempting to link your hand with his. His fingers make the barest contact with your skin, but you instinctively recoil, taking a step back. You're well-aware that in the grand scheme of this twisted scenario, allowing him this minor intimacy of holding hands should not be a big deal, especially considering the other things you've endured so far. However, you're just too worn out, too drained to keep up with the pretense of being okay with all of this. The effort of maintaining a facade through the nearly two-hour-long conversation with him, of forcing yourself to play along with his fantasy, has left you weary.

When you reach the threshold of your bedroom, before you can even touch the doorknob, Simon's fingers curl around the curve of your waist. Despite the layer of fabric from your blouse forming a barrier, his touch sears into your skin, making you flinch. Your back tenses up. Your muscles stiffen as you fight the urge to pull away from his grasp. He moves in closer. The distance between you decreases to almost nothing. He remains silent, forcing you to lift your chin and meet his gaze.

"I had fun," he says, his breath a warm puff against your skin. You manage to keep your expression neutral, preventing any grimace from marring your features, because for you, this evening was anything but fun. It was strange, exhausting, and filled with too many conflicting emotions.

As he leans in further, you feel your knees threatening to buckle under you. With a dawning sense of dread, you realise what he intends to do - he wants to kiss you. You understand that pushing him away at this moment would do you no favours, so instead, you close your eyes tightly, bracing yourself for the inevitable. You silently pray that he won't prolong the moment, that he'll make it quick. To your surprise, however, his lips bypass yours entirely, and he leaves a soft, fleeting kiss on your cheekbone instead.

The cold, gnawing fear that he might trail behind you into the room clings to your heart, but his feet remain anchored to the floor as you nudge the door open. Before disappearing inside, you cast a fleeting glance over your shoulder. You wrestle the corners of your lips into a ghost of a smile, a brittle mask of reassurance that shatters almost as soon as it forms.

The wave of relief washes over you only when the door finally swings shut, leaving you in solitude. The silence that envelops the room is deafening. You quickly shed your clothes, leaving them discarded on the floor, next to the pile of crumpled paper. Then, you get in the bed and under the heavy covers.

Exhaustion grips you, and although you yearn to stay awake, to make sense of what had been one of the most bewildering, peculiar, and frightening days of your life, your thoughts prove elusive. Each thought that flits across your mind is just out of reach, and before you can grasp any of them, sleep claims you.

As dawn breaks, painting the bedroom with hues of pastel pinks and oranges, the sound of the door closing stirs you from your slumber. Your eyes snap open and you sit up abruptly, not wanting Simon to have free rein over the space while you are asleep. But by the looks of it, he has just left. The room is in a noticeably tidier state — the clothes from the previous night have disappeared, along with the other clutter. On the table sits a nondescript box and in front of the bed, a quaint little table now hosts an old, very old television set.

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion. You can't comprehend how you managed to sleep through the noise of Simon hauling these items into the bedroom, but you surmise that the luxury of a good night's sleep after a long while, on a real bed as opposed to a worn-out mattress in a chilly basement, must have left you too spent to register any disturbances.

You groggily push yourself out of the bed. Your feet, as if clad in lead boots, drag lazily across the cold, hard floor that feels like a frozen lake beneath your bare soles. You rub your eyes and stifle a yawn. There, sitting on the table, is a box filled with a collection of film DVDs. The sight of it immediately brings back memories of your conversation with Simon from the previous night. You had shared with him your hobbies and interests, and it appears he had been paying attention, much to your surprise. The fact that he had listened to you so closely leaves you feeling a strange mixture of happiness and fear, with the latter probably dominating your emotions.